The night felt different, mischievous, mysterious....
Tom sat near the edge of the camp, away from the chatter of the guards. His knees drawn up, hands locked together, he tilted his chin to the sky.
The moon or what was left of it hung broken. Splintered edges bled violet light, dripping into the desert like veins stretching across the horizon. The sky followed, dim blue fading to an uneasy purple glow.
It made his chest feel unease.
He thought about the bunker. About Grace, Vera, Elior and others. Were they safe? The walls of that bunker had held before, but tonight felt heavier, closer, like something was crawling in the air itself.
Grace's face lingered most in his mind. The way she smiled at him during small, ordinary things, and how quickly that smile vanished when she was alone. He had noticed she carried more weight than she ever admitted. Maybe Elior knew, maybe not.
He pressed a hand to his elbow, where the fungus had once burned into his veins. A phantom ache still lived there, reminding him how close he'd been. If Johan hadn't.…
He shook his head. "Lucky," he whispered, though it didn't feel like luck.
The guards outside were restless. He could hear them shifting, murmuring, their boots grinding against the sand. Metal clicked faintly. The plasma rifles being checked and rechecked, over and over. Some pretended calm, but their voices bloomed swiftly at the edges.
Tom glanced again at the sky. That violet glow was spreading, like spilled ink across the heavens.
The camp was restless, but Johan's steps were steady. He moved like a man used to slipping through cracks, Arlong just behind him, a mask of casual silence on his face.
The laboratory smelled faintly of ash and copper, lit by pale-blue tubes in the walls. Inside, scattered across shelves and tables, were small fragments of machinery—broken lenses, corroded wires, half-melted gears. Scraps. The kind only a careful eye would bother to gather.
Johan did not hesitate. His hand swept over the pieces, sliding them into his pouch without a sound. Arlong kept near the doorway, shoulders loose, eyes sharp. Anyone watching would think he was simply keeping Johan company.
When they returned, Arlong pulled something from his inventory. A folded mass of shadow-gray fabric.
The System screen shimmered into Johan's view...
[ Unseen Wave ]
[ A cloak that bends light, allowing the wearer to become invisible. Restores stamina slowly while worn ]
Johan stood stunned. "You had that the whole time?"
Arlong smirked faintly. "Some cards stay in hand until they're needed."
They waited until the guards passed, then Johan tapped the cloak. Its fabric melted like water across their shoulders, swallowing them whole. Arlong and Johan vanished in plain sight, only faint distortions warping around them.
A worker trudged past with crates of rations. He muttered to himself, too tired to notice when invisible hands guided his steps, nudging his shoulder here, pulling his sleeve there. He veered without realizing, walking straight toward the Main Hall.
And there it was, The Hildigger.
A colossal construct, half-machine, half-organic. Its shape resembled a vast crystalline eye, rooted into the floor by cables that pulsed faintly with light. The walls around it were lined with mirrored panels, reflecting its presence a hundredfold, as though it existed in every direction at once.
The laboratory was quiet except for the hum of dormant machines. Johan moved carefully, every step was well measured. His fingers worked quickly, piecing the scraps together like a puzzle only he could solve. Sparks flared once, small and angry, but he snuffed them out with a cloth before they spread.
The Hildigger loomed at the center. It wasn't simply a machine. A towering crystalline sphere set inside a steel cradle, veins of dim light crawling across its body like arteries in slumber. Dust clung to its mirrored panels, yet each reflected Johan's face back at him from strange, distorted angles.
He slid the last piece into a cracked socket. A sound followed like a deep inhale. The Hildigger stirred. Lines of light rippled along its frame, low vibrations crawling through the floor.
Johan narrowed his eyes, searching the console built into its base. Fingers brushed faded symbols, their edges etched in foreign geometry. His hand hovered, then pressed a sequence. The screens flickered alive.
Words and diagrams cascaded across, too fast for ordinary eyes. But Johan had been here before—different camps, different machines. He filtered the storm of knowledge until one word burned steady on the display.
