Vulcan's tent represented a small core of the old world, exiled in the heart of the hellish Red Desert.
From the outside, it was nothing but a shabby lump of thick hide and tattered cloth that whistled and trembled with every gust of wind, as if begging mercy from the stubborn elements, but the inside contrasted starkly with the exterior — both disappointing and terrifying at once.
Although the tent was crudely made of worn cloth and hides, it managed to block the desert's scorching winds; the heat inside was moderate, even almost comfortable compared to the harsh oven waiting outside.
The tent was furnished with threadbare but clean coverings, and the heads of ferocious beasts — some of species not native to this harsh desert — were mounted on the walls, which were also adorned with rusty swords and spears hung like trophies from a bygone past.
Everything here told a story of filthy survival at the expense of the weaker.
In the center of the room, around a small table of rotting wood, three men sat. On the table was a simple meal: stale bread, dried cheese, some preserved fruit, and grilled lizards — which to a hungry outsider beyond the tent would look like an emperor's feast.
"Soren, come here."
A smooth voice rose from the middle of the tent, calling with a tenderness like a grandfather calling his grandchild.
But at the sound, Soren's face went pale as if a spirit had been taken from him.
He did not hesitate; he walked toward the table with obedient, heavy steps, like a puppet pulled by an unseen string.
The three seated at the table were the leaders of this miserable stronghold, the kings of this little hell.
On the right sat a coarse-looking man, a brown, unruly beard partly hiding an ugly scar extending from the corner of his mouth and a torn left ear, giving him a savage appearance enough to frighten anyone who looked at him.
This was Dragh, Vulcan's lieutenant and the man in charge of security, training, and leading the runaways in the camp. Dragh did not lift his eyes from his meal — a grilled lizard the size of a chicken — tearing its flesh with fangs like a starving wolf.
Opposite him sat the man with the soft voice.
A man in his late forties, long white hair falling on his shoulders, a carefully shaved beard, and a gentle smile that never left his wrinkled face. He looked like a kind uncle from a quiet village.
But Soren knew better than most that behind that smile lurked a true devil in every sense of the word.
No one knew his real name or where he had come from, but everyone here called him the Doctor.
The Doctor looked at Soren with that steady smile and said in a cool, dry humor, "What kept you, Soren? I'm sure you don't want to make the leader wait."
At that, Soren swallowed the lump in his throat and approached the figure seated in the middle, in the chair of command.
He was a giant in every sense.
A man nearly two meters tall, his body swollen like a massive ball of meat, making onlookers wonder how such a mass could move. His body was a map of old scars, his face warped by the marks of wounds haphazardly stitched together.
But what most drew attention was the complex metal apparatus placed beside him, from which several tubes branched out, pumping a shiny silvery fluid into his frail body. This was Vulcan, the camp's leader, the man who had turned Soren's and the others' lives into a recurring hell.
Soren approached the machine and grabbed one of its branching tubes.
Then, as if performing a ritual forced upon him, he pierced the tube into his thin arm.
The tube immediately began to draw his blood.
But the blood that flowed was not deep red; it was a pale white liquid, exactly like the fluid the machine pumped into Vulcan's veins — in truth, the same fluid.
Soren had long known his body was different.
Besides his white blood, he had an extraordinary ability to heal: minor wounds mended in seconds. But he was not foolish; he knew this "gift" could bring him death on the charge of being a "monster." Yet who could have known his fate would be worse than death when he fell into the Doctor's hands — who saw him as merely a lab rat? If his blood had not served as a vital medicine for Vulcan, easing his pains and prolonging his fragile life, his fate would have been different. That is what made Vulcan preserve his health and protect him from the Doctor's brutal experiments — for his own benefit alone.
As the white blood was drawn from his body, Soren trembled from the terror that seized him, mixed with a strange feeling of humiliation.
By luck for him, the three leaders paid him barely any attention.
Once Vulcan had his dose, life seemed to flood into his frail body and revive his weary spirit.
