Dean Holt didn't look at me when I arrived at the eastern outpost gate for the third consecutive morning. He was finishing his run, sweat darkening the back of his gray training shirt, breath fogging in the cold air. He slowed to a walk, hands on his hips, and circled the perimeter once more before acknowledging my presence with a slight tilt of his chin.
"Blackwell."
"Holt."
He wiped his face with his forearm. "Same route as yesterday. North ridge, then the old supply trail loop. Keep your scanner on. The B-rank pack from last week might have left stragglers."
I nodded, adjusting the strap of my medkit. "Understood."
We didn't speak for the first twenty minutes. The routine was established now: he led, I followed three paces behind, my eyes on the terrain but my attention on him. His movements were economical, his gaze constantly scanning—not just for threats, but for something else. A habit left over from shield work, maybe. Or guilt.
I had been watching his patterns for days. Every morning, the same run. Every afternoon, solo training in the makeshift yard — practice shield, footwork drills, nothing flashy. He did not eat with the other guards. He took his tray back to his quarters. I had seen the inside once, delivering a supply update. Bare walls. No guild insignia, no photos, no mementos. A cot made to regulation. A shelf of standard-issue gear. A window looking at mountains.
A room occupied by no one in particular.
Ana's photo had been on her locker at Dawn Bell. Head tilted, laughing at something off-camera. Brown leather jacket too big for her. I had asked her about it once. She had said it was her brother's. She had never mentioned a brother again.
Dean Holt had inherited her assignment, her squad, her position, and her slot in the rotation book. The only thing he had not inherited was the habit of looking at people when they spoke.
My right hand was cold. I pressed it against my thigh as we climbed the ridge.
The scanner on my belt chirped softly—a low-level energy signature, fading. Probably a stray crystal fragment. I noted it and kept moving.
Holt stopped at the crest of the ridge, looking down into the valley below. The wind pulled at his short-cropped hair. "You used to work with Dawn Bell."
It wasn't a question. I kept my voice neutral. "I did."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Personal reasons."
He glanced back at me. His eyes were a flat, weathered blue. "Heard you were good. For an E-rank."
"I get the job done."
He turned back to the view. "The healer before you — Reed. She was good too."
The name hung between us. I let it. Silence was the one currency he still spent freely.
He didn't elaborate. Just shook his head slightly and started down the slope. "Come on. Trail's clear."
I followed, counting my steps. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. My pulse was steady.
We reached the old supply trail, a narrow path cut into the side of the mountain. The air grew colder here, shaded by overhanging rock. Holt moved with practiced ease, his boots finding traction on the loose gravel.
That's when the scanner screamed.
A high-pitched, frantic whine—B-rank signature, closing fast. Holt froze, shield already materializing on his left arm in a flash of silver light. "Position!"
"Thirty meters, east-southeast. Moving parallel to the trail."
"One?"
"Reading one. But the echo's wrong."
He understood immediately. B-rank creatures rarely traveled alone out here. A lone predator usually meant it was wounded, exiled, or hunting something specific.
The蚀骨犬—the bone-gnawer—burst from the treeline ahead. It was exactly like the one from chapter two: lean, muscular, with oily black fur and jaws that looked capable of shearing through steel. Saliva dripped from its fangs, sizzling where it hit the ground. Its eyes glowed a sickly yellow.
It didn't charge. It paced, head low, watching us.
Holt shifted, putting himself between the creature and me. "Stay behind the shield line. If it engages, fall back to the rock face."
I already had my hands on a trauma kit. "Understood."
The dog feinted left, then lunged right. Holt met it with the shield, the impact ringing out like a gong. He shoved forward, using his weight to knock the creature off-balance, and brought his right hand around with a short, brutal punch of concentrated force. The air crackled.
The dog yelped, skidding back. But it was fast. It twisted, claws raking out. Holt pivoted, but not quite fast enough. The tip of one claw caught his side, tearing through fabric and skin.
He grunted, didn't falter. He slammed the shield edge down on the dog's foreleg. There was a crunch. The creature howled and scrambled back, limping now. It snarled, eyes fixed on Holt's bleeding side, then turned and vanished into the trees.
