Whirr.
John raised his left hand, watching the two prosthetic fingers, the middle and ring, click into motion. The new replacements spun with smooth, mechanical precision, the soft hum of internal motors barely audible.
He tilted the hand toward the mirror.
"Real mature," he muttered to himself as the middle finger extended and spun like a windmill.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"I've missed doing that."
The humor lingered for a second before fading, giving way to something colder. He slowly lowered the hand and looked at the reflection properly, at the silver-black alloy embedded into flesh, at the seams where metal met scar tissue, at the sleek plating built not for form, but for function.
They didn't look like fingers.
They looked like tools. Weapons.
He flexed his other fingers experimentally, his thumb, index, pinky. Still real. Still his. The two missing ones were not. They were something else now. Something made.
John's eyes narrowed. The mirror offered him no answers, only questions that had been simmering for too long.
'I used to see this face and think: weapon. Tool. Blade in someone's hand.'
'And that used to be enough.'
But somewhere along the way, that certainty had cracked. He couldn't remember exactly when. Maybe it was when Marian first woke up after recovering from corruption. Rapi's eyes when she thought he wouldn't notice how tired she looked. Spending time with Anis, sharing snacks and soda. When Neon tackled him after he woke up in the hospital again.
Now the fear was different.
It wasn't about dying.
It was about what he'd leave behind.
His left hand lowered, the prosthetic fingers curling into a half-fist. No strength behind it, but the gesture was there.
For the first time in years, he was scared of being remembered.
Of mattering.
Of becoming someone needed.
That was harder than war.
He stared a second longer, then turned from the mirror. The mechanical fingers clicked softly as they reset.
And as he rolled his shoulder with a sigh, his lips smirked as he glanced down at the spinning finger again.
"…But this thing's still hilarious."
John stepped away from the mirror. He could walk now, though barely. His muscles still felt like pulled string, tight and fragile, but they were there. Filling out faster than they had any right to.
Faster than they should.
He exhaled, quietly aware of what that meant. The cursed energy he'd been drawing on to speed up the process was working, patching things together faster than proper healing ever would. He was already pushing limits. Again.
Still, it beats using a wheelchair.
Crossing the command center's kitchenette, he tapped the side of the old coffee maker and waited for the low rumble and hiss of the machine brewing his blend. A thick, bitter stream poured into the waiting mug, and for a moment, the warm scent of burnt grounds and synthetic caffeine soothed something raw in his chest.
The mug was chipped. Neon had decorated it with badly drawn guns and the words "FIREPOWER: ON" in pink marker.
He took a sip. It was terrible.
And perfect.
With one hand, he pulled the tablet from the counter and scrolled through the plan Rumani had sent him last night. It was neatly color-coded, aggressively detailed, and terrifying.
"Week 1–2: Controlled Recovery. Light isometric holds, resistance band mobilization, precision muscle re-activation. NO HIGH-INTENSITY.
Daily Meal: Protein-rich liquefied meals Spledamine-Neutrium hybrid shake. Sleep: 9 hours minimum. No exceptions. :("
He blinked at the angry emoji.
Further down was a block marked 'Advanced Load Reintroduction—DO NOT SKIP STAGE ONE' and underneath it: "If I find out you're cheating your macros again, I will know. – R."
John scratched the back of his head. "She's really intense about all this."
Still, he couldn't help but smile faintly. He scrolled to the bottom of the page, where Rumani had added a small note.
"You're not a machine. Don't train like one."
He read the words twice before setting the tablet down beside the mug.
Outside, the corridor buzzed faintly with the noise of maintenance droids, morning foot traffic, the gentle hum of Ark life starting its day. Everything felt quieter without the others. Without them.
John took another sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding him, and looked toward the distant terminal.
The search for Vapaus wasn't waiting.
And neither was whatever came after.
The Outer Rim was never quiet, not truly. Even in the early hours when the wind carried dust instead of gunfire, something always lingered beneath the surface. A whisper. A presence.
Crow crouched atop a rusted scaffold, one boot dangling lazily as her dark green eyes watched from the shadows.
Below, Mahito walked through the half-lit street without hurry, his fingers trailing lazily against the crumbling wall beside him. He looked perfectly at ease, as if strolling through a city he owned.
He didn't look back.
But he knew.
Crow's smirk widened.
They didn't speak. Not yet.
Instead, Mahito reached the edge of the alleyway, paused beneath a broken neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat, then stepped into the dark.
Crow stood, her silhouette briefly illuminated by the flashing light above.
