You had heard of the capital long before you ever saw it.

They spoke of it as the heart of the Earth realm. The largest city. The most advanced. The place where everything converged. You expected something vast. Impressive. Something that would justify the journey.

When you arrive, you almost think you made a mistake.

There are only a few buildings.

Low structures, functional, unremarkable. No towers. No walls stretching into the distance. No signs of grandeur. Just a small settlement, quiet and still, sitting on solid ground.

For a moment, you wonder if this is only the entrance. If the real city lies further ahead.

It doesn’t. This is it. Or at least… this is all that is meant to be seen.

You are stopped before you can go any further.

The guards do not look surprised. Outsiders come from time to time. Most of them with the same expression you probably have right now.

“Stop. You don’t enter with that.”

One of them gestures toward your belongings.

At first, you think they mean something that could be dangerous. You show them you have nothing of the sort. It doesn’t matter. The guard stares at you blankly.

“You. Leave. Everything.”

There is clearly no room for negotiation.

“Nothing personal enters the city. Tools, objects, keepsakes. It all gets surrendered.”

Well, that seems… excessive. But the guard doesn’t wait for your agreement.

“It will be processed. Reused. Distributed. Some of it will be returned. Most of it will be taken as tribute. You’ll be fed. You’ll be housed. That’s the exchange.”

It is said like it is obvious. Like it has always worked this way.

Around you, no one reacts. People pass through without protest. They hand things over as if they stopped belonging to them long ago.

Your belongings are taken from your hands, one by one. It’s quick and efficient. They are catalogued, separated, and… gone.

You are left with nothing. The guards step aside.

“Enter.”

The moment you pass, the air feels cooler.Then you see it. The ground opens. Just enough to reveal what lies beneath: stairs. They are wide, carved, descending deeper than you can see.

People move through them without hesitation, disappearing below the surface as if this were the only direction that ever mattered.

You follow.

The light fades as you descend. Slowly at first, then more noticeably. What replaces it is not darkness, but something dim. Glowing mushrooms line the walls. It smells of earth. Damp and enclosed.

And then the city reveals itself. Not above. But below.

Vast corridors stretch in every direction. Structures carved directly into the earth. Layers upon layers of tunnels, rooms, and passageways, all connected, all alive with movement. The space is immense, but nothing is wasted. Everything is built for use, not for comfort.

There are no personal homes. No doors that belong to anyone. Sleeping areas are shared. Rows of spaces assigned, not owned. People move in and out without attachment. No one lingers. No one claims anything as theirs.

The guard gestures toward a passage. That this is where food is distributed. The hours are fixed, so are the portions. Water is measured. Everything is accounted for. Everyone gets the same. No one asks for more.

As you are guided further in, you notice something else. Some paths are not open to you. Some doors are guarded. And beyond them, just for a moment, you catch a glimpse of something different. Space. Privacy. Comfort. The guard notices where your gaze lingers.

“For the royal family and nobles. They don’t mix.”

That’s all the explanation you’ll get. The guard stops in front of a room.

“Find a spot. If not here, somewhere else.”

Inside, the space is crowded. Rows of narrow bedding placed side by side, barely separated. People are already there, sitting, lying down. A few are sleeping directly on the floor.

No one makes space for you. No one asks who you are. You are just… one more.

You stand there, empty-handed, surrounded by a city that takes everything and gives only what is necessary in return.