“Nether City was founded three thousand years ago, during the celestials’ Great Purge.”

Morvane spoke as he led them forward, his voice steady—a calm thread stitching past tragedy to present survival.

Their footsteps echoed softly against the obsidian street. The blue glow of hanging lanterns skimmed across his black armor, but beneath his composure lingered the dust of old wounds.

“Back then,” he continued, each word deliberate, “our Ghost Clan was nearly annihilated. Only a handful escaped deep underground and discovered this natural reservoir of nether aura. That lonely refuge kept our bloodline alive.”

Jared caught the tremor beneath the calm. He imagined survivors dragging the wounded through endless tunnels, the air growing colder with every step. The image tightened his chest before the next stride forced it aside.

“For three thousand years,” Morvane went on, breath misting faintly in the chill, “we have remained here. Too afraid to risk the surface. Not even for a glimpse of sunlight.”

The confession weighed more than the clang of his greaves. Jared tasted iron at the back of his tongue, sensing how a single decision—to hide—could stretch across generations.