Vulcan turned to his aides and asked in a hoarse, broken voice, like the grinding of stones, "So... what do you think of the Black Army's offer?"
At the mention of the Black Army, Dragh suddenly stopped devouring his food with greed and wore a serious expression on his scarred face.
The Doctor's smile did not budge an inch; he replied with a sarcastic tone, "I see you overestimate them, Commander. In the end, they are like us... merely a group of runaways trying to stay out of the Empire's grasp. But we, unlike them, are wise enough not to think we can topple an empire at the height of its power."
Obviously Dragh did not like the Doctor's words; he answered in a confident, firm tone, "I thought you were smarter than that, Doctor. I did not expect your view to be this shallow. The Empire is currently at its worst. It was shaken by the death of the White Emperor — the one everyone thought eternal and forever-ruling — and torn by a bloody succession war filled with rifts and divisions. This is our golden chance to overthrow the Emperor's dictatorship and build a new nation on its ruins."
The Doctor's smile did not change; if anything, it grew more sardonic as he replied, "Yes, the Empire is weakest now, but an injured lion can still kill any rat that dares come close. Especially since the new Emperor has repeatedly proven his strength and cruelty, deserving the title 'heir of the White Emperor.' Even if the Black Army, by some miracle, topples the Empire, do you really think they will build a new righteous nation?"
The Doctor gave a light, suspicious chuckle before continuing, "All that will happen is that the rulers of the 'old world' will pounce on the Empire's ruins to reclaim what was theirs. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the Black Army were their own creation, intended to ignite chaos inside the Empire."
Dragh did not seem bothered by the Doctor's mockery; he answered calmly, hiding a deep conviction, "No matter how white and beautiful something appears, with time it will get dirty, polluted, and rotten until it becomes black. Then someone must change it."
This piqued the Doctor's curiosity; he raised an eyebrow with relish, "It seems you are truly influenced by them."
Dragh paid the comment no heed and continued with a tone of deep conviction, "The new Emperor may seem to control everything with an iron fist, but he is powerless to solve the problems gnawing at the foundations of his rule from beneath the table. And likely, he won't be able to solve them anytime soon."
"Therefore, this is our only chance for revolution. If we let the new Emperor consolidate his rule, another chance for change may not come for centuries. As for the rulers of the old world, there is no fear of them — they are busy tearing each other apart and have neither the energy nor the appetite to look toward the Empire."
This time the Doctor did not refute Dragh's arguments; he turned to Vulcan, his gentle smile still painted on his face, "So, what do you think, Commander?"
Vulcan's distorted, weary voice replied, his eyes passing between his aides with a faint sense of disappointment, "I understand both your viewpoints... each of you holds a part of the truth."
"But you forgot the most important thing." He paused a moment to gather his scant breath before finishing, "We are weak... very weak. A mere band of lawless runaways. The strongest among us is a racial mage of the third circle, injured and half-paralyzed."
"We will be the fuel at the forefront of the conflict; we will not be the last to benefit — we will be the first thrown into the arenas to die."
Then he added with a voice full of bitter irony at himself and the situation, "Of course... not that we have a choice. The Black Army apparently does not accept refusal. We cannot return to the Empire's embrace, or the best fate awaiting us would be to rot in a cell until death."
At that the Doctor chuckled lightly, as if unconcerned, "So it seems our fate is sealed. Are you sure there's no way to escape? I am still young to die in a battlefield that is not mine."
Vulcan fell silent for a moment, contemplating his dark fate before replying with greater fatigue, "No."
"We can only wait for the Black Army's representatives to arrive tonight."
A heavy silence reigned in the tent, broken only by Dragh's ceaseless chewing and the hiss of the tubes that continued to pump life into Vulcan's body.
Each of the three men sank into his thoughts, pondering the grim destiny that awaited them all.
As for Soren, who still trembled behind Vulcan's colossal body, he did not think of the Black Army or the camp's fate.
All that occupied him were the memory of Leon's angry words and his likely escape that night, which coincided with the arrival of the Black Army's emissaries.