PREVIOUSLY-
A pale violet shimmer rippled before the entrance, like heat rising off blood-soaked stone.
Gorvax stood there. Not as the shaggy, foul-mouthed mutt Theobald had grown to trust, but as a ghost-light — his spectral form radiant and barely tethered to the earth.
The fire of madness danced in his eyes.
"To think," he said, voice deeper, echoing as if layered with centuries of growls and whispers,
"I'd get to see you like this…"
--X—
NEXT DAY-
Theobald stepped out of his hut, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A humid breeze rolled past the village, carrying the scent of wet bark and simmered roots.
Across the clearing, several lizardmen halted in place, their amber eyes narrowing at the sight of him. Children dropped pebbles mid-play. Hunters paused with spears halfway raised. Even the old elders stirring their clay pots turned silently.
A dozen wary stares fixed on his human form.
"Oh."
Theobald waved weakly, voice rising in a sheepish pitch.
"Good morning, beautiful folks!"
There was a long pause. Then, as if someone had struck an invisible bell, the tension evaporated. The tribe returned to their daily rhythms—children squealing in joy, the blacksmith hammering copper scales, a group of males heading toward the jungle, spears slung casually across their backs.
Theobald exhaled.
"Krr—So, what now?"
Rook called out from his perch atop a weather-worn tree, talons curling around a mossy branch.
Theobald tapped a finger to his chin, eyes scanning the village again. Something gnawed at his gut—not fear, not doubt. Something… heavier.
'I feel like… something's missing.'
He watched the tribe's little world unfold: hatchlings splashing in the mud, the women with woven sashes laughing among themselves, warriors exchanging jests as they readied for a hunt.
A life.
A community.
"Kid!"
Gorvax's voice barked behind him, arms crossed, brow raised like a pissed-off drill sergeant with a soft spot.
"What are you brooding over now?"
Theobald glanced over his shoulder, then looked back up at the cloudy sky.
"Something's wrong."
"Feels like I'm missing something."
RUMBLE!
Lightning forked in his mind—another jolt of unwanted clarity.
"10th Ignisveil…" he muttered.
His pupils shrank. "It's the 10th!"
Gorvax floated closer, ghostly tail trailing smoke.
"So?"
Theobald turned sharply.
"Dr. Henry Jekyll raids the swamp on the 12th. That's when the tribe is wiped out. The report said the entire settlement was annihilated."
"WHAT?!"
Gorvax and Rook snapped in unison.
"That gives us two days," Theobald muttered. "Two bloody days."
BONK!
A paw smacked the back of his head.
"Then quit whining and buy some clarity, dumbass!" Gorvax snarled.
"You have eyes, a brain, and a damn soul. Use them!"
Rubbing the bump on his head, Theobald grimaced.
"Fine, fine… how about this—"
He turned to Rook, eyes sharpening.
"We sneak into the Medic Guild outpost."
He raised a finger.
"We don't pick a fight."
Another finger.
"We don't start a war."
And a third.
"We borrow the cure."
Rook cocked his head, beak tapping the bark like a ticking clock.
"Krr—That's doable."
Theobald exhaled.
The weight of a whole tribe hung over his shoulders.
Then he smiled.
"Let's steal some justice."
Theobald crouched behind a wall of ferns, eyes narrowing as he scanned the clearing ahead. Through the gaps in foliage, the Medic Guild's outpost unfolded like a nest of vipers—layered tents, cordoned walkways, and too many guards in polished leather and steel.
His breath caught.
'It's huge…'
A towering central tent stood like a monarch among the rest, its flaps emblazoned with the Guild's sigil—heart, wings, shield. Around it prowled mercenaries—stern-faced, grim-eyed.
Their faces flickered with veteran malice.
'Five-star mercenaries?! What the hell are they doing here?'
"Krr—those humans,"
Rook rasped from the branch above,
"They're all heading toward that one."
He pointed a wing toward the main structure, where a group of masked figures disappeared inside.
Theobald swallowed, hands trembling as he gripped the bark beside him.
"I can't do this," he murmured.
"This is way above my level. I–I'm not cut out for this kind of job."
Gorvax stood at his side, arms crossed, the ghost of something unreadable shadowing his wolfish eyes. Sympathy? Disappointment? Pride?
He didn't say.
Not until—
"Kid."
The word snapped like a whip.
"You're not here to fight. You're here to steal. Evade. Outsmart."
He pointed a clawed finger toward the central tent.
"You slip in, grab the antidote, and slip out. No blood. No theatrics."
Theobald looked back at the camp, then down at his boots, mud crusting the soles.
'Am I really going to do this? Am I the kind of person who… can?'
