THE x DRUMMER x AND x THE x CROWD PART II
⟢───── Ashes × Aether ─────⟣
Set’s ears flattened. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
He watched the staircase.
The tavern’s amber light and the hum of music made it easy to forget where you were — easy to pretend you belonged.
Then came the sound: boots on metal, steady, unhurried. The trio could hear it over the music.
When the steps stopped, a group of men stood at the base of the stairs. All looked to be in their early twenties. Not uniformed, but close — olive-brown coats, rough canvas pants that looked slept in, and the same insignia stitched somewhere on each of them:
a small black flag showing a pickaxe smashing through a crown.
Some wore it as a headband.
Others let it hang from a back pocket like a quiet threat.
The Hagg Cartel.
Born from the miners’ revolution that shattered the old dynasty of Hagg — a rebellion that promised equality and delivered chaos.
When the dust settled, the ashen crown fell to a new holder: Typhon, the warrior king who led the uprising.
Those left behind built their own dynasty — one made of currency, control and blood.
Now the Cartel ran the rails, the docks and the black markets that stretched between the Hagg–X’Omnera borderlands and Destiny.
In their eyes, they weren’t criminals. Just business opportunist.
The lead man—young, a large scar down the center of his face, as if it had been met by the end of a blade, calm eyes, no need for noise—scanned the crowd until his gaze landed on the trio.
He didn’t speak.
He just gestured, two fingers down, then up the stairs.
Set’s tail flicked once.
Riven exhaled through his nose, smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.
“Called it.”
Talla’s hood shifted as she straightened placing one hand in her pouch carrying her acorns.
Set pushed off the bar, shoulders loose but eyes focused. His claws scraped the bar as he stood.
“Let’s see what they want."
They followed the cartel members through the haze, past the hum of private deals and mechanical laughter.
Up the narrow staircase, into the half-light where the real conversations happened.
Upstairs, Otto sat alone at a round metal table, one boot propped on a chair, the other tapping a rhythm only he could hear.
Riven noticed it instantly.
Mid-twenties. Brown skin. Curls the color of burnt amber. Tattoos peeking from under rolled sleeves.
His jacket looked expensive, but lived-in — creased where weapons had rested too often.
Otto wasn’t surrounded by guards, not really — just bodies. Men pretending to drink but obviously waiting for his signal.
Every so often, one leaned close, whispered something, then left.
Another replaced him.
The rhythm never broke.
Otto didn’t look up when the trio arrived. He finished counting a stack of YoYos that had just been delivered to him.
“Can never be too sure with these idiots,” Otto said as he finally looked up at the trio — as if they knew exactly what he meant.
He made eye contact — no hand gestures — and one of his men stepped in, collected the YoYos, and disappeared back into the haze.
A moment later, two more men approached carrying a titanium case.
On the lid: MECHA PROJECT.
Whatever was inside shifted the air. Even Set felt it.
Otto locked eyes with the pair, then said enthusiastically:
“Like your life depends on it.”
They didn’t argue. Didn’t breathe. Just nodded, lifted the case, and vanished as fast as they came.
Riven spoke first.
“Normally I’d be all in for the cinematic introduction, but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
Talla chimed in, “But it was a cool intro. Did you plan that?”
Otto smirked. “You guys are even better than they said.”
Set didn’t find any of this amusing.
“Easy, Kaijin. I’m hoping we can be friends,” Otto said.
Talla stepped forward. “Okay, friend — how about a little help?”
“Exactly,” Otto said, leaning forward. “I’m sure we can be of great help to each other’s causes.”
Set finally muttered, “We don’t got time for this,” and turned to leave.
Otto raised his voice just slightly.
“Okay, fine. I’ll get to it. Your reputation precedes you three — and honestly? I think that’s pretty cool so because of that, I kinda wanna see you guys live through the night.”
Set stopped walking.
Talla and Riven kept listening.
Otto tapped three times on the table — tap. tap. tap.
The glyph on Set’s arm flickered to life, the same one branded into him when the drones swarmed them at the River Gap.
The trio watched it glow cyan, then fade back to a dim ember.
“I’m sure one of you has figured it out by now,” Otto said, amused. “But that thing’s gotta go.”
He leaned back.
“There’s a woman inside the borders who can take care of it for you. But she charges — and she doesn’t accept Lum. Only YoYos.”
“What the hell are YoYos?” Riven snapped.
Otto reached into his pocket, flicked a single YoYo toward Riven.
“Here. YoYos are oxygen. Nationally backed currency. Stabilized by the trillionaires in the skylines. Inside the border, your Lum won’t even get you far in The Rustlines.”
He pointed at the chip.
“That one’s on the house. Make it count. Handle that little baby monitor on your arm, then come see me.”
Set stepped forward.
“What’s the witch’s name?”
Otto laughed, glancing at the other two. “I like this guy. Her name’s Vei — but probably don’t call her ‘witch’ when you meet her. Might end up a bullfrog.”
Talla grinned. “Aww, Set as a little bullfrog.”
Set rolled his eyes.
Riven asked, “What about you? If this all works out, where can we find you — you know, to say thanks?”
“The UCL - UNDERGROUND CROWNFALL LEAGUE,” Otto said as he leaned back and waved some unseen order into the haze. More men moved. Conversation over.
The trio had more information than they had an hour ago and not nearly enough time to decide whether to trust it.
So they moved forward anyway, bonded by danger, uncertainty, and the same stubborn desire to see what was waiting on the other side.