Then she, too, vanished into the alley.
No words. No witnesses.
Just two monsters disappearing into the dark.
The sun hung low in the Ark's artificial sky, casting a dusty amber glow across the long road that led to the Outer Rim gates. John walked with slow, deliberate steps, his long coat fluttering in the wind. The prosthetic fingers on his left hand clicked softly as he flexed them, the unfamiliar sensation still working its way into muscle memory.
Beside him, Takumi matched his pace in silence, hands in his pockets, the ever-present tension between them simmering like a pot just shy of boiling.
John tapped the comms device in his ear. "Exia, you there?"
The reply came through a second later, her voice as deadpan as ever. "You called during my matchmaking queue, Noob. This better be important."
John gave a small, wry smile. "You'll live. Got anything new for me?"
He could hear her munching something faintly before she responded. "Info in the Outer Rim's a mess. Most of it's hearsay, rumors, people going missing in the dust and no one asking questions. But…" she paused, and John could practically hear her pushing her glasses up even if she wasn't wearing any, "I ran a location-weighted incident pattern through a heatmap filter. Limited data, but I found something."
John's brow furrowed. "Go on."
"There's a spike in disappearances. Not random. Clustered, like someone's testing something. Moving from one district to the next, but always circling the same outer radius. If the pattern holds, the next target zone is Sector Nine-B. You'll hit that route if you're heading to that outpost you mentioned."
Takumi gave a subtle glance sideways but said nothing.
"Nice work," John said. "Anything else?"
"No known high-threat signatures reported in the last three weeks. But whatever's causing the disappearances doesn't leave survivors. There's no body count. Just... gaps."
He frowned slightly, glancing up at the sky as they neared the gates. "Could be environmental, structural collapse, bandits."
Exia made a doubtful noise. "Could be. But it feels… too clean. Like someone doesn't want a mess."
John didn't reply right away. His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered her words. She had no idea about Mahito. No idea what was really lurking out there.
And for now, it needed to stay that way.
"Appreciate the analysis," he said finally. "Keep monitoring. Send me any changes the second you see them."
"Will do. Just don't die out there. Again."
The line cut off.
He lowered his arm and looked ahead. The massive gates of the Outer Rim stood open in the distance, the final line between civilization and chaos.
Takumi finally spoke. "You told her anything… revealing?"
John shook his head. "No. Just enough to keep her doing what she's good at."
"And when she starts asking the right questions?"
John gave a tired sigh. "Then I'll lie harder."
Takumi snorted. "You really are a terrible influence."
The dusty wind picked up the moment they crossed into the Outer Rim. The air had a different weight out here. Rustier, drier, like the world itself was holding its breath.
John pulled his jacket tighter and tapped at his Blabla interface, forwarding the map and disappearance analysis Exia had sent over. A soft ping confirmed the transfer to Takumi's device.
"Everything she found," John muttered. "Heatmap, timing pattern, probable location. That should give you a decent head start."
Takumi's eyes scanned the data briefly, then flicked back up to him. "You're not coming?"
John shook his head. "I promised. No involvement. Just analysis. You'll be tracking Mahito, not me."
Takumi raised an eyebrow. "And you're just going to sit still? Rest? Heal?"
John gave a dry smile. "No. I've got my own problem to deal with. Off the books."
There was a pause between them. Takumi didn't ask questions. Didn't need to. He just gave a short nod, tapping his comm once. "Don't die, Anaman."
John smirked. "You too."
With that, Takumi adjusted his coat, turned, and disappeared into the haze of Sector Nine-B, leaving John alone with the creaking silence of the frontier.
He exhaled slowly, then rolled his shoulders, working the stiffness out of still-recovering muscles. Even now, his body felt lighter than it should, though stronger than it had any right to be, thanks to Rumani's program and a cocktail of cursed energy keeping him upright.
His next destination was a checkpoint at the southern ridge.
Exotic territory.
The penal squad wasn't exactly known for keeping a tidy schedule—or tidy anything, really—but if anyone could survive the worst of the Rim and still barter with a devil, it was them.
John checked his comm one more time. Coordinates pinged. Confirmed.
He was close.
He turned south and started walking. Time to meet the snakes.
The southern ridge was a scrapyard in all but name. Rusted husks of disassembled construction equipment stacked like tombstones, sand-blasted metal plating buried beneath years of dust and neglect. John spotted them before they saw him. Or rather, before they acknowledged seeing him.