He clenched his jaw. No time for doubts. There were children lying unconscious, breath shallow, scales flaking. That image stabbed deeper than any blade.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
He rose slowly, slipping from the underbrush like a drifting wraith. His breathing steadied. Feet light. Shoulders lowered. He pressed his back to the nearest tent, listening—steps nearby, muffled voices, the rustle of parchment.
Focus.
He darted along the edge, weaving through crates and hanging laundry, staying in the blind spots of patrols. His hands grazed canvas and rope. His ears tracked rhythm—step, pause, turn.
Theobald crouched low, body melded into the tent's shadow like a whisper of smoke. His breath slowed.
'Two incoming from the right.'
He didn't move. His eyes flicked left—another silhouette cut across the narrow path between tents, a tall mercenary with an axe slung over his shoulder. He strolled casually, eyes half-lidded with boredom.
"Oh, hey!"
The axeman waved toward the two on the right, calling out in a voice loud enough to make Theobald flinch.
"How many more days we stuck here, huh?"
The first of the pair to answer was a short, wide-framed man with a beard like tangled rope. He walked with his thumbs hooked in his belt, voice gravelly.
"Captain says four more. Apparently they want this freakshow locked down good."
The one beside him was taller, thinner, with a hunched neck like a vulture. He exhaled hard through his nose.
"I'm tired of it. I've seen war, sure, but not this."
He muttered, casting a glance toward the central tent.
"Even in the pits, we didn't treat monsters like that."
The axeman scoffed.
"They're not just freaks, they're nobles in white coats."
He mimicked a posh accent, raising his pinkie as if sipping tea.
"Oh no, don't touch the lowborn! I sleep with dead vermin under silk pillows and inject rats into my eyeballs for research!"
The short one groaned, rubbing his temples.
"I heard some lizard kids got caught in the last round. They're saying the Guild wants to 'test reactions to exposure.'"
The lanky one scratched his jaw absently, as if still trying to understand.
"They told us we'd strike the village tomorrow. Burn it. Bag what's still twitching."
Theobald's breath hitched.
'Tomorrow?!'
He pressed closer to the canvas wall, fists tight.
"Bah, screw it."
The axeman waved lazily and turned back toward the firepit behind them.
"Let's go play some hooky. There's that gambling tent, remember? And I swear that nurse in Tent C winked at me."
They laughed, voices fading as the trio wandered off.
Theobald let out the breath he'd been holding. His back was damp with sweat.
'So it's true… They're planning to raze the whole tribe.'
His eyes narrowed. The countdown had begun.
He slipped around the corner, soundless.
The hunt for the antidote just became a race against fire.
Theobald emerged from the medic's tent like smoke curling through a crack.
'I need a guide. Fast.'
His gait shifted—light, fluid, a ripple through canvas and dirt. Every footfall silent, every movement precise. He slipped past a cluster of tents, their white fabric yellowed by marsh rot and rain. One bore the insignia INFIRMARY, a red-stamped heart with wings, peeling at the edges.
He crouched near the flap, ear pressed close. Voices crackled inside.
"Mr. Hiddle is going too far with this!"
The voice was high, strained with emotion—raw empathy tangled in outrage.
"How can we—how could we push children into this?!"
A second voice snapped through like a whip.
"Shut your mouth, Annie! You want to get fired? Or executed?"
"But, senior—!"
"No more buts!"
A shuffle, followed by the sharp clink of glass on wood.
"If you're going to keep talking like that..."
The speaker's voice dropped, colder now.
"Then pack your damn bags."
Canvas rustled. Theobald tensed as a man stormed out—late forties, pinched face, wire spectacles glinting beneath the swamp-light. His white coat trailed him like a banner of guilt as he crossed toward a tent marked LABORATORY.
Inside the infirmary, silence hovered like fog. Then a whisper:
"What do I do…?"
Theobald moved without a sound.
The flap lifted.
A young woman sat at a desk cluttered with notes and empty vials. She was hunched, head low, glasses slipping down her nose bridge. Her brown hair was tied in a tired bun, acne scars blooming faintly along her cheeks.
"You can help me," Theobald said.
Her head snapped up.
The glasses dropped—caught in Theobald's fingers.
"Intrud—!"
SHNK.
The axe's edge kissed her throat before the scream could finish.
Annie froze, her breath stalling in her lungs. The blade trembled slightly—held with precision just millimeters from her skin. Her fingers curled into the desk, knuckles pale.
Theobald's eyes flicked over her.
'Brown bun. Acne marks. Black eyes. Familiar… where have I—?'
"What… what do you want?" she whispered.
Theobald leaned in, voice low.
"The poison you used on the lizardmen children. Where's the antidote?"
Her pupils widened. Horror crept into her gaze like ink in water.
"H-how do you know about that?!"
Theobald pressed the blade closer. Her breath hitched.
"I ask the questions."
Annie nodded quickly, eyes darting to the desk—maybe searching for help, or a weapon, or courage. She found none.