"Lea Infra"
A diagram unfolded: an artifact sealed below, encased in a cage of metal and radiant locks. He scanned quickly, then found it—a release protocol hidden behind layers of nonsense. His hand slammed a dull red button. Somewhere deep under the hall, heavy gears shifted. The cage hissed open.
He exhaled once. "Done."
The sound of boots broke his focus. Two guards entered, their rifles loose but eyes sharp. Johan didn't hesitate. He slid behind a column, his figure swallowed by the shadows. One guard raised his lamp, unfortunately, too late.
Johan's hand clamped over his mouth, the other striking a precise nerve at his neck. He crumpled without a sound. The second turned and caught sight of nothing but the glint of Johan's blade before his world went dark.
The Hildigger still thrummed behind him. Johan shut it down with a rapid sequence, its light bleeding away until only silence remained. He waited and listened. Neither any footsteps or alarms.
Arlong stood at the outer walkway, bow slung, eyes scanning the dark. He hadn't moved since Johan entered, like a stone statue holding vigil. When Johan appeared at his back, Arlong didn't flinch. Just only tilted his head slightly.
"All clean?"
Johan nodded once. His face betrayed nothing, but his pace quickened. They moved side by side, not daring to linger.
The hall beneath was very quiet down there.
Tom stood alone, eyes fixed on the chest that sat on a pedestal of black stone. It wasn't large, no bigger than something a child could carry, although, it radiated weight.
Gold trim curved along its edges, emeralds embedded like eyes staring back at him. Small ornaments dangled from its lock—symbols he didn't never saw, though they remained visible faintly as if remembering old prayers.
He frowned looking at the guards he had beaten.
Why are the guards here so weak?
He had slipped past them too easily, their bodies dropping with barely any resistance. Their rifles clattered uselessly on the floor.
I'm not even trained. Uptie 1, Level 1. And still…. they fell like straw dolls.
A part of him felt proud. Another part whispered that it was wrong. Something was really off here.
Tom exhaled, reached forward, and unlatched the chest. The sound echoed strangely, louder than it should have been.
Inside, there wasn't gold or relics. Only a mound of powdery red flour, laced with mint leaves, glowing faintly as though it held fire under its surface. The smell was sharp, stinging his nose, yet sweet enough to trick the mind into hunger.
[ Item Acquired: 1x Red Flour Mint ]
The System's words flashed in his vision as he scooped the contents into his inventory. The chest grew up, the glow fading as if he had stolen its heart.
No time to think. He hurried back toward the entrance, footsteps resounding across the vast hall. Shadows along the walls seemed to lean closer, watching. He didn't dare look back.
When he reached the doorway, the air outside hit him hard, dry, burning with the desert wind.
I need to get out of here… before someone troublesome notices.
The camp felt strange when Tom came up.
Guards weren't moving as they should. Some were pacing too quickly, others whispering nervously, hands gripping their rifles with sweat-soaked palms. A few stood stiff, staring at the broken violet moon above like it was a wound in the sky.
Tom noticed all of it and slowed his steps.
Where's Rhea?
The campfire nearby had extinguished a long ago, but even that sound seemed out of place, like it didn't belong. A pot of soup was still steaming over it, untouched.
He passed by one of the soldiers. The man's face was pale, lips trembling as if he wanted to say something but swallowed it back down.
The flap of the command tent swayed gently in the night wind. No matter why, it looked darker than it should.
Tom's hand hovered near his side. He didn't draw a weapon. He exhaled and sets up his t expressions for her.
She's probably inside. Talking with someone…. working late.
He pushed the thought forward, trying to believe it. But his steps grew slower as he tried to step inside.
Finally, he placed his hand on the flap, hesitating for a long moment.
Then he pulled it open.
The air inside was warm—stinking of blood, sharp enough to sting his nose instantly.
Rhea was on the floor. Her eyes were wide open, staring right at the canvas roof, frozen in terror. Her head was sliced across the middle, her brain exposed, torn. Her arms and legs were missing, ripped out like someone had dragged her away piece by piece. Pools of blood stretched dark across the floor, already half-dried.
Tom's whole body locked. His eyes couldn't believe what he was seeing....
No….
11:30—11:29—11:28....