Viper leaned casually against a broken-down transport, her arms crossed, one leg hooked around the other with the ease of someone who knew no one in their right mind would ever sneak up on her. Jackal was half-buried in a pile of crates, clearly scavenging for anything useful or shiny.
John raised a hand. "Morning."
Jackal popped her head out of a box with wide eyes. "Oh my god. You're so skinny."
Viper's head tilted, her red eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, well, Commander. What did they do to you in that hospital? You look like a pre-fab mannequin."
John sighed. "Hello to you too."
Jackal hopped over the crate pile with a spring in her step, peering dramatically at his arms. "Where'd the muscles go?! You used to be all scary and 'raaargh' and now you're like… ninety percent bones!"
Viper walked a slow circle around him, exaggeratedly inspecting him like a disappointed tailor. "Tch. And here I was hoping to enjoy the view while we traveled. You're really gonna make me rely on my imagination?" She pouted, clearly enjoying herself. "You know I'm a visual learner."
John gave her a flat look.
Viper smirked, her hand idly resting near the switch on her collar. "So, Commander. Is this a check-in, or is this the start of something fun and incredibly dangerous?"
"Bit of both," John replied. "I've got a mission. Off the books. One that requires your particular talents."
Viper raised an eyebrow. "Mmm. How flattering."
Jackal gave a grin. "Oooh, I love off-the-books stuff! That means we don't get yelled at later, right?"
"Or we get yelled at more," Viper added.
John looked between them. "Where's Crow?"
Viper rolled her eyes. "Out. Said she had a meeting to take care of. She'll catch up when she's done, assuming she doesn't get into trouble along the way."
John's brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned back to Viper. "Once she's here, I'll brief you all. I'll need full discretion on this."
Viper's smirk returned, sly and sharp. "Oh honey. We don't know the meaning of the word 'discretion.'"
Jackal raised a hand. "I actually don't."
John rubbed his temples.
The door creaked open with a metallic groan, and Crow strolled in, calm and deliberate, dragging a faint scent of chemicals and dry wind behind her. She dropped a small package by the wall with little ceremony, tucked it away behind an old locker like it wasn't meant to be seen, and turned toward John, who stood hunched over a table strewn with rough maps and markers.
"You're late," John said without looking up.
Crow tilted her head, a wry smile playing at her lips. "Oh? That supposed to mean something coming from the man who showed up two hours late to our first meeting?"
John glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. "Fair. But at least I brought snacks that time."
"Hard to top ark quality apple pie," she replied, stepping closer. "So, what's this about? Another surveillance mission no other commander is stupid enough to accept, or are we just catching up?"
"Recon and data collection," John replied, tapping a name on the list. "I'm looking for contacts. Informants. People who might know where to find something… specific."
Crow's eyes flicked down at the scribbled names. A few were marked in faint green, others drowned in red, marked as deceased or missing.
"These are old names," she murmured. "Mostly dead. Some went dark years ago. What are you after that's worth chasing ghosts?"
John paused, considering his words. "Information. There's something I need to find, but I don't have a clean lead. So I'm checking every scrap of intel I can get my hands on."
She leaned forward slightly, eyeing the list. "You're not being very specific."
He didn't look at her. "Not until I know more. Right now, I just need boots on the ground and eyes in the dark."
Crow folded her arms, studying him with quiet interest. "You always this vague when you ask people for help?"
"I'm vague when I don't want to drag people into things they don't need to be dragged into."
"Sounds like something serious," she said, tone laced with amusement.
John gave a half-smile. "Since when has it not been?"
Crow didn't answer that. Instead, her eyes roamed back to the names, pausing on a few she clearly recognized. "Some of these are dead ends, but… maybe a couple could still be breathing. Or at least leaving trails."
"Then we follow them," John said simply. "Quietly. No need to make noise unless we have to."
Crow gave a soft chuckle. "I was going to do that anyway. The less talking, the better."
John finally looked up, meeting her gaze. "Appreciate it."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, turning toward the corner where she'd stashed the package. "You've got a lot of names and not a lot of time. Just hope you're not wasting both."
As she stepped past him, she cast him a sidelong glance, her tone shifting. She paused in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame, watching John as he returned to his quiet work scrolling through data, cross-referencing names and coordinates like it was second nature.
"You know," she said, voice casual but edged, "the first time we met, I figured you for just another Ark-issued commander."
John didn't look up, but the slight tilt of his head told her he was listening.
