The world at high altitude had its own rules. The law of gravity was merely a suggestion, the wind an enemy to outsmart, and the collapsing rooftops of skyscrapers were your lifelines.
Rivan Dex landed softly on the roof of a ruined neo-classical building, knees bending to absorb the impact. His breath came lightly ragged, condensing in the cold air that smelled of ozone and scorched metal. From here, the district zone he had just left—where he'd parted from Leo and his group—looked like a toy smashed by a brooding giant child.
There were still lunatics who stayed there, he thought, recalling the distant silhouette he had seen earlier on an apartment balcony. Good luck.
But luck was a luxury in Amalgam. The only things you could rely on were skill, paranoia, and the ability to judge the price of everything—including your own life.
"Ghost, it's Jinx. You still alive out there?" The girl's cheerful, static-filled voice crackled through the comms in his ear.
"Still. Just dodged an Augen-Sphere patrol from Mr. Iron-Suit," Rivan replied, adjusting his creaking old exoskeleton suit. "They're getting more aggressive."
"That's because you're carrying our 'special parcel,' silly."
Rivan peeked into the delivery bag strapped tightly to his back. A metal capsule the size of a lunch box, cold and completely unremarkable. Yet this was what had triggered a hunt by Commander Valerius' forces. A "Data Chip" rumored to contain something capable of shifting the balance of power in this sector.
Its price? Fifty thousand Scrap credits, paid upfront by the rebels in Sector 7. Enough for him and Jinx to live comfortably for a year—or at least until their old ship, The Rusty Sparrow, finally fell apart for good.
"ETA to the drop point?" Rivan asked, eyes scanning the skies and streets below like an eagle.
"Fifteen minutes if you take the straight route. But… we've got a tiny problem."
"There always is."
"A jamming field is active around the Aether Garden District. Looks like there's a battle between Iron-Suit troops and… something big and furry. I recommend circling south through the remains of the shopping center."
Rivan groaned. The southern route meant passing through the "Shadow Market," a place that made him more cautious than facing robot patrols. At least robots had predictable logic. The inhabitants of the Shadow Market did not.
"Understood. Keep the Sparrow warm, Jinx. I'm moving."
His next leap was more careful, using broken bridges and tilted billboards as footing. From above, Amalgam was a chaos that was strangely beautiful. Blurred green horror-light clashed with cold blue high-tech glow, while in certain corners, warm campfire flickers—the sign of human life—glimmered faintly, enduring every storm.
The shopping center was like a graveyard of capitalism. Luxury stores looted, mannequins strewn like corpses, and ceilings collapsed in several areas. Yet here, the hum of machinery and laser fire was drowned out by the magical sound of still-functioning fountains and the bustle of heavy trade.
The Shadow Market.
Here, a man with scaled skin and goat eyes sold stolen energy weapons from Valerius' troops. A woman in a witch's cloak offered charms to ward off "formless terrors." A child with a robotic arm begged with a bowl filled with scrap components. The scent of roasted meat—probably from some unknown creature—mixed with sweat and fear.
Rivan moved quickly, sticking to the edges, avoiding eye contact. His philosophy was simple: don't be a buyer, don't be merchandise.
But the market had its own ways of ensnaring you.
"Hey, Courier!" a raspy voice called.
Rivan didn't turn.
"I heard you're delivering something valuable." The voice came closer. Rivan glanced. A Boros—stocky humanoids from a fantasy dimension, infamous for their strength and greed. Beside him stood two armed humans with crude, ugly homemade rifles.
"Every delivery is valuable," Rivan replied curtly, not slowing down.
"How about you sell it to me? Now. I'll pay cash." The Boros jingled a pouch of clattering metal teeth—universal currency for those without access to digital credits.
"Can't. Professionalism issue." Rivan could already feel tension in the air. People in the market were giving them space.
"Professionalism?" The Boros chuckled. "You think this is where? An old-world law office? Hand over the bag, courier. Or we'll take it off your corpse."
Rivan stopped. He finally looked back, his cold eyes locking onto the Boros. "That's a bad choice."
He didn't give them time to react. His hand flicked forward, throwing two tiny "Bebats"—Jinx's custom electronic devices. They latched onto the chests of the two armed men and released a low-range EMP. Their rifles died immediately, indicators flickering out.
While the men were confused, Rivan moved—not away, but forward. His exoskeleton hummed, amplifying his side kick that smashed into the Boros' knee.
"GRAAAK!" The Boros fell, but his massive hand managed to grab Rivan's leg.
His strength was monstrous. Rivan felt his bones nearly crack.
"You insect!" the Boros snarled, pulling him close to crush him.
Rivan didn't panic. He grabbed his low-power ion pistol—not for the Boros; ion shots wouldn't penetrate his stone-like skin. He fired at the floor next to the Boros' head.
