— Interlude —

Doloroso

(dōləˈrō(ˌ)sō): sorrowful, painful

A lazy fog clung to the terrain as sporadic gaps in the thick sheets of clouds allowed faint rays of early sunlight to break through. The pale beams cascaded down onto the vast expanse of the bog below, their light struggling to chase away the remnants of the night. Daylight had arrived on the bleak, desolate planet, and the scattered sunlight swirled and danced through the overcast sky, touching the muddy land with fleeting warmth.

Kazon Locke lay motionless in the mire. Left behind by his assailant, his armored body had begun to sink into the suffocating mud, the filth threatening to swallow him whole. His frame was prostrate, chest pressed against the ground, his limbs outstretched and unmoving. The dark, wet soil did little to conceal the small pool of crimson that had seeped from his wounded arm. One side of his face was buried in the muck, while the unrelenting breeze played through his thick, matted hair. Dim clusters of light passed over his inert figure, carrying a faint warmth that stirred the stagnant air and breathed a hint of vitality into the defeated Hunter.

Kazon's brow twitched, and his eyes slowly fluttered open.

He was alive? He was alive.

The realization came sluggishly, almost disbelievingly. But the dull, throbbing pain that greeted him was unmistakably real. His head pounded fiercely, the hours of darkness—whether conscious or unconscious—culminating in a piercing ache. Even the faint light of the morning sun felt unbearable, stabbing at his pupils and sending sharp waves of pain to his temples. Kazon winced and let out a soft, involuntary whimper, squinting at the gray horizon that loomed above.

But he was alive.

Weakly, Kazon peeled one hand from the mud, the viscous sludge clinging stubbornly to his glove as he dragged it across the slimy surface. He bent his elbow, bringing the hand closer to his face. Pressing his palm hard against the muck, he felt the thick sludge seep between his fingers as he struggled to steady himself. His other arm, shredded and riddled with fang marks, moved far more gingerly. Every small shift sent waves of dormant pain rushing over his skin, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the discomfort.

With a grunt of effort, Kazon slowly began to lift his upper body from the bog. The strain felt monumental, as though his weight had doubled in the oppressive mire, but he managed to gather his strength. Bit by bit, he freed himself from the syrupy grip of the mud, his breath ragged and his movements deliberate. His battered body protested at every turn, yet he persevered, forcing himself upright, however unsteadily.

Kazon's face, thick with a coating of mud, twisted into a grimace as he slowly slithered his knees beneath his waist. With one final push against the squelching earth, he forced himself upright, his weight settling heavily onto his heels. His head tipped back, resting against the nape of his neck as he gasped for air. Though stale and heavy, the atmosphere was a welcome relief to his burning lungs. He took another deep breath, closing his eyes tightly in an effort to block out the throbbing pain radiating through his body. His armored shoulders sagged, and he instinctively drew his wounded arm close to his side, trying to stifle the pulsating discomfort.

For a brief moment, he remained still, his battered body craving respite. Yet his mind was anything but quiet. Images of the encounter flashed through his thoughts—rapid, chaotic, and unrelenting. The terrifying black monster loomed large in his memory, its presence as haunting as its strength. Why had it left him alive? The question churned through his mind, tangled with swirling possibilities and unanswered doubts. His thoughts replayed every detail of the fight: how swift and agile he had been, how desperate and determined his final assault. But none of it had mattered. The monster was faster, stronger—unstoppable.

He clenched his eyes shut, his face contorting painfully as he tried to force the memories away. The frustration, the helplessness—he couldn't bear to dwell on it. His mind was racing in circles, chasing answers he didn't have. Slowly, he wiped the caked mud from his face and cracked his eyes open again. The gray sky above was an unfocused haze, his vision struggling to adjust to the light.

"It…" he murmured weakly between gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. The words came unbidden, slipping from the confusion in his mind. "…it laughed at me…"

No more words came. Kazon hung his head, his thick, mud-matted hair falling forward to obscure his face. A heavy silence settled over him as he tried to reconcile his failure. He had been reckless, charging into a battle he could not win, and he knew it. Rarely had he ever been so thoroughly outmatched, and never had he faced such overwhelming power from a single foe. Only Gren had ever pushed him to such desperate limits in their sparring matches, but this was something else entirely. This wasn't a contest. This was survival, and he had been utterly outclassed.

