Between the Mid-Sector and the Lower Sector of New Babylon, there were no physical walls—only an atmospheric pressure of "class division" that was impossible to breach.

  When the graffiti-covered, scratched-up vertical freight elevator began to descend, John could feel the air quality plummet off a cliff. The climate-controlled air, scented with faint perfume and fresh ozone, vanished. It was replaced by a damp stench: a cocktail of engine oil, mold, acid rain, and cheap synthetic food.

  It was the smell of poverty.

  The elevator's digital display flickered like a dying EKG, emitting a tooth-aching grinding noise.

  B50... B60... B80...

  John huddled in the corner of the elevator, clutching a cardboard box containing his entire life: a few second-hand textbooks, a spare hoodie, and a half-eaten nutrient bar. His chest still throbbed with a dull ache—a souvenir bruise from Mentor Morgue's psionic shockwave.

  But the physical pain was nothing compared to the crushing despair radiating from that greyed-out student ID.

  He had been blacklisted.

  In a megacity absolutely monopolized by the Necromancers' Guild, this didn't just mean unemployment. It meant social death. His credit score would flatline to zero, his health insurance account would be frozen, and even his shipping container apartment in the Lower Sector might be repossessed for being a "high-risk tenant."

  The elevator shuddered to a halt at the bottom floor: Sector 13, playfully dubbed "The Rust Belt" by the uppers.

  The doors slid open slowly like a rusty maw, spitting out John—its indigestible, rejected waste.

  Outside, it was night, and the acid rain never stopped. Most neon signs were broken, flickering with eerie pink and purple hues that reflected in oil-slicked puddles. Overhead, massive pipes coiled like pythons, blotting out the sky, occasionally leaking drops of unknown black fluid that hit pedestrians' umbrellas with a corrosive hiss.

  John pulled up his hoodie to hide his wretched face and stepped quickly into the rain.

  He had to get home fast.

  Home was a repurposed shipping container stack on the edge of Sector 13. It was rickety and drafty, but it was the only sanctuary he and his mother, Margaret, had in this cannibalistic city.

  He climbed the creaking iron stairs and pushed open the iron door adorned with a yellowing "Fu" (Fortune) character.

  John forced his voice to stay steady, even plastering a fake smile onto his face. He didn't want her to see the mess he was. He didn't want her to know that the "Future Necromancer" carrying the family's hopes had been scrapped.

  The room was dim, lit only by a flickering fluorescent tube with a bad contact.

  There was no gentle greeting like usual.

  John’s heart seized. He dropped the box and rushed into the back room.

  Margaret was on the floor. Her old wheelchair was overturned nearby. She was curled into a ball, her good right hand clutching the lapel of her shirt, knuckles white from the strain. And the left side of her body—creeping from her arm up to her neck, even reaching her chin—was encrusted with translucent crystals glowing with a ghostly blue light.

  [Crystallization Syndrome].

  A terminal illness. A curse. The patient’s body would gradually transmute into high-purity mana ore. To the Necromancers' Guild, this wasn't a disease; it was "Resource Conversion." The patient lost their flesh in agonizing pain, eventually becoming a priceless battery.

  "Mom!" John knelt, wanting to lift her, but terrified to touch the sharp crystals. He knew every touch felt like rubbing salt in a wound for her.

  Margaret heard him and struggled to open her eyes. Her gaze was unfocused, but a faint light gathered in them the moment she saw John.

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  "John... you're back? Cough..." She tried to smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched with pain, pulling at the crystals on her cheek. "It's nothing... Mom just... lost her balance..."

  John’s gaze fell near her hand.

  There lay a red, holographic letter, flickering ominously. One corner was crumpled where she had gripped it.

  [NOTICE: TERMINATION OF MEDICAL SERVICES]

  Sender: Eternal Life Insurance (A wholly-owned subsidiary of the Necromancers' Guild).

  The content was as cold as a scalpel:

  "Dear Client Margaret Doe:

  System scans indicate your family credit rating has been downgraded to Class E (High Risk). Furthermore, your linked account (John Doe) has been expelled from the Necromancy Academy, forfeiting the 'Potential High-Value Talent' collateral status.

  In accordance with the New Babylon Life Resource Management Act, Supplementary Article 73: 'When the policyholder no longer possesses long-term solvency, the Insurance Company reserves the right to unilaterally terminate coverage for high-maintenance medication.'

