Anora's eyes narrowed, purple light flickering faintly as she weighed every word he spoke. "A misunderstanding," she repeated flatly. She turned to Pheo, nodding once. "Behave," she said firmly. "And when you're done here, you come back to me. No detours."
With that, she turned and walked off toward the food, the tension around her easing just a fraction as she blended back into the crowd. Narfius waited until she was out of earshot before speaking again. He straightened his coat and inclined his head slightly toward Pheo.
"Narfius," he said. "One of the Director's special mercenaries. A spy."
The sword didn't sound proud, more like a job he'd gotten used to wearing. He paused, then added, "And… I'm sorry. For what happened back then."
Pheo didn't answer right away. Narfius gestured toward a nearby bench, already lowering himself into a seat. "Sit with me. If people see us talking calmly, it won't raise suspicion. Last thing we need is rumors spreading."
Reluctantly, Pheo sat across from him, eyes never leaving Narfius's face. "So what do you actually do?"
Narfius leaned back, hands resting on his knees. "I infiltrate. Enemy camps, hostile territories, anywhere the Director needs eyes. I blend in, gather intel, and identify threats. Then I disappear before the real operation starts."
Pheo frowned. "So you just… walk into places like that?"
Narfius gave a small, humorless smile. "That's the job."
Pheo didn't know how to feel. Anger was still simmering under his skin, but it clashed with the image of Narfius sitting there, calm, almost ordinary. After a moment, he stood.
"I'll get us some food," Pheo said. "Then we'll talk."
Narfius nodded, watching him go. "Take your time."
Pheo went back to the makeshift kitchen and ladled out two bowls of soup, the steam rising into his face as his thoughts refused to quiet down. The anger was still there. Sharp and familiar, but it no longer burned the same way.
Narfius being a spy…
The timing of the raid on the caverns…
It lined up too well to ignore. If Narfius was telling the truth, then that raid wasn't a coincidence. It was an exit. A violent one for sure, but an exit nonetheless.
His grip tightened around the bowl.
An image crept into his mind uninvited. An alternate version of himself, still underground, still mining away, still watching other kids try their best to continue with barely any strength left in their bodies.
After all that time slaving away, would it still count as living? Or would he just be breathing, waiting for the day where he would end up the same as them?
Would he even still be alive once he awakens?
The thought made his chest feel hollow. They only kept children there, no one older than 13. There had to be a way for them to deal with them before they awakened, reaching a point where they would be too troublesome to control.
The thought made his chest feel hollow.
He remembers who he used to be before he escaped. Quiet, distant, always expecting betrayal. A version of himself that kept people at arm's length because trusting them felt more dangerous than being alone.
Then Ryu happened. Loud, stubborn, infuriating Ryu, who fought him, dragged him along, and refused to be pushed around. When others watched, he would be the one to act.
If he hadn't met someone as unique as Ryu…
Pheo swallowed.
He didn't like the answer that came to mind.
Walking back with the soup, Pheo realized just how much Ryu had changed him. On how much he had changed his view on the world, on how much he owed him without ever saying it out loud. And if he ever got the chance to meet him again, really meet him…
He'd pay back the spar he still owed.
Heading back, Pheo handed Narfius one of the bowls before sitting down across from him, eating in silence for a moment.
"Thanks," Narfius said, nodding once before taking a sip. Pheo watched him over the rim of his bowl. "Earlier," he said, "you called yourself a special mercenary. What did you mean by that?"
Narfius let out a quiet breath, as if weighing how much to say. "The Director doesn't just hire anyone," he began. "He keeps a very small circle. People don't get to work with him just by signing up. You need something."
"Recommendations from someone he trusts, an ability that's hard to replace or come by, or… circumstances that force his hand." He glanced down at the soup. "In my case, it was more luck than skill."
"Right place, right time. Though," he added dryly, "once you're in, failing to meet expectations isn't an option. He doesn't tolerate disappointments." Pheo nodded slowly, then asked the question that had been lingering in his mind.