Crow smirked. "You know the type. Clean-cut, regulation voice, brainwashed by propaganda to the gills. Just enough edge to give you the illusion of grit, like someone cosplaying a soldier. Paper authority soaked in cologne."
She took a step back into the room, the fabric of her collar catching a glint of the low light.
"But then I saw you here. In the Outer Rim." Her boots echoed softly as she circled the table. "You moved like someone who knew the filth. Didn't flinch at the smell of blood in the dust. Didn't ask stupid questions. Didn't try to be in control, just… blended in. Like you belonged."
John's fingers paused over the map.
"And now…" she stopped behind him, gaze flicking down to the thin, half-recovered form in front of her. "…Now I see it in your eyes."
His head lifted slightly.
Crow's voice dropped to something near a whisper. "You've killed before. Not clean. Not sanctioned. Not just shooting at cutout targets." Her smile was slow, sly. "Real killing. The kind that leaves residue."
John's face was unreadable, but Crow wasn't looking for a reaction. She was savoring the observation.
"I should've seen it before. The way you didn't hesitate. The way you observe people whilst pretending not to look at them. The way you carry the weight." She stepped closer, just enough to let her voice carry directly to him. "You've been broken before. Reforged into something else. Not government. Not Ark."
She tilted her head, almost amused. "Tell me, John, how deep does the rust go? What did they make you into before they wrapped you up in a nice little title and pushed you down here?"
Still no reply.
But that silence told her more than any denial would have.
Crow chuckled. "I think that's what excites me most." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Because I've met your type before. All principles and stoicism until the blood reaches your ankles. Then you start to think. You start to wonder. You start to see it—the truth in the dirt, the rot under the Ark's polish."
Her voice dropped again, husky and low. "And that's when the real choices begin. That's when someone like you has to decide if he's going to stay a hero… or finally understand why people like me want to burn it all down."
John finally looked at her, his eyes calm but tired, the corners darkened by exhaustion and pain and something else, something that had always been there.
She saw it. And she liked what she saw.
Crow stepped back, the smirk never leaving her face. "I'll be watching. Closely."
And with that, she turned and walked out, her figure slipping back into the dim light and corridors of the safehouse. John watched her leave, confusion etched on his face "... What the fuck was that all about?"
He didn't have a real name. Just a number.
Seven.
That's what they called him—his parents, his siblings, when they were still alive. The seventh child born to a family that never had enough food, enough space, enough luck. Only three of them had made it past infancy. Now it was just him. Seven. No surname. No story.
He moved like a shadow down the shattered thoroughfare, hugging the alley's edge, bare feet kicking up dust and splinters from broken synthcrete. In the Outer Rim, kids like him learned early: stay small, stay quiet, don't ask questions.
And never go near the Nuovo Impianto.
But here he was.
The building sat like a tumor, just past the bones of a collapsed building. From a distance, it looked abandoned. No lights, no guards, no movement. But Seven knew better. Everyone in the district did. It wasn't dead.
It was sleeping.
And worse, it was watching.
He crept closer, heart pounding, every step feeding a rising pressure in his chest. His lungs felt too tight, his skin too thin. The fear didn't hit like a punch, but it seeped. Slow. Cold. Invasive. It slithered into his bones and whispered in the hollows of his thoughts.
The older kids said it was just nerves. A ghost story to keep brats out of trouble. But Seven had been warned by someone else.
"If you feel like your guts are folding in on themselves before you even see it? That's the place."
He staggered to a stop behind a bent-out metal drum, just shy of the building's line of sight. His hands were shaking as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the package, a blocky cube, wrapped in grey polymer. It didn't tick. It didn't glow.
But it hummed.
Low. Deep. Like something alive holding its breath.
Seven crouched near a fractured drainage pipe, clawing at the dirt with his hands. Every handful of soil felt heavier than the last, as though the ground itself didn't want to open up. He forced the package into the hole and buried it fast, not caring about neatness.
His breath came in shallow, frantic gasps now. He glanced up at the structure.
From here, he could see the jagged words spray-painted across the upper concrete, faded but unmistakable:
NUOVO IMPIANTO
He didn't know what it meant. He didn't want to.
But he felt it.
Like something massive and ancient was curled beneath that place, eye cracked half-open, stirring from its slumber. The air was too still. No wind. No sound. No voices. Just him and a growing sense that the dirt under his feet was wrong.
He turned and ran.
Didn't look back until he was out of breath. And even then, only for a second.
The building hadn't moved.
But it felt like it had gotten closer.
He kept running.
Behind him, the Nuovo Impianto waited.
