The infirmary door slid shut behind me with a soft hydraulic hiss. The assignment sheet glowed in my hand.
**Iron Edge Guild — Temporary Healer Assignment: Joint Rift Operation "Rusted Vein" (B-Class).**
**Support Unit: Mixed Rearguard (Iron Edge/Dark Flame).**
**Primary Objective: Clear insectoid nest at depth marker 7.4.**
**Secondary Objective: Maintain healer coverage for allied units.**
**Report to Transport Bay 3 at 0600.**
I folded the sheet once, precisely, and slid it into my pocket. My right hand was cold. I pressed it flat against my thigh until the sensation normalized.
A joint operation. Four guilds. Dark Flame would be there.
Sol would be there.
My list had four remaining names. He was number five. A C-rank archer who had led the mockery for three years, who had pressed a medication packet into my hand with a look I still had not categorized. The decay was already inside him, ticking toward a collapse he would never understand. Today was not about planting. Today was about burial.
I turned and walked toward the barracks. The hallways of Iron Edge were quieter at this hour, overhead lights on night-cycle blue. My boots made no sound on the composite flooring. I passed a closed training room, observation window dark. My reflection ghosted across the glass — woman in grey fatigues, hair pulled back, expression carefully nothing. Vera Blackwell. E-rank healer. Probationary. The woman everyone forgot by lunch. Exactly the woman I had built.
I reached my bunk. The space was exactly as I'd left it six hours earlier: bed made to regulation tightness, footlocker sealed, data pad charging on the small desk. I sat on the edge of the mattress and opened the locker.
Inside, beside the spare uniforms and hygiene kit, was a small, locked case. I pressed my thumb to the biometric plate. It clicked open.
The notebook lay inside. Plain black cover, no markings. I didn't need to open it to see the names. They were written in my mind in the same order I'd committed them to paper the night after An's funeral.
1. Gideon Roarke.
2. Moira Sable.
3. Zack Stroud.
4. Lyra Wren.
5. Sol Mercer.
6. Dean Holt.
Four remaining. Five was already in motion. Six was next.
I closed the case and locked it. The mission briefing had listed unit compositions. Dean Holt was a C-rank shield guard, Dark Flame, currently on rotation at an outpost north of the city. He wasn't assigned to the Rusted Vein operation. Good. That meant I could observe Sol under pressure without the complication of a second active target in the same visual field. One problem at a time. One decay adjustment per mission.
I lay back on the bunk and stared at the ceiling. The healing pool number floated behind my eyes.
**99.1%.**
The cost of Sol's first dose had been 0.9%. A fraction. Manageable. The ledger, however, did not round down. Every use lowered the ceiling. Every target ate a piece of the finite resource that kept my disguise breathing. The deadline was stitched into me. Finish the list before the pool drained past the point where E-rank could pass as E-rank.
I closed my eyes. The darkness behind my lids was a better screen for planning.
The Rusted Vein was a B-class mineral rift. The primary threat was insectoid swarms nesting in the old mining tunnels. The strategy would be straightforward: clear the tunnels room by room, collapse the nest heart, extract. Healers in the rearguard. My job would be to patch up surface wounds, stabilize critical cases for evacuation, and look very, very busy doing it.
And somewhere in that chaos, I would need to get close enough to Sol Mercer to touch him again.
Not to plant a new decay. To deepen the existing one.
The mechanism was simple in theory. The decay factor was already anchored near his imprint's peripheral channels. A second directed push during a legitimate heal would guide it closer to the core. The delay would hold — the collapse would still look like natural degradation — but the cascade would be catastrophic. Instead of sliding from C to D, he would fall past D to E. Career-ending. No return.
The cost to my pool would be higher. Maybe another 1%. Maybe 1.5%.
I ran the numbers. 99.1% minus an estimated 1.2% left 97.9%. Still functional. Still within safe margins for an E-rank facade. Acceptable.
A chime sounded from my data pad. An incoming message. I rolled over and picked it up.
The sender was listed as **LVoss_SilverPeak**. The subject line was blank.
I opened it.
*Heard you drew Rusted Vein. Watch the left flank in the deep tunnels. Last sweep reported unstable boreholes there. They sometimes vent acidic gas.*
*—L.*
I read it twice. Lucian Voss. Silver Peak. The man who had watched me a beat too long. He was not on this mission. Silver Peak was sending a different squad. But he had access to the briefing maps and had chosen to send a warning.
Men who warn strangers usually want something. Men who warn strangers and sign the note *L.* usually don't yet know what. That made him the most dangerous kind.