"It… it doesn't have an antidote," she whispered.
Theobald's eyes darkened.
"What?"
"I mean," she stammered, "the Guild isn't making a cure. They're making a disease."
His brow twitched.
"Speak clearly."
A bead of blood slid down her throat.
"The illness isn't natural. It was engineered. The plan is to release it into fringe populations—beastkin, demi-humans, even humans in high density areas—then swoop in with the miracle cure first. Monopolize the field. Destroy rivals."
Theobald's face twisted in disbelief.
"All this… for profit?"
His grip on the axe tightened.
"You call yourselves doctors?"
His voice cracked—more disgusted than furious now.
"You butcher children and call it medicine?"
Annie's lips trembled. She looked down.
"I never wanted this… I only joined to learn real medicine. But they… I…"
She swallowed hard.
"If… if you could just buy me a little time—I could reverse it. I can make a cure."
Theobald narrowed his eyes.
"You just said there was no antidote."
"There isn't," she admitted.
"Because the higher-ups rejected it. They said the virus wasn't lethal enough. They're still working on something more 'marketable.' Until then, they won't allow a cure."
Theobald's jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
"Then you have one night," he growled.
She blinked.
"What?"
"One night. You make the cure. Or I come back."
He lifted the axe from her neck. She didn't move. Her shoulders trembled. Her hands fumbled for her glasses.
Theobald turned at the flap.
"Why are you helping them?" she asked suddenly. "Why risk your life for monsters?"
He looked over his shoulder.
"They aren't the monsters. You people are."
"Oh, hello, Mrs. Annie."
Annie froze. The axeman mercenary from earlier stood right before her, twirling his weapon lazily. Her gaze darted to the corner where Theobald had been, but the shadowy boy was nowhere to be seen. Gone like a whisper.
Just beyond the infirmary canvas, Theobald crouched under the tent's flaps, peering through a slit in the fabric. Inside, a man in a stained white coat was meticulously organizing jars filled with carefully labeled organs — some monstrous, some disturbingly human.
"Pick some up," Gorvax muttered beside him, the ghostly wolf's grin stretching unnaturally wide.
Theobald's nose wrinkled. "What?!"
A vein twitched on Gorvax's temple. "Pick the freshest one. You're here to grow stronger, not to dry-heave at pickled spleens."
Theobald exhaled, suppressing the urge to gag. 'Rook's on overwatch. If only I could get a layout of this cesspool...'
Then his eyes landed on a tattered coat swaying from a nail. Doctor's garb. Still had a badge clipped to the chest.
He slipped it on, tightened the string, and marched into the next tent.
"Hello, senior!" Theobald chirped.
Inside sat a man with bleary eyes and a stubble beard, hunched over a crate of mismatched teeth.
The man looked up sluggishly. "Huh? What's the matter?"
Theobald raised his stolen spectacles and lowered his voice. "Senior... I think we've got an intruder."
The man's spine stiffened. "WHAT?!"
Theobald threw a hand over his mouth. "Shh—!" He leaned closer, whispering with exaggerated tension. "He was dressed like a mercenary."
The man relaxed with a groan. "Then he was a mercenary."
"No, he was asking for a map."
The man blinked. "A map?"
"Yes, of this camp—or possibly the entire valley."
The man cursed, dragging a hand down his face. "Those dumbasses... I heard one of them tried to bribe the Team Leader for a hand-drawn perimeter map. Said he couldn't patrol blind."
Theobald tilted his head with practiced innocence. "Why would they ask someone like me?"
The man laughed. "Because you have a neck and working ears, junior. And those idiots think anyone in a coat is smarter than them."
He flung a hand toward a wall of crates. "Forget it. If they give you trouble again, toss a syringe in their eye and bolt."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "They didn't rough you up, did they?"
Theobald smiled shyly.
"No, no... they probably just mistook me for a senior because of how dignified I look."
The man snorted. "Cocky little shit. Just go and do the damn work!"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Haha, I like you."
"I'm into cute girls, sir."
"Take these eyeballs and shut up." The man shoved a rickety cart toward him, sloshing with jars of murky fluid. "Mirejaw Gharial batch. Freezer room. Now."
Theobald bowed deeply.
"Yes, sir!"
Theobald pushed the cart outside,
"We couldn't get a map, Master."
Gorvax watched the scene unfold with a gleam in his ghostly eyes. "Boy," he whispered to himself, licking phantom lips. "Those ones are delicious roasted."
Theobald rolled the cart forward, grinning like a cat with a key to the pantry.
"As you say, Master."
Then he whistled — a quick, sharp note.
Overhead, Rook shifted. The orange vulture, perched atop the command tent, dipped his head and unfurled his wings.
A blur of feathers, and he vanished toward the lizardmen's village.
The operation had begun.