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Chapter 52 - 52. In Search Of

The bunker smelled of spice and dry bread when Johan found them. Tom was crouched beside Rosario's makeshift stall, bartering in his usual sharp, quiet way.

Grace stood behind, arms folded, listening, while Rosario leaned back in his red sentinel robe, a faint smirk on his face as his fingers brushed over the strings of his violin idly. The soft notes clashed with the seriousness of Tom's tone.

"Two jars of grain and the dried meat strips," Tom muttered. "That's fair for the coins I've got left."

Rosario tilted his head, pink hair catching the lantern glow. "Fair?" His voice carried that unsettling calm, as though he was reciting poetry. "Fair is a measure only the dead can agree on." He pushed the grain forward with one hand, but his eyes lingered on Grace. "Still… since you smile more than your friend here, I'll add a pouch of salt. Free."

Grace frowned but said nothing. Tom narrowed his eyes, sensing the merchant's odd humor, but didn't press.

The door groaned. Johan entered, coat dragging sand at the hem, his steps heavy. He looked at Tom first, then Grace, then let his gaze briefly flick over Rosario.

"We need to talk," he said simply.

Grace noticed his tone immediately. "Something's wrong?"

"More than wrong," Johan muttered. He told them everything. Durkan, the camp, Apollo's Twilight, the Overseer's evolution. His words dropped like bathing in magma. Tom listened in silence, his hand frozen on the pouch of salt.

Grace paled, her nails digging into her sleeve. Rosario, though, leaned back, twirling a coin across his knuckles, expression stayed normal.

When Johan finished, Tom finally spoke. "So you're saying we walk into their camp? Before the Hunt?"

"Yes," Johan answered bluntly. "Before they tighten their grip. We can't let this thing grow unseen."

Rosario gave a soft laugh. "Sounds…. ambitious. You'll get yourselves torn apart."

Grace snapped her gaze at him. "You sound like you know something."

Rosario's eyes widened in mock innocence. "Me? I only trade bread, not secrets." He returned to his violin, plucking two strings in a discordant note.

The air shifted when Elior entered. He looked from one to another, his gaze pausing on Rosario, then settling on Johan. "You'll take Tom," Elior said without preamble. "But two won't be enough."

Johan crossed his arms. "And?"

" Also, you'll take Arlong Khoe."

As if on cue, a cheerful voice came from the corridor. "Did someone say my name?"

A man stepped in with blue hair cropped short, wearing light armor scuffed from use, a bow slung across his back. His grin was wide, almost boyish, but his stance carried discipline. He clapped Tom on the shoulder with surprising familiarity.

"Looks like I'm your third wheel," Arlong said. "Don't worry. I don't miss."

Tom looked at him, unamused. "That's comforting."

Grace glanced between them all, unease tightening her chest. "Are you sure about this, Elior? Tom just recovered from the infection.…"

Elior's expression softened, if only slightly. "I trust him. More than you think and Arlong will keep the pace steady."

Johan gave a low grunt, but there was no refusal. His eyes lingered one last time on Rosario, who continued to hum as if none of this concerned him.

Tom leaned against the wooden table, fingers tapping against it. "If we walk blind, we'll never reach the camp in one piece. The forest will eat us, and the dunes won't forgive us twice." His gaze flicked at Johan. "How?"

Johan, ever blunt, reached into his coat. He pulled out a thin silver cord that shimmered faintly, like it was cut from starlight. The ends writhed gently, as though alive.

"This," he said. "A Navigation Thread."

Grace tilted her head. "Thread?"

"Not just a rope," Johan explained. "Most camps belonging to big organisations hide Waypoints—anchored teleportation circles. These threads hook onto them. Three bodies per pull." He twined it once around his fingers, the light dancing. "It'll drop us straight into their den. But.…" His tone turned grave. "Going uninvited in an Organisation could be a nightmare. Camps tolerate no guests. Especially not when they're tied to an Overseer or Homan."

Tom's brows knitted. "So we go in knowing we might not come out."

"Hmm." Johan slipped the cord back. " We need to be careful, too careful...."

Before anyone could answer, Elior's voice cut through the air. "Grace."

She blinked, startled. "Huh?"

"Walk with me." His tone was firm, leaving no room for protest.

A faint pink climbed up her cheeks. She glanced once at Tom and Vera, who exchanged looks but stayed silent. Tom only arched a brow in his usual dry way.

Grace followed Elior out, the sound of her boots soft on the sand-dusted floor. The others lingered in the dim bunker, tension thick.

Rosario plucked a sharp note on his violin, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. Arlong hummed something lighthearted, but even he stole curious glances at the doorway.

Minutes passed. When Elior and Grace returned, both carried casual expressions.

The desert yawned wide, a sea of gold and dust beneath the blistering sky.

Three shadows stretched long against the dunes—Tom, Johan, and the newest addition, Arlong Khoe.

Arlong carried himself like a man born with laughter in his blood. His short blue hair caught the sunlight, messy but somehow sharp, and his armor clinked lightly as he walked. A bow rested across his back, its string faintly humming with tension, as though eager for use.

"So," Arlong broke the silence, his grin disarming, "I get the sense I'm supposed to impress you two. Tell me, should I show you how many arrows I can fire before you blink, or should I juggle while doing it?"

Tom gave him a flat look. "If you juggle, I'm walking back."

Johan smirked, shaking his head. "Ignore him. He's just like that. Keep talking."

Arlong spread his hands theatrically. "Alright, fine. My name's Arlong Khoe. People call me 'the cheerful bastard', their words, not mine. I prefer 'the one who doesn't cry when sand gets in his boots.' Been around long enough to know when to laugh and when to run. And trust me, I run fast."

He tapped his chestplate. "This armor has more scars than steel, and this bow? It doesn't miss. But me?" He winked at Tom. "I miss all the time. Directions, manners, deadlines.... pick one."

Despite himself, Tom huffed a short laugh.

Johan eyed him carefully, though. "Why are you here, Arlong?"

Arlong's smile dimmed, just slightly. His voice dropped softer. "Because I can't stand watching people fall while I sit safe.

That honesty, buried beneath the jokes, hung heavier than the desert heat.

The three kept walking, footsteps swallowing by the endless sand grains.

Back at the bunker, the air was quieter as everyone split.

Elior stood with Grace and Vera. He adjusted his worn coat, eyes set far on the horizon.

"I need to leave for a while," he said, voice calm but heavy.

Grace's lips parted. "Leave? Where?"

Elior didn't answer directly. He only gave them a firm nod, as though that were enough. "Take care of the others."

Before either could press, he was already stepping into the broken starlights, his figure slowly blurred in the desert darkness.

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