The corridors of the Fifth Sluice seemed endless to Jerald. His shift was finally over, and all he wanted right now was to get to the barracks, collapse onto a hard cot, and close his eyes. He tried to walk at an even pace, without quickening his step, so as not to draw any extra attention from the patrols.
They're far away by now, he reassured himself, recalling his conversation with Zeno. The old man is a seasoned pro; he'll get the kid out.
He rounded the corner leading to the residential blocks when two figures stepped silently out from the shadow of a maintenance alcove. Jerald didn't even have time to cry out. One of the guards delivered a heavy blow to his stomach, while the other wrenched his arms behind his back until his tendons popped.
They dragged him deep into the administrative sector. A door clanged open, and Jerald was roughly shoved onto a metal chair in a dimly lit interrogation room. He coughed, wheezing for air and trying to bring his vision into focus.
Sitting opposite him behind a small steel desk was Richter, unhurriedly polishing his recording crystal with a piece of velvet. A bit further back, lurking in the thick shadows against the wall, loomed a heavy-robed figure.
Master Valt.
"Lord Richter..." Jerald tried to inject some indignation into his voice, but it came out pathetic and raspy. "What is going on? I just got off my shift..."
"Yes, Jerald. We know," Richter's voice was flat. He set the crystal down on the desk and slid a crumpled sheet of paper toward the edge—a printout from the duty log. "Your shift. On this date, at twenty-three forty, you abandoned your post at the pump station."
"I... I heard a strange noise coming from the ventilation," Jerald swallowed the lump rising in his throat. "According to protocol, I am obligated to investigate any anomalies. It was dark down there; I didn't find anyone, so I came back."
"What commendable vigilance," Richter smirked, his lips barely moving. "Except the concealed ether sensors in the abandoned collector shaft—where you went to 'check the noise'—registered two targets. You. And Zeno."
Jerald felt a cold sweat break out across his back.
Richter slowly rose from his desk, walked around it, and stood right in front of Jerald. Valt, still leaning against the wall, didn't move an inch, merely observing.
"Alpha didn't have access keys to the drainage system. And he couldn't have known the blind spots of our radars," Richter spoke quietly, his tone measured. He placed a hand on Jerald's shoulder, his fingers digging painfully into his collarbone. "Do you take us for fools, Jerald?"
The sound of the blow was short and sharp. Jerald's head snapped back, and he nearly tipped over, chair and all, onto the floor. Blood sprayed from his broken nose, spattering the reports laid out on the desk and Richter's own white cuffs. A few drops flecked his cheek.
"Where. Are. They. Now?" Richter grabbed the guard by his hair, forcing him to look him in the eye.
Jerald remained silent. His left eye was completely swollen shut, and his breath escaped his chest with a wet wheeze. Richter struck him again, his fist crashing into Jerald's jaw. The guard spat a wad of blood right onto his interrogator's boot.
"You little piece of trash..." Richter boiled over, reaching for the dagger at his belt. "I'll cut out your tongue, let's see how you whimper about 'checking the ventilation' then!"
"Enough, Richter."
Master Valt's voice was quiet. Richter froze, the hand gripping the hilt of his knife visibly trembling.
"Lord Master..." Richter turned around. "He betrayed the system. He needs to be liquidated right now as an example to the others, or I will beat the truth out of him!"
Valt took a slow step forward. "I said—enough."
Richter's knees buckled instinctively. He immediately lowered his head, averting his gaze. "Forgive me, Lord... I just..."
"Your emotions compromise your efficiency," Valt walked over to the bloodied Jerald and lifted his chin with his fingertips. The guard didn't even flinch. "A dead rat is useless. But a live one... might lead us to our target."
"Do you want to keep him here?" Richter asked cautiously, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
"No. We will keep him alive as bait. Sooner or later, they will want to know the fate of the man who helped them. Lock him in block six. Provide minimal medical aid so he doesn't kick the bucket. And tighten surveillance on all communication channels. If they make a single move—I want to be the first to know."
Richter bowed, watching the Master leave. Once the door clicked shut behind Valt, he stood motionless for a long time, feeling the faint tremor of fear slowly subside within him. Then he looked down at the battered Jerald and contemptuously wiped his bloody fingers on the man's own uniform.
"You got lucky," Richter hissed. "But when we catch them, I'll personally ensure it takes you a very long time to die."
