Dallas pried Jax's jaw open and poured the shimmering golden liquid down his throat.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, a sudden surge of light rippled beneath Jax's skin. A golden shimmer traveled from his chest to his extremities, chasing back the purple rot in his veins. Within minutes, the pallor of death retreated.
Jax's eyes fluttered open. The world was still blurry, still tilted, but for the first time in hours, the screaming in his veins had subsided into a dull hum.
He was alive. For now.
As the golden liquid took hold, Jax's mind became a chaotic theater of light and shadow. Memories surged like a broken film reel—some warm and vibrant, others heavy with a crushing melancholy.
"Jax, did you hear me?"
The voice cracked through the fog. Jax's vision, once a blur of static, began to sharpen. He saw Dallas leaning over him, his face etched with a weary, mournful smile.
"Professor..." Jax murmured, his voice sounding like dry parchment. "Am I... still here?"
"You lost a spark of yourself in that pit, boy," Dallas said quietly. "But the rest of you is still fighting."
He turned to Yuna and Rick, who had been watching with bated breath. "He's stable. For now."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the workshop's machinery. But the peace was short-lived. A sharp, rhythmic thud echoed through the room.
Someone was knocking at the back door.
"Who would come here at this hour?" Yuna asked, her hand instinctively drifting to the hilt of the small blade at her belt.
"Let me see," she whispered, moving toward the rear of the workshop.
She unbolted the heavy door just a crack. Standing in the amber glow of the streetlamps was a man dressed in a formal obsidian shirt and tailored black trousers. His hair was a striking, artificial white, and on his right shoulder sat a metallic monogram: a black sword encircled by an electric ring.
"Do you require something?" Yuna asked, her voice guarded.
The man didn't flinch. He offered a practiced, polite smile and pressed a gloved hand to his chest. "Good evening, miss. Might I have a word with Professor Dallas?"
"The Professor is occupied with urgent work," Yuna replied. "Whatever you have can wait until morning."
"I'm afraid it cannot," the man said, his tone remains calm but firm. "I carry a message of significant weight. If you are his assistant, perhaps you can ensure it reaches his hands immediately."
He reached into a hidden pocket and produced a heavy, cream-colored envelope. As Yuna took it, she felt the weight of the paper—it was high-grade, the kind used by the elite of the upper districts.
Pressed into the wax seal was a strange, intricate emblem: a mechanical bearing entwined with a massive war hammer, with bolts of lightning erupting from the strike. It was a symbol of power she didn't recognize, but it felt old—and dangerous.
"What is this?" she asked, looking up.
The man simply winked—a sharp, unsettling gesture—and stepped back into the shadows. "We shall meet again, little assistant. For today, I bid you farewell."
Before Yuna could ask another question, the man turned and vanished into the fog of the Brownout District as if he had never been there at all. Yuna stood in the doorway, the mysterious letter heavy in her hand, a new chill running down her spine.