Silence rushed back in.
Holt lowered his shield. His breathing was even, but his face had paled. He pressed a hand to his side, came away bloody.
I stepped forward. "Let me—"
"No." He pushed my hand away. "It's shallow. I'll patch it."
"That claw was contaminated. Standard protocol requires a healer-administered cleanse."
"I have field dressings." He was already pulling a compression bandage from his belt. "Save your energy for something that needs it."
I stood there, right hand humming with cold. The opportunity was slipping. The first dose was still incubating, working through his imprint's defensive layer. A second, directly into an open wound, would accelerate the cascade by an order of magnitude. Lock it in. Make it irreversible.
He was refusing treatment.
I forced my voice calm. "If infection sets in, you'll be sidelined for a week. The outpost can't afford that."
"I've had worse." He applied the bandage with quick, efficient motions, wincing only slightly. "It's handled."
There was nothing more to say. I watched as he finished securing the dressing, then shouldered his shield again. "We're heading back. That thing might bring friends."
We moved quickly, the tension between us now a tangible thing. My mind raced. I needed another opening. Soon.
As we approached the outpost, a comms officer jogged out to meet us. "Holt! Message from central relay—passed through Silver Peak's liaison channel."
Holt took the small data slate. His eyes scanned the lines, his expression not changing. But his grip tightened on the slate's edge.
"What is it?" I asked.
He handed the slate to me. "Read it yourself."
The message was brief, marked as a routine situational update from Dark Flame headquarters to allied guilds. One line stood out: *C-rank archer Sol Mercer experienced sudden onset dizziness and coordination lapse during morning training session. Missed three consecutive targets at 50 meters. Medically cleared after preliminary scan—no imprint instability detected. Cause under observation.*
Something in my chest went very quiet.
Twenty-one days. That was the delayed activation window I'd set for Sol Mercer's decay. It hadn't been twenty-one days yet. But the seed was stirring. *First symptoms.* It was early. That meant his imprint was weaker than I'd calculated, or my dose had been more potent.
Either way, it was beginning.
I handed the slate back. "Seems unrelated."
Holt's eyes were on me. "You know him?"
"We've crossed paths."
"He's Dark Flame. You're Iron Edge."
"Guilds talk," I said, and turned toward the medical tent. "I need to restock."
He did not stop me. I felt his gaze on my back all the way to the tent flap.
---
The hours dragged. I inventoried supplies, filed reports, and waited. My pool readout hovered at 99.1%. No change yet. The cost for Dean Holt's decay hadn't been deducted—the process wasn't complete. It was a pending transaction on my internal ledger.
As dusk settled, I sat on my cot and took out the medication packet Sol Mercer had given me. The plastic was crumpled from being in my pocket. I hadn't opened it. I didn't need it. But I hadn't thrown it away either.
*You're still like this. Like you're actually looking at people, not just doing a job.*
I put the packet back in my pocket. It was a sentence he had said as a compliment. In my hands it had become evidence.
The alarm sounded at nightfall.
Screams, then the deep-throated howls of not one, but multiple蚀骨犬. They'd come for revenge.
I grabbed my medkit and ran outside. Chaos. The outpost's perimeter lights were blazing, casting harsh shadows as guards scrambled to form defensive lines. Three bone-gnawers were already inside the wire, tearing into the eastern barricade. A fourth circled, looking for weakness.
Holt was at the center of it, shield up, holding two of them at bay. His movements were sharp, but I could see the strain. The wound on his side had started to bleed through the bandage.
I moved toward him, but a guard grabbed my arm. "Healer! Over here!"
A young woman was on the ground, her leg mangled. I dropped to my knees, my hands already glowing with healing energy. The flesh knit together under my touch, the bone aligning. It was a clean fix. My pool ticked down to 99.0%. A small cost.
As I finished, a roar echoed. One of the dogs had broken through, charging straight for the command tent. Holt intercepted it, taking the full force of its charge on his shield. The impact drove him back five feet, his boots digging furrows in the dirt. The second dog lunged at his exposed right flank.
He twisted, but he was pinned. The dog's jaws closed around his shield arm, and the other's claws raked across his back. His shield flickered, then shattered into silver fragments.