  We regret to inform you that the delivery of the 12th dose of 'Crystallization Inhibitor (Standard Edition)', originally scheduled for today, has been canceled.

  If you wish to continue treatment, please pay the outstanding balance in full and prepay for the next quarter within 24 hours.

  Total due: 50,000 New Credits.

  Failure to comply will result in the remote locking of your life-support bracelet.

  Have a pleasant life."

  At the bottom of the letter, a red digital clock counted down:

  John’s hands trembled.

  Fifty thousand credits.

  In the Lower Sector, where a loaf of synthetic bread cost 2 credits, this was an astronomical figure. It was a sum he couldn't save up even if he worked for ten years without eating or drinking.

  Previously, this cost had been secured by his "Honor Student Loan" limit at the Academy. The Guild saw his potential and was willing to lend him money to keep his mom alive, expecting him to sell his soul to pay off the debt after graduation.

  But now, he was expelled.

  In the Guild's eyes, he had lost his "Future Value."

  So, his mother’s life had become a "toxic asset" that needed to be liquidated.

  "How... how can they do this?"

  John’s voice was raspy, every word squeezing out of his throat like blood. "Isn't this insurance? We paid premiums for years... They smiled when they took the money, and now... now just because I got expelled, they're pulling the plug?"

  Margaret reached out with her good right hand and gently covered John’s shaking hand.

  "John, stop looking at it." Her voice was weak, but it carried a heartbreaking calm. "I've had... a good run. Watching you grow up, I've already won. That medicine... it's too expensive. I won't take it. It's just for pain anyway..."

  "No! It's not just for pain!" John jerked his head up, his eyes rimmed with red. "It keeps you alive! Without the inhibitor, the crystallization will hit your heart! You'll... you'll turn into stone!"

  How could he watch his mother turn into a cold block of ore?

  She was the mother who raised him single-handedly. The mother who caught this disease working black-market shifts at the waste plant just to scrape together his tuition.

  "I won't let you die." John gritted his teeth, as if swearing an oath to himself. "Absolutely not."

  A faint humming noise came from outside the window.

  A black mechanical insect, the size of a fist—a Guild micro-surveillance drone—squeezed through the window crack and hovered over them.

  Its single red eye flickered, projecting a cold blue beam that scanned the life-support bracelet on Margaret’s wrist.

  "Beep. Default risk detected."

  The synthesized voice rang out in the cramped room, devoid of emotion.

  "Warning: If payment is not received by the end of the countdown, the bracelet will execute 'Mandatory Hibernation' protocols. Please cherish your credit."

  Its job done, it turned and buzzed away.

  John stared dead at the receding black dot, his despair gradually replaced by a dark, burning rage.

  These vampires treated human lives as numbers, affection as chips, drove living people into a corner, and then had the audacity to lecture you from on high about "cherishing credit"?

  John stood up. He crumpled the red notice into a ball and smashed it onto the floor.

  "John?" Margaret looked at her son’s back with fear. She had never seen this expression on him before—the look of a cornered beast baring its fangs.

  John took a deep breath. When he turned back to his mother, the savagery on his face vanished, replaced by a steely tenderness.

  He knelt, lifted his mother back into her wheelchair, and tucked the blanket around her.

  "Mom, wait here. Don't go anywhere."

  "Where are you going? John, don't do anything stupid!" Margaret grabbed his sleeve, her eyes full of worry.

  John patted her hand gently and placed it back under the blanket.

  "I'm not doing anything stupid. I'm going to do business."

  He stood up and pulled his hood low, hiding eyes that looked terrifyingly bloodshot.

  "I am a Necromancer. Even expelled, I'm still a mage. In this city, if you're willing to risk your life, there's always a way to make money."

  "Wait for me. I'll bring the medicine."

  John pushed open the door and charged into the freezing rainy night.

  The rain was heavier now. The acid stung his face.

  He didn't go to any legal job centers, nor to any legitimate loan offices. Because those doors had been slammed shut forever with that red "X".

  He could only go underground.

  To the places the sun couldn't reach.

  To the black crevices filled with sin and opportunity that even the Necromancers' Guild refused to touch.

  If the legal road was blocked, he’d take the wild one.

  If he couldn't sell his skills, then... he'd sell his life.

  John fingered the only scalpel he had managed to bring with him, the one that hadn't been confiscated, and walked steadily toward the "Black Clinic" in the depths of Sector 13.

  Rumor had it they bought fresh, young organs at a high price... especially from mages.

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