While the Upper Hive was making intense preparations, deep within the Underhive.
Darkness, dampness, and an air filled with the mingled stench of rot and chemical waste.
This was the lowest level of Kent Hive City, more than five kilometers below the surface, where daylight never reached.
Figures crowded through a concealed passage.
More than a thousand gang members had gathered here. They wore tattered patchwork armor, their faces painted with savage patterns, and carried all manner of weapons.
Homemade shotguns, black-powder rifles, even machetes modified from industrial cutting tools.
To the PDF in the Upper Hive, these weapons were junk. But in the Underhive, they were enough to rule by force.
At the front of the group stood a man in a black cloak.
His hood was pulled low, hiding most of his face and revealing only a vicious scar on his chin.
Behind him, a burly man with a venomous scorpion tattooed on his face leaned closer and asked in a low voice, "Boss, where are we going? Gathering this many brothers—is it time to go to war with the Bloodfang Gang?"
The cloaked man did not turn around. His voice emerged coldly from beneath the hood. "Not war."
"Then what—"
"To make a fortune."
Those simple words made the gang members behind him light up.
In the Underhive, making a fortune could mean many things.
It could mean raiding a transport convoy, taking over a small processing plant, or perhaps—claiming territory that had suddenly been left vacant.
The cloaked man raised his head and looked toward the end of the passage.
There stood a rust-covered freight elevator. Thick steel cables hung from above, reflecting a greasy sheen beneath the dim lights.
"The elevator will arrive in three minutes."
His low voice echoed through the passage. "Remember, once