The three words on Leo's smartphone screen were heavier than any cargo he had ever carried. They have Yuki.
The feeling of power, the excitement of his new scooter, the clarity of his mission... it all crumbled to dust. It was replaced by a cold that started in his stomach and spread through his veins, an ice that not even the residual warmth of the [Trueflame Scale] could melt. The euphoria of having claws, of finally being a predator, evaporated, leaving behind the bitter reality: he was still a rat in a cage, and the owner of the cage had just taken his only friend.
Yuki. His mentor. The woman who had saved him from a dragon, who had given him advice, who had warned him about the dangers of this world with a reluctant patience. She had been dragged into his mess. The Syndicate couldn't catch him, so they took her. It was a hostage tactic, as brutal and efficient as everything else they did. A corporate chess move, where the pieces were souls.
He looked at the 'Pathfinder' in his other hand. The shimmering line of light still pointed up, to the Void, to the Crossroads, to the Hermit, to the Regulator. It was the path to save the multiverse, to end the cycle of recycling, to justice. A mission of cosmic importance, the kind of thing stories were written about.
But what was cosmic justice worth if the people who mattered were lost along the way? What was the point of saving billions of anonymous souls if he couldn't save the one who had helped him? The Hermit's revelation had given him a purpose, but this message gave him a cause.
His new power, his 'Reborn Phantom', suddenly felt hollow. He had built it to be a predator, to hunt the Syndicate. But now, he felt like prey again, being manipulated, being forced to dance to their tune.
Anger began to bubble up through the fear. A cold, focused anger. They had made a mistake. They had made it personal.
He sat on his scooter, the silent engine a contrast to the storm in his mind. He looked at the anonymous message. Who had sent it? An ally? Someone in the Bazaar who hated the Syndicate? Or was it a trap? A message from Kael, trying to lure him into an ambush? Or maybe even from Jett, trying to create more chaos so he could salvage the wreckage? It didn't matter. It was his only lead, and he had to follow it.
With trembling fingers, he typed a single word in reply.
Leo: Where?
He waited, his heart hammering an irregular rhythm. Every second of silence was an agony. He imagined Yuki in a cold Syndicate cell, facing a Compliance Agent, paying the price for her association with him. Would her stoic calm be enough to protect her? Or was she scared? The thought of Yuki, the woman who faced chaos with a knife and a cutting board, feeling fear because of him, was unbearable.
The smartphone vibrated. The reply wasn't in words. It was a set of coordinates and a timer.
Coordinates: Cargo Processing Sector 9, Lower Level of the Bazaar. Time: 01:00:00
One hour. They were moving her. And the sender knew the route. It was precise information, which suggested an insider or someone with access to Syndicate cargo manifests.
Leo looked at the 'Pathfinder' one last time. The line of light that led to his grand mission, to his destiny, still glowed, promising a victory that would be stolen from him by the Whisper Broker. He turned the device off. The light vanished.
Victory could wait. His satisfaction didn't matter. His friend did.
He started the 'Phantom's' engine. The scooter rose silently, its presence almost unnoticeable. He activated the light-displacement cloak, and its form disappeared, becoming a mere distortion in the air, like heat rising from asphalt.
His new map didn't lead him up, to the stars, but down, into the dark and dangerous guts of the Traveler's Bazaar. He navigated away from the quiet cargo dock and plunged into the lower levels of the carapace-city.
The environment changed drastically. The vibrant hustle of the main market gave way to a labyrinth of service tunnels, pipes dripping an oily liquid, and the faint glow of emergency lights. The air was thick with the smell of metal, the biological decay of the long-dead beast, and the smoke from poorly ventilated forges. His aura scanner showed small dots of cleaning 'Constructs' and metal 'Verminites' moving in the shadows, the scavengers of the Bazaar's industrial ecosystem.
The coordinates led him to a huge warehouse complex, an area of the Bazaar where goods were processed before being sold in the market above. It was a place of hard labor and few questions. Large cargo cranes, operated by multi-armed beings, moved containers the size of small houses. Workers of various species, covered in soot and sweat, operated heavy machinery that groaned and shrieked.
He found a vantage point on a high girder, his cloaked scooter hovering silently in the shadows. Down below, he saw it. An armored cargo train, with the Syndicate's logo discreetly stamped on its side. It wasn't a transport train; it was a mobile prison. It was being loaded onto a large cargo hauler, undoubtedly on its way to a Syndicate detention facility.
The timer on his smartphone read 00:23:14.
He couldn't attack the train directly. It would be suicide. It was surrounded by Syndicate guards, figures in grey armor who moved with military efficiency. He needed a distraction. He needed chaos.
His gaze swept the warehouse, analyzing the environment, thinking not like a hero, but like a desperate courier. And then, he saw it. In an isolated corner of the warehouse, a set of cargo containers, marked with biohazard symbols and the label "Live Dragon Feed." The containers trembled occasionally, and low, guttural sounds emanated from within.
A terrible, chaotic idea formed in his mind.
He had angered a dragon over food once. Maybe, just maybe, he could use the hunger of another to create the distraction he needed.
He had a new delivery to make. And this time, the customer wasn't going to place an order. They were going to get a buffet.