And something inside it smiled.
The Exotic safehouse was quiet for once.
Artificial lights from cobbled together streetlamps filtered in through the grime-streaked window slats, casting long amber lines across the cluttered room. Crates were stacked high in the corners, a few old rifles resting against them. A half-finished board game lay abandoned on the table, next to an open bag of half-eaten Splendamin bars and a cracked radio that only played static.
John sat on the armrest of a battered couch, slowly rolling one shoulder. The stiffness was still there, less than before, but present. Recovery was coming fast.
Across from him, Jackal was crouched on the floor like a dog about to pounce, sorting through an ammo crate that clearly didn't belong to her. Her tongue stuck out the side of her mouth in concentration as she lifted a shell casing to the light and squinted.
"Do you think this one's spicy or super spicy?" she asked, holding up a bright red round.
"That's thermite," John said flatly. "Put it back before you burn yourself."
Jackal gave a disappointed groan but obeyed, tossing it back in with a clatter. "You're no fun, Commander. Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Back in the hospital, probably," he muttered.
She popped a Splendamin bar in her mouth and flopped back with a dramatic sigh, head resting against his boot like a lounging pup. "You should be more grateful. We're letting you crash at our cool hideout, and I haven't even blown anything up today."
"Yet," John corrected.
Jackal grinned. "Yet."
The door creaked.
Viper strolled in, her hips swaying with practiced ease, a sleek jacket draped over one shoulder, her eyes instantly sweeping the room like she owned it. Her gaze lingered on John for a half-second longer than necessary.
"Well, well," she said, voice velvet-smooth. "Isn't this cozy?"
Jackal perked up. "Viper! Look, I didn't explode the room today! You proud?"
Viper glanced at the intact ceiling. "A little."
Then her eyes returned to John, appraising.
Viper stopped beside him, her fingers ghosting the edge of the couch where his hand rested. "You know… you really should be more careful. A fragile thing like you, out here with a bunch of criminals…"
"Convicts," Jackal corrected cheerfully from the floor. "It sounds cooler."
Viper rolled her eyes. "Yes, thank you, dear."
John didn't move. "I'm not exactly helpless."
"No," Viper said softly. "But you're still breakable. And breakable things don't last long in places like this."
Something flickered in her voice then. Something buried.
John met her gaze. "Are you worried about me, Viper?"
She scoffed. "Worried? Don't be silly, Honey. I just don't like seeing useful assets go to waste."
Jackal popped her head up. "She totally worries about you."
"Shut up, Jackal," Viper snapped, cheeks barely flushed.
John smirked. "I appreciate the concern. Really."
"You're reading into things again, Commander," she said, but her tone was quieter. Less sharp. "I've just seen too many people burn out trying to be heroes."
John didn't answer right away. He looked down at his prosthetic hand, the dark alloy gleaming in the low light. His fingers flexed.
"I'm not trying to be a hero," he said.
Viper tilted her head, as if she didn't quite believe him.
Jackal, now upside down on the couch beside him, piped up, "I think you're a dad."
Viper blinked. "A what?"
Jackal nodded sagely. "You give me snacks. You tell me not to die. You try to stop me from eating stuff off the ground and try to act all grumpy but still do nice things. That's dad energy."
John chuckled. "You need better role models."
Viper sighed and sat on the couch's armrest opposite John, her body angled just enough to keep him in her peripheral vision. Her tone regained its playful silkiness.
"Well, if he's the dad… what does that make me?"
Jackal tilted her head. "...Mom?"
Viper stiffened. Just a little.
John blinked, caught between laughing and pretending he didn't hear that.
"Jackal," Viper said through her teeth, "you are not getting another snack today."
"Awwww."
Viper didn't look at John, not immediately. But when she did, it was softer than usual. Still guarded. Still hiding something.
She shifted on the couch's armrest, legs crossing, hand drifting to her thigh like she was just casually lounging. But her posture was off. Too stiff.
"Y'know," she said, voice dipping into its usual sultry cadence, "if this keeps up, I'm going to start thinking you enjoy my company, Commander."
John didn't flinch. "Maybe I do."
She chuckled, brushing a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear, leaning forward just enough for the neckline of her jacket to suggest more than it showed. "Careful, Honey. That almost sounded like flirting."
"Wasn't it?"
That gave her pause.
She leaned in closer, her tone light and mocking, the smile curling at her lips just sharp enough to draw blood. "Well, well. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."
John tilted his head, meeting her eyes without hesitation.