What had felt like an eternity in the heat of the struggle had, in reality, lasted only minutes. He knew no one—not even him—could have beaten that creature alone. Not without help. The thought gnawed at him, and his frustration swelled.

Then, suddenly, his eyes widened as a realization struck him like a lightning bolt.

"Ouspi…!"

The name ripped from his lips in a panicked cry. Kazon lurched to his feet with a ragged shout, the effort shaking his unsteady legs beneath him. He stumbled as he twisted around, his vision still blurred and sluggish from exhaustion. Desperation coursed through him as he scanned the horizon for any sign of the campfire. His heart raced faster than his body could keep pace, his balance faltering with each frantic turn. He could barely focus, his eyes struggling to adjust to the faint light of the morning, but he didn't care. All that mattered was finding Ouspi.

Finally, he saw something. Against the dim gray sky, the silhouette of the two tents emerged, framed by the lone, mangled tree still standing from the original pair. A thin stream of white smoke rose from the charred remains of the fire pit, quickly dissipating into the rolling fog. Kazon's face twisted in pain as he blundered through the mud, forcing himself toward the site.

Though his head throbbed incessantly, Kazon's vision gradually sharpened as he approached the camp. His aching limbs struggled to keep pace with his determination, causing him to stumble repeatedly. Yet his green eyes remained locked on his destination, unwavering despite the agony etched across his features. The closer he got, the heavier the stench of burnt wood and ash grew, carried sharply on the wind that slapped at his face.

When he was just meters away, Kazon's heartbeat quickened. His gaze swept over the still campsite, an unease creeping into his chest. The oppressive silence weighed heavily on him—there were no signs of life, no familiar sound of Ouspi's thunderous snores that had so often disturbed the quiet of the field. Maybe Ouspi had gone to look for him? The thought flickered briefly in Kazon's mind before doubt snuffed it out.

"Ouspi…?" he called, his voice uncertain as he cautiously stepped into the clearing between the two sickly trees.

No response.

The fire pit, long extinguished, appeared undisturbed. The two tents lay overturned and mangled, battered husks of their former state. Ouspi's shelter, in particular, seemed barely clinging to the ground, saved from blowing away entirely by a single stake anchoring one corner. There was no way the older Hunter could still be inside.

Kazon's chest felt hollow as his eyes darted across the scene, desperate to take in every detail. But the strain from the trek back weighed on him, his already depleted strength waning further. Reaching the tree he had leaned against the night before, Kazon placed a hand from his uninjured arm against the trunk for support. He took shallow breaths, his head bowed as his gaze fell to his muddy boots.

Then his breath caught, escaping him all at once. His eyes narrowed in disbelief at what he saw just a few paces away.

"Footprints…" he whispered, the word almost lost in the air. Tracks crisscrossed the clearing—far too many for just him and Ouspi. They were erratic, chaotic, weaving between the tents and the fire pit. His chest tightened as his gaze followed the paths, leading him to the opposite tree, where a single, curved blade lay discarded on the ground, its sheath nowhere in sight.

Kazon's breath hitched at the sight of the ornate, rounded design adorning the white hilt—a design he knew all too well. A faint splash of dried crimson marred the ivory surface.

Shock ignited a burst of energy within him. Kazon scrambled toward the blade, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. He charged through the fire pit without hesitation, scattering charred branches and ash with his boots. The stiff wind carried away the remnants as he pressed forward, driven by sheer desperation.

But his body, battered and overtaxed, had other plans. His legs gave out beneath him, sending him crashing to his knees. He caught himself with his forearm just before collapsing completely, the impact sending a fresh wave of pain through his already aching limbs. Kazon winced, his eyelids clenching tightly as he fought to push through the pain.

Kazon's eyelids clenched tightly as he fought to will himself to his feet once again, but his fatigue refused to yield. He could do little more than muster a cold sweat. Slowly, he allowed his eyes to flutter open, his breath steadying as he began to crawl forward, forcing himself inch by inch toward the ownerless blade. When he finally reached it, Kazon strained upward to his knees, now within arm's reach of the weapon.

Pushing the pain of his ravaged arm to the back of his mind, Kazon extended both hands to carefully lift the bloodied blade from the soil. His eyes scanned the elegant curvature of the steel, searching for any telltale signs of a struggle. His thoughts raced, his mind grappling with what could have caused Ouspi's shield to fail—unless, of course, his mentor had been forced to wield the weapons himself.