I typed a reply. Short. Professional.
*Noted. Thanks.*
The message vanished into the guild network. I set the pad down. The warning changed nothing about the plan. It was data. Acidic gas vents meant additional respiratory injuries. More patients. More chaos. More cover.
I closed my eyes again. This time, I slept.
---
The transport bay was a cavern of noise and motion at 0600. Dozens of combatants from four guilds milled around loading ramps, checking gear, running final system checks on their combat suits. The air smelled of ozone, metal, and the sharp tang of adrenaline. I stood near the Iron Edge assembly point, my healer's kit strapped securely across my back. The kit was standard issue: field dressings, injectable coagulants, imprint stabilizers, a basic scanner. Nothing that would raise eyebrows.
The scanner had a junior healer's initials etched on the underside — not mine. Someone eighteen, maybe younger, whose kit had been recycled. I did not know what had happened to her.
I scanned the crowd. Dark Flame's contingent was easy to spot—their armor was matte black with crimson piping. I counted eight of them. Sol Mercer wasn't among the group at the ramp. Not yet.
"Blackwell."
I turned. The Iron Edge squad leader for our support unit was a woman named Rhea. She was B-rank, a close-combat specialist with a reputation for efficiency. Her grey armor was scarred from previous engagements.
"You're with me," she said. "We're mixed rearguard with four Dark Flame. Our job is to hold the mid-tunnel choke point and keep the heal lane open. You stay behind the shield line. You treat anyone who makes it back to you. Priority is Iron Edge, but if a Dark Flame is critical and you have capacity, you treat them. Understood?"
"Understood," I said. "Priority to Iron Edge. Treat allies if capacity allows."
"Good." She looked me over. "First joint op?"
"Yes."
"Keep your head down. The bugs aren't smart, but they're fast. If the line breaks, you run. Your kit is less important than your life. Got it?"
"Got it."
She nodded once and moved off to bark orders at two other Iron Edge fighters.
I adjusted the strap on my kit. The channel in my right palm was humming again — that low-grade numbness that meant the decay was close to the surface. I flexed the fingers. I breathed out slowly, forcing the sensation to recede. Not yet.
A ripple of movement at the far entrance. Three more Dark Flame members entered the bay. Sol Mercer was in the middle. He was wearing lightweight scout armor, his bow collapsed and magnetized to his thigh. He was laughing at something one of his squadmates said, his expression easy, relaxed. The social competence that had carried him for years was fully engaged. He hadn't noticed me.
I turned away, pretending to check a seal on my kit. I didn't need to watch him. I could feel him. The decay inside him was a faint, silent pulse at the edge of my awareness, a thread I'd spun myself. It was dormant. Waiting. Today, I would give it a nudge.
"All units, board!" a voice boomed over the PA system. "Transport departure in two minutes!"
I followed Rhea and the others up the ramp into a large, utilitarian troop carrier. The interior was lined with bench seats. I took a spot near the rear, next to a young Iron Edge striker who kept fidgeting with his gauntlets. Dark Flame filed in and occupied the benches across the aisle. Sol sat diagonally from me, two rows up. He still hadn't seen me.
The ramp sealed. The engines whined to life. The carrier lifted with a lurch and then accelerated, pressing us back into our seats. No one spoke. The mood was focused, tense. This was a B-class rift. Not the most dangerous, but dangerous enough. People died in B-class rifts all the time.
I closed my eyes and ran through the decay parameters again. Surface contact required. At least ten seconds of sustained skin-to-skin contact to guide the existing decay deeper without triggering any new energy signature. I would need a plausible reason to be touching him for that long. A wound on his arm or hand would be ideal. Something that required precise, localized healing.
The carrier shuddered as it descended. A minute later, the ramp lowered again, revealing the blasted landscape of the rift zone.
The Rusted Vein wasn't green. It was a jagged, oxidized terrain of red and brown rock, strewn with the skeletal remains of ancient mining equipment. The sky was a perpetual twilight, choked with metallic dust. The entrance to the main tunnel network was a yawning black mouth in the side of a rust-colored cliff, reinforced with temporary guild scaffolding and lights.
We disembarked. The air here was dry and carried a faint, acrid smell—like old batteries and rust. Rhea gathered our mixed unit.
"Listen up! We move in with the second wave. The forward teams are already clearing the first chamber. Our position is here." She pulled up a holographic map from her wrist display. It showed a branching tunnel system. "Choke point at junction 7-B. We hold there. Healer sets up behind the shield wall. Questions?"
No one spoke.
"Move out."