He went down.
I was moving before I made the decision. I sprinted across the open ground, ignoring the shouts behind me. One of the dogs turned toward me, snarling. I threw a concussion grenade from my belt—non-lethal, but disorienting. It burst with a flash of light and sound. The dog recoiled, shaking its head.
I reached Holt. He was trying to push himself up, his right arm hanging limp, blood soaking his side and back. The two dogs were regrouping, circling.
"Get up," I said, hauling him by his uninjured arm.
He stumbled to his feet, leaning heavily on me. "The rock wall—behind the generator."
We staggered toward it. The dogs followed, but slower now, wary. We reached the relative cover of the large generator housing and the sheer rock face behind it. Holt slumped against the stone, breathing in ragged gasps.
"Your side," I said, pulling his torn shirt aside. The bandage was saturated. The claw wounds beneath were deep, edges inflamed with the creature's corrosive saliva.
"Leave it," he gritted. "Stabilize the arm."
"No." Flat. Final. "This will kill you by morning if I don't cleanse it now."
He looked at me. His face was pale, sheened with sweat. For a second I saw something in his eyes — not only pain. Resignation. He gave one sharp nod. He was letting me touch him. He had no idea what he was letting in.
The channel in my palm had gone the colour of empty steel — the deep cold that only answered on the way out. I placed that hand over the wound on his side, left hand resting above it to channel the healing energy. The glow was warm, golden. Standard procedure. Beneath it, the decay touch stirred.
I pushed the healing energy in first, neutralizing the corrosive agents, sealing ruptured vessels. His imprint responded, amplifying the effect. Good. That was the anchor.
Then, with the precision of a surgeon threading a needle, I let the decay slip in.
It was a subtle thing. A shift in frequency, a reversal of the flow. Instead of building, it began to quietly unravel. I directed it along the imprint pathways that governed physical reinforcement and cellular regeneration. It would take root there, and spread.
My pool dropped.
98.7%.
A larger deduction than I'd anticipated. The accelerated injection, the direct pathway—it demanded a higher cost. I absorbed the number, filed it away.
Holt shuddered under my hands. "Cold."
"Almost done."
I finished the cleanse, leaving the decay embedded deep. Then I moved to the wounds on his back, repeating the process—healing the surface, planting the decay beneath. My pool ticked down again.
98.4%.
Two doses. Irreversible now. The decay factor had breached his imprint's core defensive layer. It would work its way outward, slow and steady, mimicking natural degradation. In a few weeks, he'd start to notice. The strength would fade first. Then the endurance. Then the shield would fail to hold. He'd think it was burnout. Overwork. The price of being a shield who took too many hits.
By the time anyone suspected it wasn't natural, it would be too late.
I sat back, my hands falling to my sides. The cold in my right hand receded, leaving a dull ache. "You'll need rest. No heavy strain for forty-eight hours."
Holt was still leaning against the rock, his eyes closed. His breathing had evened out. After a long moment, he said, "Thanks."
The word was quiet. Rough.
I looked at him. "You're welcome," I said, and meant nothing by it.
The battle was winding down. The guards, organized now, had driven off the remaining dogs. The night air smelled of ozone, blood, and damp earth.
We sat in silence as the medics tended to the other wounded. Eventually, Holt slid down to sit on the ground, his head resting back against the stone. I remained standing, watching the activity.
My mind was already calculating. Two down. Four to go. Pool at 98.4%. The deadline was becoming tangible.
After a while, I spoke without looking at him. "The shield guard you replaced. The one from Dawn Bell. What was her name?"
The silence that followed was absolute. I could hear the distant crackle of the perimeter fence being repaired.
I turned my head. Holt's eyes were open now, staring at the dark sky. His expression was blank. Empty.
He said, "I don't know."
I held his gaze for a count of three. Then I nodded, picked up my medkit, and walked away.
He was lying. And we both knew I knew.
That was fine. The decay did not care about lies. The decay only cared about time. And time, for Dean Holt, was already shorter than his answer.
*The ranking decides who sees this. Power Stones decide the ranking. Math.*