Kazon's gaze shifted, scanning his surroundings for the katana's mate. Yet no matter where he looked, his search yielded nothing.

"Damn it!" he cursed, his voice sharp with anger as he thrust the sword back downward in contempt. The blade struck the ground with a muted, metallic clank, a sound so unusual it froze Kazon in place.

The odd noise pierced through the heavy air and into his ear, snapping his attention back to the weapon. His eyes darted to the debris scattered by the impact. Among the disturbed soil, a faint glimmer caught his gaze, illuminated briefly by a fleeting break in the clouds overhead.

With his wounded arm trembling slightly, Kazon retrieved the sword and set it aside. Using his other hand, he scooped up a handful of the disturbed dirt and sifted it through his fingers. Amidst the mud and pebbles, a small, hollow cylinder remained—a smooth brass shell, tarnished with soot and carbon buildup.

Kazon stared at the object, his mind reeling. He knew exactly what it was… but couldn't fathom how it had ended up there. Every possible scenario replayed through his mind, each one more confounding than the last. The dark creature that attacked him hadn't carried a gun—nor had it seemed to need one. His own firearm had been lost in the mud during the skirmish, and in any case, this shell didn't match the custom-made ammunition he used. As for Ouspi, he never carried a gun on jobs like this, especially ones that were supposed to be easy.

His grip on the katana tightened as he turned the shell over in his palm, its hollow body weighing heavily in his thoughts. From the corner of his eye, another faint glimmer caught his attention, barely visible in the dirt less than a meter from the fallen tree. His heart raced as his fearful gaze locked onto the light. Kazon extended the katana, using its curved tip to carefully unearth the surrounding soil. As the dirt gave way, another empty shell was revealed.

Kazon's breathing grew heavier. His eyes traced the nearby footprints cutting paths toward Ouspi's overturned tent. Along the winding tracks, a constellation of brass casings twinkled faintly in the muted light, leading directly to the porthole opening of the shelter. His gaze fell to a dark, partially dried stream of crimson that seeped from the tent's entrance, staining the dusty ground below.

Each new shell, each new mark, deepened the pit in Kazon's chest. His breathing quickened, and dread surged within him as his gaze rose to the blood-streaked flap of the nomadic dwelling.

As Kazon peered closer in terror, he noticed Ouspi's tent was riddled with holes.

"No!" he gasped, the word escaping him in a choked cry as he lunged away from the tree. Staggering blindly toward the toppled tent, Kazon ignored the stabbing pain coursing through his body. He dropped to his knees in front of the makeshift shelter, cradling his wounded arm and Ouspi's blade against his chest. Gritting his teeth, he wrestled the collapsed tent upright and threw back the flap of the porthole opening.

Even before his eyes could fully adjust, Kazon knew Ouspi wasn't inside. But what he found was far worse than he could have imagined.

The floor of the tent was soaked in deep carmine pool, gathering beneath a drenched and disheveled bedroll that stretched corner to corner. The metallic twinge of fresh blood was suffocating, and the sight of it overwhelmed Kazon's senses. The viscous fluid spattered the sides of the tent, creeping up the fabric as it absorbed into the cloth, leaving dark stains in its wake.

The stench clawed at his throat, ripping the air from his lungs. Kazon's breaths grew shallow and uneven, his body urging him to flee. Yet fear rooted him in place, compelling him to examine the horrific scene further. The interior was a chaotic mess, as though the tent had been violently shaken. Ouspi's belongings lay scattered and mired in the blood—rations he had refused to eat, mission notes scrawled in his familiar hand, and cigars he always tried to hide from Kazon. All of it was submerged in the gory basin.

In the farthest corner, Kazon's gaze landed on a crumpled, dark bundle of leather. Ouspi's coat.

A chill ran through him. Ouspi never left without that coat, no matter the weather. The sight of it filled Kazon with dread, his trembling hand reaching out as he inched cautiously toward the sodden garment. His free hand latched onto an exposed fold of the material, and as he lifted it, blood dripped in thick streams from its surface, pooling anew in the mire below.

