A young man loses his mother and goes into the Underworld to save her.

Set in the city-state of Prometheum, 21-year-old Leo Maquari is a skeptic living in a world of unknown. His mother's death deprives him of the only person who's ever cared for him. The aftermath deprives him of much more.

His culture believes the dead pass into the Underworld. Unable to accept she's gone, he decides there's only one thing to do: go and bring her back.

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Excerpt from Generation VI · The Underworld © Copyright 2025 Jeff Wimperis

PROLOGUE

A bright virtecran flashes the latest new post from the Time’s Current: “Three Missing Bodies in the Eulimnos Section of Prometheum.”

Elegant fingers scroll to reveal the image of the investigation scene, ornamented by the signature lakes of Eulimnos. The article follows:

“Dozens of mourners gathered to witness the funeral games of Pandora Maquari, daughter of renowned General the late Alexander Maquari. Events were a mix of excitement and emotion as participants and spectators rallied the contests.

Leonidas Maquari, more commonly known as The Maurileho, was slated to deliver a eulogy speech following the games. At the point of doing so, however, the 21-year-old and son of the deceased shocked the crowd by turning from the podium and running headfirst into the lake. He did not resurface.

Even more tragic was the attempt of his childhood friend, Anastasia Wildyn, 20, to rescue him, which resulted in her apparent drowning as well.

The corpse of Pandora Maquari remains unfound.

Eulimnos, Prometheum: 14:22.”

The hand stays positioned as if posing for a portrait. Pristine, the skin is interrupted only by a dark, marble textured ring imprinted with the character “ν.”

After a pause, the browser is commanded closed.

The wallpaper displays an elevated panoramic of a series of islands along a coast.

At the bottom of the screen the time reads: 14:33.

The date: 13/16.

Year: 2080.

PROTASIS: THE DESCENT

CHAPTER 1 – THE EAGLE OVER THE ELM

Thunder and fire pour from the hands of Leonidas Maquari as he moves through his cardio rounds on Shadow Fighter. Each carefully placed strike delivered by his toned, muscular frame sends droplets of sweat scattering off his dark curls. His vigorous opponent might react the same, were he not a virtual form of low-A.I.

How did I get here.

Landed punches sound through the lonely basement that has always served as his refuge. They create a beat of sorts when taken as a whole: a pattern of music leading to anywhere.

Nowhere.

The combinations form a rhythmic array that transforms the shadow fighter into a moving drum set. The timing runs current with the blows: one, one two, one two three four.

This should be my time.

Dark, chestnut eyes demonstrate the intensity of his groove. Deep within shows an intensity of strife and burden. There is weight he means to lose besides that of the body.

But Mom……

A pang of guilt breaks his focus. He quickens his pace as punishment. Over what he’s not sure.

Pound and weave. Pound and weave.

The flurry costs him more than he anticipated in energy but he soon feels lighter. Taking deep breaths he settles into lazy hooks and guarded counter shots. The virtual opponent also slows to simulate the recovery needed following a forceful exchange. Its back and forth motion soon gives it the impression of swaying like a pendulum. Leo’s eyes follow, then his mind. Little by little he drifts off altogether.

He finds himself cast into a wooded area. A narrow rural road splits the trees to both sides. The place is nowhere he has gone, but somewhere he has seen.

Odd cries and smells tickle his senses. They savor of pain, despair, decay. Although he cannot locate the source, he feels their effect pressing on him.

He accelerates through the woods until his surroundings blur. He blinks hard to gain clarity. After several blinks he closes his eyes and shakes his head back and forth. When he looks again he finds himself motionless.

He stands alone in bleak silence.

He looks down to see his feet planted on a gravel pull-off.

Before him, a familiar tree.

Only now the tree carries an unfamiliar mark at the base of its trunk.

“κ.”

What the hell…

He searches his mind for any recollection or significance of the symbol.

Finding none, he kneels cautiously. He recognizes the tree as the elm from Lake Maquari. On this one though, the pattern of the bark tends toward the “Κ” as if some dominating force were luring it in.

Indeed, Leo begins to feel the pull himself. The cries and smells he sensed from earlier return. Then, as if from obedience to something in the unconscious, he extends a pair of fingertips toward the base.

At the point of contact though, everything disappears.

His pupils refocus and the next thing he sees is the Shadow Fighter. It is still: as is his body. His oily skin glistens, but only a few beads of sweat remain on his brow.

One falls like a tear over his left eye. It changes course when it meets the rugged terrain of his scars: one along the eyebrow intersecting with another running to the cheekbone. The sensation rouses him.

Damn.

He removes the glove from his right hand and runs his thumb over his fingertips.

I got to get a grip.

No feeling of tree or bark rise to the surface of his skin. The scenes, however, replay vividly in his mind. Nonetheless, he continues rubbing.

“Pound and weave,” says a soft voice from behind, “doesn’t mean stand around.”

Smiling at his fingers, he lazily raises his head.

“That so?” he says.

In the doorway stands a blonde of modest features. Straight hair parted at the center draped over a fair skinned face wearing little to no makeup. She meets the coaxing of her childhood friend with a glitter in her blue eyes.

“Hey, you.”

Leo regards her half-surprised half amused, conveniently forgoing the ancient custom of a hug.

“Well look who’s back,” he says, “Anastasia Wildyn.” He’s always found her last name ironic compared with her personality.

Her glitter fades. “Staj, in case you forgot.”

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