The moment Rast finished speaking, Hiltina silently stepped forward and yanked up his sleeve.
What she saw froze her breath.
Black iron crosses.
Not one, but dozens—countless black sigils scorched deep into Rast's skin, the iron-like markings spreading across his entire arm. Their inky darkness was far deeper, far more suffocating than any Iron Cross she had ever seen.
Of course it was. She had simply refused to see it before.Ordinary people could be contaminated just by seeing the thing. Even the faintest trace of miasma leaking from the lead box was enough to infect someone silently.
Then what about Rast—who had been the one to carry that cursed sculpture himself? Who had stopped her from touching it, taken it upon himself to store and transport it, all alone?
Just how much corruption had he endured?
The combined taint of every Iron Cross in the outer district probably still wouldn't equal what he had absorbed into his own flesh.He had no sacred relics, no divine gear to protect him. No Night Blade at his side. His rank was far below hers.
"You—" Hiltina fumbled in her cloak, pulling out a gleaming emerald crystal. She raised it, ready to act—
—but Rast's hand shot out, stopping her.
Only then did she see his face clearly.
Dark, swollen veins crawled across his once-handsome features like a web of living tar, grotesque and writhing beneath his skin. His blood vessels bulged and twitched like black serpents trying to burst free.
Yet his eyes—those bloodshot, feverish eyes—remained perfectly clear. Calm. Deep and steady, like starlight resting on the bottom of a still lake. Just as they'd been when she first met him.
"Don't waste that," Rast rasped. His voice had grown hoarse and raw, the Iron Cross corruption scraping at his throat and vocal cords. "That kind of single-use relic looks expensive. Keep it for yourself. I don't need it."
He spoke as if discussing the weather, tone slow and unhurried."It's not so strange, really. The ability to restrain instinct and impulse—that's what separates humans from beasts.
"Just like a spy can train himself to resist truth serum, the corruption of the Iron Cross can be resisted too. All it takes is discipline—extreme, unrelenting discipline."
Hiltina's gaze lingered on his face. "You don't feel any pain?" she asked softly.
She knew exactly what he must be enduring. She had felt it herself earlier—the Iron Cross plague gnawing at her sanity.
It was like a drug addiction, but magnified a hundredfold. The moment you gave in to the urge to destroy, a wave of ecstasy would consume you. But to resist that urge—to hold it back—was to suffer agony beyond imagining, as if a thousand ants were eating you alive from the inside out.
An ordinary person wouldn't last a single second before collapsing into madness.
If her defensive relic hadn't triggered in time and burned the corruption out of her veins, she had no idea how long she could have lasted—seconds, maybe minutes at best.
But Rast… Rast had crossed the entire expanse of Deep Blue Port like this. Hours of exposure. And not once had he shown even a flicker of instability.
"Not too bad," Rast said lightly. A faint, crooked smile touched his lips. "If you've been through the feeling of molten iron slowly burning through your body in a steel factory a few dozen times, every other pain stops being impressive."
He stood again, picked up his battered briefcase, and started walking deeper into the port."Come on. We're close to clearing this stage."
Hiltina followed quietly, eyes fixed on his back—the narrow, steady silhouette moving through the downpour as if none of this had touched him.
Everyone is born fragile, she thought. Fragile, afraid of pain.The only difference is that those who've suffered more learn to endure it.
Crying out in pain is just a way to ask for help.But Rast had no one left to call to. In Deep Blue Port, every living thing could turn into an Iron Cross at any moment. Every ally could become a monster. For him, seeking help was meaningless.
So he'd learned to endure everything in silence.
Through tens of thousands of loops, he had walked alone through the port's dark alleys, enduring that same endless pain of corruption—his body eaten alive, his sanity gnawed away.
He should have given up long ago.And yet, he hadn't.He kept going—for a reason Hiltina did not yet know.
Compared to the packed residential districts, the port was emptier—warehouses and steam boilers lined the streets, the air heavy with rain and oil.But the Iron Crosses here were even more dangerous.
The port was also home to the Royal Navy's garrison. Almost every Iron Cross in the area carried firearms. There were fewer of them, yes—but each one was exponentially deadlier.
Hiltina and Rast moved carefully through the storm, weaving through the maze of rusted containers and dripping pipes, avoiding patrols whenever possible.Only after a long and grueling journey did they finally stop.
They stood before a massive steam factory, looming at the very heart of the port.
But even here, dozens of Iron Crosses prowled outside its gates.And unlike the others, these ones were… organized.
Through the rain, Hiltina watched from the catwalk of a distant pier. The Iron Crosses below moved with eerie coordination—splitting into groups, dragging human captives back to the factory. Some prisoners were fed blood and transformed into new Iron Crosses. Others were kept alive for crueler purposes.
Hiltina's brow furrowed. "They're… following some kind of order."
"Human bodies aren't all the same," Rast said, setting down his briefcase. "So it's natural that Iron Crosses differ too. An Iron Cross that used to be a heavyweight boxing champion won't be the same as one who starved to death in a gutter.
"Most of the ones here were naval soldiers before they turned. And soldiers follow orders. That's why the first signs of hierarchy always appear here, in the port district."
He glanced toward the factory gates."Half a day since the outbreak, and we already have variants—and now, a primitive society forming among them."
"Their evolution's too fast…" Hiltina muttered, tightening her grip on her sword.
"Of course," Rast replied. "Otherwise, the Iron Cross Plague would never have swept across the continent. If they were just your typical movie zombies—mindless flesh-eaters—they'd have frozen, starved, or rotted away in a few months."
He knelt beside the open briefcase. The metal canopy above shielded it from the rain.
Inside, neatly packed into foam padding, lay gun parts, a black triangular bayonet, and several bundles of makeshift timed explosives.
Rast unfolded a large, rain-stained blueprint and handed it to her along with the bombs."Here. Take a look."
Hiltina spread the paper out under the dim light. It was a floor plan—a blueprint of the factory before them, drawn in meticulous detail.
Around the central steam boiler, Rast had marked several points in red ink, each connected by lines and numbered in sequence.
"This is… the route for planting the bombs?" Hiltina asked.
"Exactly," Rast nodded. "Each bundle's timer is preset. We'll place them throughout the factory in the order I marked—two minutes apart. That way, they all detonate at the same moment."
He tapped the center of the blueprint."The factory houses the largest steam boiler in all of Deep Blue Port. When the explosives go off in sync, the boiler will overload—cause an implosion. That, in turn, will trigger the nearby ammo depots and the powder from the wrecked warships."
"Over ten thousand tons of ordnance will go up at once. The blast and superheated steam will wipe out every Iron Cross in the district."
He straightened, brushing rain from his hair, and added quietly, "I'm no demolitions expert. Deep Blue Port's library didn't have any books on it. I made this route the stupid way—trial and error. Got myself blown up a few hundred times before I finally optimized it."
Then his tone changed.
"But there's one thing you got wrong."He looked at her, eyes calm and unyielding, and pointed to the blueprint in her hands.
"That's not our route map."
"It's yours."