The apprentice froze, his breath caught in his throat. The coat, once a symbol of Ouspi's steadfastness, was now soaked through with the unmistakable blood of its owner. Kazon's hands trembled, the slick leather seeping crimson through his gloves. His dark green eyes shimmered, moisture gathering as he stared at the horrifying sight.

He stumbled backward, landing heavily on the ground. Desperately, he tried to push himself away from the bloody coat, but his gaze remained fixed on it, unable to look away. His breaths came faster, more ragged, as his emotions spiraled out of control. A single tear streaked down his dirt-streaked face as he squeezed his eyes shut.

He was gone.

A gasping breath tore from Kazon's lungs, and with a sudden burst of motion, he kicked himself away from the tent with such force that it toppled back over. The violent movement ripped a long, guttural scream from his throat, the sound piercing the eerie silence and echoing through the wind. The weight of his grief overwhelmed him, but he refused to stop moving. In a frantic, desperate motion, he flung the bloodied coat toward the nearby stump.

The wet fabric slapped against the bark, revealing the red-stained wood beneath. The sight renewed Kazon's anguish, and another anguished cry escaped him. Gritting his teeth, he turned his mentor's katana in his hand, the blade catching a flicker of light as he swung it with furious resolve. The steel cut through the tainted material of the tent, slashing downward with a ferocity born of grief and despair.

A volatile mix of anger, hatred, and sorrow coursed through Kazon's fragile psyche, poisoning his thoughts and driving his actions. He lashed out at the tent with Ouspi's blade, his strikes fueled by anguish. Each swing came harder and faster than the last, the razor-sharp katana slashing through the dilapidated fabric as though it offered no resistance. The blade tore into the blood-soaked mire, sending crimson-streaked muck spraying into the air. The gory rain splattered down over the young Hunter's pained visage, but he barely noticed. With every anguished cut, the sword grew heavier in his trembling hands, his strength fading as his heart suffocated under an oppressive weight of grief.

At last, his body gave out. Kazon's legs buckled beneath him, and with a choked cry of despair, he stumbled backward and collapsed to his knees. The blade in his hands felt unbearably heavy, and he drove it deep into the soil with both hands to steady himself, stopping just short of collapsing entirely. His grimy face pressed against his forearms as his emotions boiled over into a steady stream of tears. His blood-spattered forehead rested against the tarnished guard of the katana, the cold steel grounding him amid the storm of his anguish.

His breaths came in labored, uneven gasps as his chest heaved with the weight of his sorrow. Slowly, Kazon forced his eyes open, his tears dripping steadily onto the dusty earth at the base of the blade. Through blurred vision, he turned his gaze toward the bloodied coat lying crumpled beneath the tree stump. The sight pierced through his heart like a fresh wound. Ouspi was gone.

That monster—the snarling beast that had torn their lives apart—had separated them just long enough for this nightmare to unfold. Kazon's thoughts raced with grief as he tried to piece it all together. All they had done, he reminded himself bitterly, was follow the letter of their contract. They had trusted the job, trusted the system… and for that trust, this was the payment they received. Kazon's mind seethed as he recalled the grotesque, mocking laughter of the creature.

Through his tear-streaked face and the muddy bangs clinging to his forehead, Kazon's eyes slowly lifted, bloodshot and hollow. They peered beyond the bloodstained tent, past the barren expanse of the camp, to the overcast sky churning with morning fog. The air, stale with the metallic tang of blood, filled his lungs as he inhaled deeply. He exhaled slowly, his trembling breaths giving way to a steely resolve. His tears ceased as he forced himself to focus, his mind sharpening with a cold, incensed clarity.

His gaze fell back to the hilt of the katana resting in the dirt before him. The emblem engraved on its guard caught his eye, a mark that spoke of Ouspi's legacy. As Kazon stared at it, his partner's words from the campfire resurfaced in his mind: Trust in the job. A bitter thought clawed its way through his grief. This, he realized, was the price of their trust—Ouspi's faith in the system, and Kazon's own patience.

Kazon lowered his head again, his fiery anger battling with the icy bitterness that had taken root in his soul. His hands tightened around the hilt of the katana, his thumb brushing away a streak of dried blood from the etched emblem. The deep red smudge lingered in the contours of the engraving, a cruel reminder of what had been lost. A single tear traced its way down his jaw, the final remnant of his sorrow, as his expression hardened into one of grim resolve.

"They brought a real monster to this planet…"