The Abyss
Beneath the fortified roofs of the Dominion of the Peaks lies a forbidden realm: the Abyss.
An ocean of darkness where the bases of skyscrapers have disappeared under centuries of rubble, mutated vegetation, and oppressive silence.
No one descends there willingly. Those who do—relic hunters, exiles, or madmen—usually do not return.
The Abyss is not empty. It breathes, it whispers, it waits.
The Forgotten Depths
Between the brightly lit peaks and the lost ground, miles of abandoned floors stretch out: a vertical labyrinth of cracked concrete, broken glass, and rusted steel.
Frozen elevators hang like empty cages, staircases collapse in cascades of rubble, and once-bustling corridors are now tunnels where the air is heavy, foul, laden with moisture and spores.
Daylight almost never penetrates; only a greenish bioluminescence, emitted by giant fungi and mutated plants, dimly illuminates the place, casting dancing shadows that seem alive.
Water seeps from cracked ceilings, forming stagnant lakes where relics of another age float: rusted cars, cracked screens, furniture buried under dust.
The wind howls through the gaps, carrying distant echoes—the creaking of metal, falling stones, indistinct murmurs.
Each level is more dangerous than the last: structures crumble, floors give way without warning, and makeshift bridges built by rare explorers are often the last vestiges of a fatal descent.
To descend into these depths is to enter a living tomb where humanity's past slowly rots away, waiting for time—or something worse—to finish its work.
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The Infested
At the heart of the Abyss lurk the Infested: abominations born of ancient corruption, half-human, half-insectoid.
Their bodies are a mixture of pale flesh and chitin as hard as obsidian, their limbs end in sharp claws or jointed legs, and their quivering antennae probe the air in search of living heat.
Some retain vestiges of humanity, a deformed torso, a half-recognizable face, while others have become walking swarms, giant beetles, or titanic spiders with mosaic eyes.
They hunt in silence, guided by instinct rather than thought. Their cries—guttural rales, the clatter of mandibles, piercing stridulations—echo through the depths like a warning.
Their greenish blood corrodes metal, their eggs laid in corpses ensure endless proliferation, and their mere presence seems to corrupt the air itself.
No one knows exactly where they came from: a mutation of a forgotten virus, a curse from technological relics, or forced evolution in the darkness.
But everyone knows one thing: a bite, a scratch, or even prolonged exposure can turn a human into one of them. The infested rarely climb to the Peaks... But when they do, it is an inexorable tide that threatens the entire balance of the Dominion.
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