"I thought that was your job."
There it was again. That calm. That stillness.
No nervous twitch. No telltale hesitation.
And those eyes.
Viper's breath hitched before she could stop it. Just for a moment.
Because when she looked into his eyes, really looked…
She saw two things.
A depth of warmth that unsettled her. A kind of patience, a gentle pull like gravity. The way he looked at her, not as a tool, not as a weapon, not as an asset to be used, but seen. Known.
And behind that?
Something colder. Darker.
A quiet, yawning abyss.
Like something monstrous just resting beneath the surface, coiled and watching.
Her words caught in her throat.
She blinked once. Twice. Her heart skipped in a way she didn't like.
Viper pulled back, her playful smile wavering for the briefest heartbeat before she buried it under a smirk.
"I—" she started, then stopped. She stood up too fast, brushing invisible dust off her coat. "I should… check in with Crow. Make sure Jackal hasn't eaten some important paperwork again."
Jackal, who was currently trying to balance a Splendamin bar on her nose, gave an indignant, "I heard that!"
Viper ignored her.
John's gaze followed her, unreadable.
She stopped at the door, hand resting against the frame. Her voice was quieter this time. Not soft, but stripped of its usual teasing edge.
"I don't like attachments," she said suddenly. "They get you hurt. Or killed. Or worse."
John looked at her for a long moment.
"Yeah," he said. "Me neither."
Their eyes met one last time, hers searching, his steady.
Then she turned and walked out, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor until they faded down the hall.
Jackal sat up, chomping on the Splendamin she'd successfully caught. "Sooo… does this mean Mom's mad?"
John sighed into his hand.
"Don't call her that."
The outskirts of the Nuovo Impianto were still.
A figure stepped lightly over the cracked earth, his robes muted to blend into the dust. His face was partially masked, eyes scanning the warped soil beneath his boots. Whatever had been buried here was recent, he could feel it. The cursed energy residue was faint, but real. And worse… unfamiliar.
He crouched, fingertips brushing the topsoil, coaxing out a whisper of energy that clung to the dirt like wet ash.
This isn't natural.
His other hand reached for a paper seal, ready to ward off interference.
He never got the chance to use it.
There was a rustle, a flicker of movement.
And then, blood.
The sorcerer barely had time to register the sensation of pressure in his ribs before he was hurled backward, a crimson spear punching clean through his chest and slamming him into the base of a fractured wall.
No sound escaped his lips.
He slid down in silence.
A new figure stood at the edge of the rubble, half-shadowed beneath the jagged overhang of a rusted arch. Draped in matte, grey-black shinobi armor, he was almost indistinct in the gloom. His face was obscured beneath a high-collared mask, but one thing was visible:
The faint red sheen of blood coiling around his forearms like living wires.
Not dripping. Not pooling.
Contained.
Encased in a strange, transparent membrane that gleamed faintly like plastic. It flexed and contracted as the blood slithered back inside him, retreating along channels etched into his skin with inhuman precision.
The assassin stepped forward, boots silent.
He regarded the fallen sorcerer with cold disinterest.
He reached down and tugged a ring from the corpse's finger—a tiny seal embedded in the gemstone glinted faintly with residual cursed energy. He turned it over once in his hand before crushing it between his fingers.
"Pathetic."
A soft chime echoed in his earpiece.
He tapped it once.
"Confirmed," he said calmly. "The scout was from the Gojo branch. Independent operator. Traced the package to this location. He got close."
A pause.
Then his tone shifted, quieter, more serious.
"Yes, Lord Jun. I've eliminated him."
He turned slightly, looking toward the looming shadow of the Nuovo Impianto in the distance, its twisted angles half-buried in haze, like a monolith asleep beneath centuries of dust.
"He didn't discover anything," he continued. "Whatever Mahito's plan is… it's still intact."
Another pause. The assassin's expression, what little could be seen, tightened faintly.
"With respect, Lord Jun... I hope you know what you're doing. Giving him access to the pillars, there are things buried here for a reason."
There was no reply.
Just static.
But the assassin nodded anyway, as if the silence was affirmation enough.
"I believe in you," he said quietly. "Even if I don't understand it."
The sheathes around his arms twitched, rippling as if alive. The last of the blood coiled back into his veins.
He glanced down once more at the body cooling in the dirt.
Then turned and vanished into the shadows, as if the world simply stopped acknowledging his presence.
And behind him, far beneath the broken ground, the buried facility pulsed once.
Soft.
Hungry.
Waiting.