"Then how did you think I survived back then?"
Narfius looked up at him, surprised. "You were trapped back then. I remember watching the only exit. When fire spewed out of that hole and all the agents came out, I assumed that everything that was still alive there wasn't anymore."
"I saw people waiting outside when I went out the exit," Pheo said. "Rescuers. Soldiers. But I didn't go to them."
Narfius frowned. "Why not?"
Pheo shrugged, though the motion felt heavier than it should've. "Didn't want to risk it. Slave traders are common in the Badlands. I figured that it wouldn't be a stretch to say that they would wait out the entrance to see if there's any survivors they could snatch as merchandise."
Narfius stared at him, genuine surprise breaking through his composed expression. "A kid your age wouldn't have lasted out there alone," he said. "Especially not in the Badlands. Anyone your age would choose to get caught again rather than to try and survive out there."
"What you did takes guts."
Pheo smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth lifting as he looked down at his bowl. "Yeah. Probably." Then he looked back up at Narfius. "It's not like I survived just because I had skill. I survived for the same reason why you became a mercenary."
Narfius raised a brow.
"Luck," Pheo said simply.
After finding a strange sort of common ground in their experiences, the two continued talking for a while longer. Narfius spoke more freely now, offering advice that only someone who had lived through the Badlands could give. How to read the wind before a sandstorm, which ruins were worth hiding in and which ones were death traps, and signs that someone's stalking you.
To Pheo, it felt… genuine. That alone was rare. Most people in the Badlands spoke with an angle, every word sharpened for survival. Narfius didn't sound like that. For once, it felt like someone wasn't trying to get something out of him.
When they finished eating, Narfius' eyes drifted past Pheo, settling on a familiar figure moving through the camp. The Director.
Without making it obvious, Narfius stood, adjusting his posture as if the conversation had simply reached its end. "Take care of yourself kid," he said casually. "Badlands don't forgive mistakes, but they do reward people who learn fast."
Before Pheo could respond, Narfius was already walking away, blending back into the flow of the camp. Pheo didn't question it, only watching him go with a conflicted expression.
A presence suddenly appeared behind him.
"Feeling better now?" Anora asked.
Pheo flinched slightly before turning to her. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "I think I… overreacted. If he really was the person I thought he was, he wouldn't just be sitting in the middle of the camp like that."
Anora nodded, satisfied. "Good. Narfius is actually a decent guy once you get past his job." As she spoke, Pheo's eyes drifted past her shoulder, landing on the large man from earlier, the one who had shouted from the crowd.
Noticing the look, the man stepped forward without hesitation. "Midas," he said simply, extending a hand. "I figured it was time we properly met."
Pheo reached out and shook his hand. The grip was firm. Calloused, rough, the kind of texture that didn't come from swinging weapons but from working metal day in and day out. It lingered just long enough for him to notice.
"...You're a blacksmith," Pheo said, more statement than question. "The one who works on Anora's equipment." Midas blinked, clearly caught off guard. He let out a short laugh and glanced at Anora.
"See?" she said. "Told you the kid was sharp."
"Seems that way." He said before turning back to Pheo. "Yeah. That was me. Retired, technically. These days I only work when something really needs fixing." He flexed his fingers slightly. "And when it involves old world tech."
Pheo's eyes lit up. "Old world tech?" he repeated. "Like pre-collapse systems? Mechanical? Digital? Hybrid frameworks?"
Midas raised an eyebrow. "You know the differences?"
"I know enough to know most people don't," Pheo replied. "What do you do with it?"
Before Midas could answer, Anora let out a tired sigh and stepped back. "Okay, nope. I am not staying for this lecture." She pointed at Pheo. "If you're going to drag him into this, at least tell him what you want made first."
Pheo hesitated. "Now?"
"Yes, now," she said, already turning away. "Yes, now," she said, already turning away. "I'm going back to the hotel. One of the mattresses is only half broken, and that's still a luxury I'm not passing up."
