Korven's gaze shifted slowly from Agito to Cain, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"And he's here why?" he asked sharply.
Agito stepped forward, unfazed.
"No time for reunion hugs, Korven." He tilted his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "An Exilium squad is missing. Ten people. Good ones. Last seen near the ruins—where the Observers left us."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in before continuing.
"We need a guide."
Silence lingered for a moment.
"Oh—and how's the knee?"
Korven exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Still a bastard, thanks." He shook his head slowly. "You never change."
His eyes flicked toward the desert before returning to Agito.
"Ruins… How many lives will this search cost?"
"We just need one guide," Agito replied firmly. "It's me and Cain. That's it. We'll handle it."
Korven studied him, long and hard.
Before Korven could finish, one of the Nomads leaning on a crate near the fire muttered under his breath:
"Another pack of those damn screechers showed up last night. South fence."
A second Nomad grunted.
"Grinders."
The first scoffed.
"Yeah. You know why they call 'em that?"
"Because you hear them before you see them," someone else replied. "Metal on metal. Like teeth grinding on bone."
Korven raised a hand, and the chatter died instantly.
"Rodrigo!"
From the shadows, a lean figure emerged. Young. Eighteen at most. Scar on his cheek. Eyes like blades. He moved like someone who'd grown up in a place where hesitation meant death.
Agito blinked.
"Little Rodrigo?" A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "You've grown. Desert didn't go easy on you, huh?"
Rodrigo didn't smile. Just stared.
Cain's voice grew quieter. His gaze briefly lingered on Rodrigo's worn baseball jacket—patched, faded, the embroidered name Clare still visible on the sleeve.
Cain reached out gently, gripping Rodrigo's shoulder.
"Your mother… she was strong. A good woman."
Rodrigo's jaw tightened, eyes flickering briefly with memories he'd spent years burying. His fingers trembled just slightly, before clenching back into fists.
He nodded slowly, still not meeting Cain's gaze.
"Yeah… she was."
Agito looked toward the skyline, breaking the silence. His eye narrowed slightly, voice quiet, almost thoughtful.
"This isn't exactly the fairy tale you imagined back then, huh?"
Rodrigo's breath hitched slightly, a flicker of something familiar crossing his face—innocence long lost beneath Exilium's dust. A memory, blurred but still there: a woman's gentle voice, a child's quiet wonder. He didn't answer immediately. After a moment, he murmured softly:
"I know."
His hand slid to the holster at his hip—twin pistols, rusted and cobbled together. Cain noted the smoothness of his grip. This kid knew how to kill.
Korven's voice cut in sharply:
"He knows the terrain better than anyone. He goes with you. But you bring him back alive."
Agito raised an eyebrow.
"Touching."
Korven stepped forward, voice dropping lower.
"Something's wrong out there. The desert's… too quiet. Like it's waiting."
Agito smiled faintly.
"Didn't know you cared so much, desert king."
Korven gave him a look hard as bedrock. No words. No smile. Just truth.
The ride through the wasteland was silent. Rodrigo led the way, his makeshift desert horse kicking up trails of dust as he weaved between dunes. Lamps attached to his gear and to Zero cut through the darkness with sharp, cold beams. Each flicker of light exposed rust, sand, and ruins half-buried in time.
The wind tasted of copper and ash.
Ahead, like a sentinel from forgotten days, loomed the broken silhouette of the old communications tower. Its rusted skeleton clawed at the sky, antennas cracked and silent—reaching for signals long dead.
"We're close," Rodrigo said, voice low and tense over the comm. "Just over that ridge—there's a cave by the ruins. That's where they took us."
They stopped briefly, their silhouettes stark against the pale dunes. Cain scanned the area sharply, eyes narrowed.
"Stay here, kid," he said firmly. "Keep an eye on the gear, and watch the tower. We'll move on foot."
Rodrigo clenched his jaw but nodded, disappointment briefly flickering through his eyes.
Cain spun sharply, amulet trembling. In an instant, a blade snapped into his hand—raw, grotesque, pulsing as if alive.
Rodrigo flinched, instinctively stepping back.
Agito didn't react, just raised an eyebrow. He reached into Zero's saddle and slowly unsheathed his katana. The steel gleamed cold and silent in the dark.
"Let's see what fate's cooked up for us today," he muttered. "Could've kept drinking…"
They entered on foot. No words. Only breaths and footsteps.
The air felt thicker, heavier. Rust mixed with something sharp. Fresh. Wrong.
The exit loomed before them—the same one they'd used six years ago.
It was open.
No rubble. No collapsed ceiling. No traps.
It felt almost like an invitation.
Agito's grip tightened around the katana. His body was loose—but the way his eyes moved betrayed him. Scanning. Calculating.
"This is bad," he muttered.
His voice bounced off the walls like a whisper edged in steel.
Cain nodded.
"This place already stank. Now it reeks."
He stepped forward—and his boot splashed into something thick.
Red.
Not old.
Not dried.
Blood.
Cain's fists clenched. The walls were painted in slashes and smears. Signs of panic. Of violence.
They moved deeper.
Shredded bodies. Pieces of them. Limbs torn off at angles that didn't make sense. Fingers still wrapped around unused triggers. Eyes open, frozen mid-scream.
This wasn't a fight.
It was a slaughter.
Cain froze. Nine bodies. There should've been ten.
"Fuck," he hissed.
Agito's eye narrowed.
"Where's the tenth?"
Before Cain could respond—a cough. Rough. Wet. Barely there.
Cain moved without thinking.
"Where are you?!" His voice cracked. This wasn't the cold mutant now. This was the man beneath—the one who had fought beside these people, laughed with them, bled with them.
He found him near a broken console, slumped like a rag doll.
Jax.
The Tinkari tech. Just days ago, he'd been joking in the bar. Tuning scanners. Rambling about old signal ghosts.
Now… Bones snapped. Arms bent wrong. Skin covered in bruises and long, twisted cuts—like he'd been chewed up and spat out by something that didn't know mercy.
Cain dropped to his knees beside him.
"Jax!" he growled desperately. "What happened? Who did this?!"
The man's eyes fluttered. Blood crusted around his mouth. His breath rattled in his chest like broken machinery.
"C… Cain…" His voice was sand and static. "…my family… maybe I'll see them…"
Cain gritted his teeth. His hand tightened on Jax's shoulder, as if anchoring him to the world by sheer force of will.
Jax drew one final, ragged breath. Cain's throat tightened. A memory flashed—brief, stupid—Jax dancing drunkenly on a crate in the workshop, ranting about scanner ghosts.
Now his hand was cold. Empty. Gone.
One final whisper—"Veyrath…"
Silence.
Cain went still. The name echoed in his skull like a blade scraping bone.
Veyrath?
He did this?
Not an accident. Not bad intel. Betrayal. Pure and simple.
Cain's nails dug into the dirt, vision blurring with rage.
"Fuck!" he snarled, the echo harsh and raw.
Suddenly, the air shifted. The silence thickened, heavy and oppressive. Cain lifted his head sharply, senses on high alert.
SCREECH.
Steel ground violently against stone, slicing through the quiet like a blade. The ruin itself seemed to shiver under the sound.
Low metallic vibrations crawled through the air, louder and sharper with every passing second.
Something was coming.
Something many.