The ion shot struck an exposed electrical cable. Blue sparks erupted and shocked the Boros violently. The creature spasmed, releasing Rivan.
Rivan scrambled free. One of the armed men was already pulling out a combat knife. Without hesitation, Rivan fired again. This time, straight into the man's face. Smoke curled from his skin as he screamed and collapsed.
He didn't wait to see the rest. He was already running, scaling rubble back toward the rooftops, leaving chaos and pained groans behind.
"Jinx, we have a problem. The Shadow Market's compromised. They know about our delivery."
"Sigh. I knew this would happen. I detected several tracker signals activating around you. They probably stuck them on your bag while you weren't looking."
"Can you disable them?"
"Done. But the damage is already done. I recommend heading straight to the drop point. Now. Fastest route—right through Aether Garden District. Forget the furry thing."
Rivan groaned again. He hated plan changes. But in Amalgam, plans were the quickest things to expire.
He leapt from the shopping mall roof toward the swirling colored fog marking Aether Garden District. As he approached, the sounds grew clearer. Not lasers—roars, claws scraping metal, and soldiers screaming.
He saw it. A squad of Valerius troops—shiny gray armor and plasma rifles—fighting… a Dragon? The creature was massive, stone-scaled, with leathery wings and a maw that spewed not fire, but corrosive acid that melted metal armor into bubbling sludge.
A genre crossover fight, Rivan thought, crawling across a rooftop, trying not to be seen.
His destination was the communication tower beyond the garden—the drop point. He would need to cross the battle zone.
He used the chaos. As the dragon smashed a troop transport, Rivan slid down the roof with a grappler wire, swinging like a spider through sprays of acid and plasma.
A soldier spotted him. "Courier! Stop him!"
Plasma shots hit near his feet. Rivan landed in a slide behind debris. He cursed. They recognized him. Which meant they were specifically hunting him—not coincidence.
This Data Chip was worth far more than he'd been told.
He threw a smoke bomb—chemical mix and magic dust creating thick smoke that scrambled sensors. In the cover of it, he ran, dodging acid-burned corpses and the dragon's claws tearing the ground apart.
Almost there. The tower was right ahead.
Suddenly, the ground in front of him exploded from a burst of dragon acid. Rivan was thrown back, hitting the ground hard. His bag flew off and slid several meters away.
His head rang. He saw the dragon twist its massive body, reptilian yellow eyes now fixed on him. Its mouth opened, green acid dripping.
And he saw a Valerius officer, insignia glowing, raising his rifle at Rivan while others sprinted toward the bag.
Damn. A very, very bad set of options.
He was cornered. Die by acid or be captured by Iron-Suit troops. Neither was a good ending.
He shut his eyes briefly, imagining Jinx's face. Sorry, kid.
Suddenly, a loud explosion shook the area—not acid, not plasma. Something… spicy?
Rivan opened his eyes. A glass bottle had shattered near the soldiers' feet, releasing thick red smoke that made them cough violently and rub their burning eyes. Someone had thrown it from a nearby rooftop.
Pepper gas?
The soldiers stumbled, blinded. The officer cursed, shouting muffled orders.
This was a chance.
Ignoring the pain in his body, Rivan crawled toward the bag, grabbed it, and looked up toward the rooftop where the unexpected help had come from.
He saw a group of people. A man in a tattered chef coat, a woman in a lab coat, and others. They were the ones he had seen earlier.
The chef, wearing the same cold expression as Rivan, simply nodded once, then disappeared back into the shadows, his group following.
They didn't ask for thanks. They didn't ask for payment. They simply created a distraction—then left.
Strange shopkeepers, Rivan thought as he stood and ran again, using the chaos Leo had created. The dragon, now crazed by the pepper smoke, rampaged harder, drawing all troop attention.
Two minutes later, Rivan reached the communication tower. With quick hands, he inserted the data capsule into the designated slot. A green light blinked, confirming delivery.
Credits would be deposited.
He looked back down at the chaos in Aether Garden District. Valerius troops were now trying to retreat from the maddened dragon. The chef's group had vanished.
They had saved him. But why?
In Amalgam, nobody did anything without reason. Which meant he now owed them. Or more likely, he had become part of their plan—whether he liked it or not.
"Ghost? Status?" Jinx's voice pushed through.
"Package delivered," Rivan replied, still catching his breath. "And… we've got a new problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind that wears an apron and can make weapons out of a kitchen. Prep the Sparrow. We're leaving. Now."
He jumped from the tower, grappler catching the next building. His mind raced. His life as an independent courier might have just ended. An unwanted alliance had been forged—bound by pepper smoke and the raw instinct to survive.
And in this hungry world, alliances like that could become the main course… or the deadliest poison.