She waved over her shoulder. "Don't stay up all night. And don't blow anything up." With that, she walked off, leaving the two of them standing amid the low hum of the camp. Midas looked back at Pheo, amused.
As Anora disappeared into the dim stretch of tents and broken stone, Midas cleared his throat, almost as if resuming a story he'd been meaning to tell for a long time.
"I don't just fix old world tech," he said. "I study it. Take it apart piece by piece. Relics, fragments, anything that survived from before everything went to hell." He glanced in the direction Anora had gone. "Back then, she was the one who brought most of it to me."
Pheo listened closely.
"I'd dissect whatever she found," Midas continued, hands moving as if tracing invisible schematics. "Figure out what principles it used. Not the whole device, most of that's long gone, but the idea behind it. Then I'd find a way to repurpose that idea into something usable. Something that wouldn't fall apart in the Badlands."
Pheo nodded slowly. "That's how you made her knife."
Midas smiled, clearly proud. "Yeah. That one's my favorite."
"I've always wondered how it works," Pheo admitted. "I've seen what she can do with it."
Midas' eyes lit up. "Ah, now that's the clever part. The blade itself isn't special in the usual way. What matters is the internal structure. When it takes a hit, most of the force doesn't travel straight through."
He clenched his fist, then released it sharply. "It gets redirected. Stored for a fraction of a moment before ejecting, like a spring snapping back. That's what lets her parry blouse she has no business stopping."
Pheo frowned. "That's… impossible. For the things she's blocked, the material would have to be close to indestructible."
Midas nodded. "You're right."
"But," Midas added, "materials aren't the whole story. Timing matters. Angles matter. Speed matters. And the person holding it matters most." He glanced back toward the hotel.
"Anora's been walking the line between life and death longer than most people live. She knows exactly how much force she can take and what she needs to do in order to redirect it back."
He looked at Pheo again, voice quieter now. "Things only seem impossible when you haven't lived long enough to see them done." The talk then naturally drifted to Pheo's own weapon, or rather, the lack of one. Midas leaned back, arms crossed.
"Truth is, it would've been better if you'd already awakened before we made anything permanent. Most weapons worth a damn are built around the user's power. Otherwise, you end up forcing yourself to adapt to the weapon instead of the other way around."
Pheo clicked his tongue. "Figures."
Then, curious, he added, "What about you? Your power, and your weapon. I want an example." Midas raised a brow, then shrugged. "Don't really need a weapon."
Before Pheo could ask why, Midas extended his hand. The sand near his palm shuddered, grains pulling together unnaturally. In a breath, the shifting mass hardened, its dull color giving way to a warm metallic sheen.
A gold coin formed cleanly in his hand, edges crisp, surface smooth. "My ability's simple," Midas said. "I manipulate gold."
Pheo stared. "That looked like sand."
Midas chuckled. "Thats the trick. There's a surprising amount of gold buried in the desert. Dust, slakes, veins so thin you'd miss them. When I move it all at once, it looks like I'm controlling sand."
He rolled the coin across his knuckles. "Makes people misunderstand my range. Not like it would help me if I correct them, so I just keep them thinking."
Pheo suddenly laughed.
Midas paused mid-motion. "...What?"
Still smiling, Pheo shook his head. "Sorry. It just clicked."
"Clicked what?"
"You're named Midas," Pheo said, trying to get him to understand. "The king."
Midas frowned. "King?"
"Yeah. From a legend. The one who has the golden touch, turns everything he touches to gold." Pheo gestured to the coin. "Looks like whoever named you hit the mark."
Midas blinked. One. Twice.
"...Never heard of it."
That caught Pheo off guard. "Really?"
Midas shook his head slowly. "Where's it from?"
"A book I read before," Pheo answered. "One old. Guess it wasn't that famous." He hesitated, then explained the legend anyway. The wish, the curse, the greed, the tragedy of turning even loved ones to gold.
Midas listened without interrupting, eyes fixed on the coin in his hand.
