The city was still breathing.
Neon lights flickered lazily on cracked lamp posts. Voices chattered faintly beneath the buildings. Somewhere, someone laughed. A hovercar zipped past overhead, its soft hum mingling with the distant buzz of life. But amidst all that noise, amidst all that brightness—he was a ghost.
Elius walked with a slow, steady gait. His attire had changed.
The majestic robe woven with cultivation silk and floating threads of spiritual essence had vanished. Replaced now with something far more mundane—denim pants, a charcoal gray hoodie, a faded ball cap tugged low over his brow.
From the outside, he looked like any other lanky teenager with his hands tucked in his pockets, head down, quietly minding his own business.
But beneath the skin of normalcy, Elius watched everything.
The streets of Sector 18 bustled with activity.