We entered the tunnel.
The artificial lights from the guild equipment cast harsh, swinging shadows. The walls were rough-hewn rock, streaked with veins of dull metal. The air grew cooler as we descended. I could hear the distant sounds of combat ahead—the percussive thump of concussive charges, the sharp crack of energy weapons, the skittering, chittering noise of the insectoids.
We reached junction 7-B after ten minutes of brisk walking. It was a wider chamber where three tunnels converged. The Iron Edge shield guards—two of them—moved forward to anchor positions at the front, their large, rectangular shields locking together to form a barricade. The strikers and ranged fighters took positions behind them. I moved to the very back of the chamber, near the wall, and opened my kit. Rhea positioned herself between me and the shield line.
"They'll bring the wounded back here," she said. "You triage. Use your scanner. Green tag for walk-backs, yellow for stable but immobile, red for critical. Got it?"
"Got it."
She nodded and turned to watch the tunnel ahead.
The first wounded arrived five minutes later. Two Iron Edge fighters, both with deep lacerations from insectoid mandibles. I went to work. Clean the wound, inject local coagulant, apply a sealant patch, scan for imprint disruption. Green tag. Send them back to the surface transport. The process was mechanical. My hands moved with practiced efficiency. My mind was a separate layer, monitoring the flow of battle sounds, waiting.
More wounded trickled in. A Dark Flame scout with a broken arm. I set it, applied a stabilizer field, yellow tag. An Iron Edge striker with a nasty burn across her chest from some kind of acidic spray. Red tag. I stabilized her and called for a med-evac drone. It swooped in from the tunnel behind us, clamped onto her, and whisked her away.
The battle noise intensified. The chittering grew louder, closer. Rhea shouted orders. The shield wall shuddered as something heavy impacted it.
"Incoming! Hold the line!"
I finished sealing a puncture wound on an Iron Edge fighter's leg and looked up. The tunnel ahead was now a chaotic mess of movement. Insectoids—each the size of a large dog, with iridescent carapaces and razor-sharp forelimbs—were swarming against the shield wall. The air filled with the sharp report of projectile weapons and the sizzle of energy beams.
Then I saw him. Sol Mercer was at the left edge of the formation, firing arrows with rapid precision into the swarm. He was good. Each shot found a joint in the carapace, dropping bugs efficiently. But the swarm was dense. Too dense.
A larger insectoid, a soldier-class with thicker plating, barreled through a gap between shields. It went straight for Sol.
He saw it coming. He fired an arrow that glanced off its head. He tried to dodge, but his foot slipped on the uneven rock. The insectoid's forelimb scythed out.
He twisted. The limb caught him across the upper left arm, slicing through his armor and into the flesh beneath. He grunted in pain, stumbling back. Another fighter intercepted the bug, cutting it down with a powered blade.
Sol clutched his arm. Blood welled between his fingers. He turned and started moving back toward the rear, toward me.
My moment.
I was already moving forward, meeting him halfway. "Here," I said, my voice flat, professional.
He looked at me, his face pale with pain and surprise. "Battery—Vera. Shit."
"Sit," I ordered, pointing to a flat rock near my kit.
He sank onto it, his breathing ragged. I knelt beside him and pulled out my scanner. The readout flashed: deep laceration, minor arterial nick, significant muscle damage. No imprint disruption yet. Perfect.
"This needs a field suture and tissue bond," I said. "It'll take a minute. Hold still."
"Just make it stop bleeding," he gritted out.
I didn't answer. I cleaned the wound with antiseptic spray, the foam turning pink with his blood. The decay channel had gone past cold into something sharper, a numb static that crept into the knuckles. I shut it out. I picked up the tissue bond applicator—a pen-like device that would seal the wound layer by layer. It required direct contact with the skin around the injury.
I placed my left hand on his shoulder to steady him. My right hand, holding the applicator, touched the edge of the wound.
Skin to skin.
I activated the applicator. It hummed, laying down the first layer of synthetic tissue. I focused past the physical action. Inside me, the decay energy stirred. A subtle, reverse current. I visualized the existing decay factor in him—a faint shadow near his imprint's peripheral flow. I pushed.
It was like guiding a bead of mercury along a pre-existing groove. Gentle. Insistent. The decay factor shifted, sliding from the periphery toward a deeper, more central channel. The process took concentration. My breathing stayed even. My hands didn't shake.
Sol flinched as the bonder worked. "Hurts like hell."
"Almost done," I murmured. The words were automatic. My real attention was on the internal movement. Almost there. Just a little farther.