"...Huh," he muttered when Pheo finished. "Funny thing is, I never knew there was a story behind my name." He turned the coin over, thoughtful now instead of proud. "Guess I got the useful version of the curse."
Pheo smiled faintly. "Yeah," he said. "Seems like it."
They talked for a while longer about the weapon, circling ideas, preferences, half-formed concepts that never quite settled into anything solid. Eventually, Midas let out a low hum and shook his head.
"Yeah," he said, "you're gonna need more time."
Pheo tilted his head. "More time?"
Midas nodded. "You're thinking like this weapon has to be something you'll carry for the rest of your life. That's the mistake." He tapped the coin against his knuckle before letting it melt back into the sand.
"You haven't awakened yet. No point in forging a partner for life when you don't know what power you're getting yet." He looked at Pheo more seriously. "Make something temporary. Something practical. A tool that the you now will be using, not a legacy."
Pheo understood what he meant. It made sense. A lifetime companion deserved clarity, not guesses. "Yeah," Pheo said after a moment. "I'd hate to outgrow it before I even know who I'm supposed to be."
Midas smiled at that, satisfied. "Exactly." He stood, brushing sand from his hands. "When you've thought it through, or if you just need advice, you know where to find me."
With that, Midas turned and walked off, leaving Pheo alone with his thoughts, already feeling that whatever he chose next shouldn't be permanent. At least, for now.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Morning came quietly.
As soon as the sun had fully risen above the Badlands, Ikra departed. He left with his family in silence, carrying Ryu with him while he was still unconscious with Iyu. The boy hadn't stirred once through the night, his breathing steady but distant, as if his mind had gone somewhere his body couldn't follow.
Ikra stayed beside him the entire time, never once loosening his watch. When The Director heard the full report, he didn't respond immediately. He simply stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
"The golden stars," he repeated.
Ikra remained still. After a long pause, The Director exhaled.
"Take a break," he said. "You've done enough."
Ikra frowned slightly. "Sir–"
"That wasn't a suggestion."
His tone wasn't harsh, but it carried weight. "We'll talk later," The Director continued. "You still owe me an explanation for your actions. Your report never mentioned Ryu being struck."
Ikra didn't answer right away. His silence itself was an answer.
The Director didn't press further. Not yet.
"Go," he said. "Sort things out. Be with your family."
Ikra nodded once. He understood what this meant. This wasn't dismissal. It was time. Time to think. Time to decide what needed to be said, and what didn't. Without another word, he turned and left for the main camp.
Elsewhere, before most of the camp had stirred, Pheo was already awake. The last of the cold desert air clung to his skin as he stepped into the open space just outside the tents. The world was quiet, untouched by the noise and weight of the day to come.
He picked up a blade first.
It felt wrong.
Too balanced. Too clean. It just didn't feel right with him.
He put it down.
Next was a spear. He spun it once, twice, feeling its reach, its distance. It was good for control, for keeping danger away, but it didn't feel like him.
He moved on.
An axe. Heavy. Powerful. Honest. But slow.
He swung it anyway, feeling the weight travel through his arms, into his shoulders, into his stance.
He stopped.
No.
Not this either.
One by one, he tried whatever he could get his hands on. A short blade. A broken staff. Even tools not meant for fighting. Each one taught him something, but just about the weapon, but about himself.
He wasn't searching for what was strongest.
He was searching for what felt right for him.
Between movements, his thoughts drifted back to Midas.
Make something temporary.
A tool, not a legacy.
Pheo tightened his grip around the next weapon, testing its weight, its resistance.
He didn't know what his power truly was yet. He had felt it before, when he needed it most, but it had never stayed long enough for him to understand it.
It was like trying to catch something that only existed when he stopped looking at it. So he kept moving.
Strike.
Step.
Turn.
Again.
Each motion was deliberate. Each failure, a step closer.
For now, he didn't need perfection.
He just needed something that would carry him far enough to reach it.