Meanwhile, in the forest...
Zeno had left a couple of hours ago, leaving me under the protection of a shimmering magical dome. If you looked closely, the air at the boundary of the camp rippled faintly, distorting the tree trunks as if I were looking at the world through warped glass.
I sat with my back pressed against our makeshift shelter. My body still ached, but the pain wasn't what it used to be. Zeno's healing magic had done its job, and "Will to Live" was beginning to show signs of life. The skill was slowly patching up my tissues, flushing the toxins of fatigue from my muscles.
I looked down at my palms. The deep crimson flush had faded, leaving behind a layer of raw, thin skin that stung at every touch of my clothing.
How did my life come to this? The thought spun in my head like a broken record.
Not too long ago—at least in my memory—I was just an engineer (though "just" was putting it lightly). Blueprints, calculations, endless arguments with clients, and coffee from a vending machine. And now I was sitting in the woods of an alien world, hiding from a magical inquisition and sharing a hideout with a mercenary. It all felt like a prolonged, hyper-realistic dream. As if all I had to do was squeeze my eyes shut, and I'd wake up in my own apartment, and all of this would turn out to be nothing but a product of severe burnout.
"Why am I even doing this?" I whispered to the emptiness. "What is all this survival even for?"
Suddenly, Zeno's face flashed in my memory. His eternal smirk and his words: Don't sweat it, kid, we'll get through. I've crawled out of worse shit than this.
"I have to find them..." Warm voices echoed in my head. "San..."
I didn't get to finish. The air at the edge of the dome rippled violently, and Zeno stepped through. I flinched, my heart instantly slipping into its familiar frantic gallop, but as soon as I recognized the familiar silhouette, I let out a breath.
Zeno looked pleased. Slung over his shoulder was the carcass of some local horned rabbit, and in his hands, he held a bundle of strange, luminescent herbs.
"Yo." He dropped his prize by the campfire, which we hadn't dared build up too high. "I see your skill is slowly waking up."
"I'm trying," I managed a ghost of a smile. "What kind of beast is that?"
"Our dinner."
He deftly set about skinning the carcass, and I just watched his hands. Zeno's calm was contagious. In his presence, the world became tangible again, and the paranoia receded into the background. But the question that had been tormenting me since earlier hadn't gone anywhere.
"Zeno," I called out as he began skewering the meat on makeshift spits. "Tell me."
He didn't look up. "About what? How to properly roast a tusker?"
"No. About that student. Who was he?"
Zeno's hand, holding the knife, froze for a second. I saw his shoulders tense up. It felt like he was about to crack a joke or tell me to go to hell, but instead, he let out a heavy sigh.
"Her name was Ryder..." he began. "You know, there are people who look at a broken world and, instead of trying to take it apart for spares like you do, they try to heal it."
He sliced off a piece of the partially roasted meat and offered it to me on the tip of his blade. I took it, but my appetite had vanished.
"She was my first student," Zeno continued, staring somewhere through the flames. "I taught her how to kill, and she kept talking about negotiations. When that war broke out between the southern alliances, Ryder went in as a mediator."
Zeno smirked wryly.
"And?" I asked softly.
"And what usually happens to those who stand between two warring nations?" Zeno fell silent for a moment, then added, "That's when I joined the Order."
I could see his hands shaking as he slipped his knife back into its sheath.
"Listen," I said, gently changing the subject. "This meat... it tastes like a boot sole. Are you sure you marinated it right in those glowing burdocks of yours?"
Zeno blinked, snapping out of it, and for a moment his gaze cleared. He looked at me, then at the meat, and suddenly let out a loud snort.
"A boot sole? You're spoiled rotten. This is a rare delicacy—down in the Lower Horizon, they'd trade six months of their life for this! Eat up, or you won't be able to move your legs tomorrow."
"Fine." Zeno stood up and began stomping out the remnants of the fire. "The past is a swamp. The longer you stand in it, the deeper it sucks you down. Tomorrow at dawn, we move out north, toward the Pass."
"To the Pass?" I stood up as well, feeling a spark of interest in our route slowly awaken inside me.
"Yeah. The magical background radiation there is so fractured that their tracking amulets will go haywire. Get some sleep, Iron."
I crawled into our flimsy lean-to, listening to Zeno whispering something outside as he reinforced the dome.