The decay factor settled into its new position, nestled against a primary energy conduit. The delayed activation timer was unchanged. But when it fired, the cascade would be catastrophic. His imprint wouldn't just degrade. It would fracture.
I finished the bonding. The wound was sealed under a layer of glossy, synthetic skin. I released his shoulder and pulled my hands back. The cold in my right hand faded to its usual background hum.
I scanned the injury again. "Stable. Don't put weight on it for twenty-four hours. You're yellow-tagged. Evac or stay?"
He flexed his arm experimentally, wincing. "Stays. I can still shoot."
I nodded and stood. "Next!"
He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He just gave a short, sharp nod, grabbed his bow, and moved back toward the fray.
I turned to the next wounded fighter—an Iron Edge shield guard with a concussion. My hands worked. My mind tallied the cost.
A flicker in my internal sense. The healing pool ticked downward.
**98.2%.**
A cost of 0.9%. Exactly as projected. The ledger updated. I filed it away.
The battle at the choke point raged for another twenty minutes before the forward teams finally collapsed the nest heart. The insectoid swarm lost coordination, retreating chaotically into the deeper tunnels. The order came to pull back and consolidate.
We evacuated the wounded. The carrier ride back to the guild hall was quieter than the ride out. The adrenaline was draining, leaving behind fatigue and the metallic aftertaste of rift air.
I took my same seat. Sol sat across the aisle, head against the bulkhead, eyes closed. His injured arm cradled in his lap. He looked younger asleep. Charm dropped off him like a cloak he didn't need in dreams.
I looked away. He was not a person right now. He was a name on a list, a step in a plan, a seed settling into its new depth. Thinking of him as a person was how plans failed. I had seen it happen in other people. I would not let it happen in me.
The carrier landed. We filed out. As I passed him, he spoke without opening his eyes.
"Thanks, Vera."
I did not stop. I did not answer. Answering would have required a voice, and mine was elsewhere, doing arithmetic.
Back in the Iron Edge infirmary, I went through the post-mission decontamination routine. Shower. Change. Sanitize the kit. Log the treatments. The system automatically updated my contribution points. A small tick upward in my probationary standing.
Alone in the supply closet, I pulled out my data pad and opened the private, encrypted log. Not the notebook — the notebook was for names. This was for cost.
**Target: Sol Mercer (C-rank).**
**Status: Decay implanted (CH5). Decay depth enhanced (CH7).**
**Projected Outcome: Core-channel cascade upon activation. Rank degradation to E. Irreversible.**
**Cost: 1.8% total pool expenditure.**
**Healing Pool: 98.2%.**
I saved and closed the file. Then I opened another.
**Corruption Progression: 1/3.**
The system I'd devised was simple. To advance my hidden ability, I needed to successfully corrupt three觉醒者 of higher rank than my public mask. Sol Mercer was C-rank. I was publicly E-rank. He counted. One down.
Two to go.
I closed the pad. The infirmary was empty. The silence was a physical thing, thick and heavy. I walked to the window and looked out at the guild hall's central courtyard. Lights were coming on as evening deepened. People moved between buildings, talking, laughing, living their lives.
My right hand curled into a fist. The cold was a constant companion now, a reminder of what I was and what I was spending.
One target deepened. Four names left. The next step was number six. Dean Holt. C-rank shield. Dark Flame. Currently stationed at the Northern Outpost. A different kind of target — less mobile, more guarded, more honest in his routine than he would like to be.
I pulled out the assignment board from my pocket and scrolled through the upcoming rotation requests. There was a call for a temporary healer to support a week-long patrol circuit near the Northern Outpost. The request was flagged as moderate priority. It would put me in his operational zone for seven days.
I tapped the screen to apply.
**Application submitted. Pending approval.**
I put the pad away. The hook was set. The next move was in motion. I left the infirmary and walked back to the barracks. The hallway lights seemed brighter, harsher. Every sound was amplified. The weight of the decay I'd pushed today sat inside me, a silent, cold stone.
I reached my bunk. I did not open the locker. I did not need to see the notebook. I lay down and stared at the ceiling again.
**98.2%.**
Four names left. The numbers were getting smaller. The time was getting shorter.
I closed my eyes. In the dark I saw Ana's face. Brown leather jacket too big for her, head tilted, deciding whether to lie to me about how bad her last mission had actually been. She had lied. *To protect you,* she had said.
I had not been able to protect her.
Now I had a list and a pool that drained one target at a time. One down. One deepened.
Next: Dean Holt.
*Vote if this chapter hurt. Vote harder if it hurt the right people.*