"Continue," he says.
Vence nods. Looks at the crowd.
"No more interruptions," he says. Voice hard. Final. "I choose. That's it."
The crowd is silent now. The building momentum—gone. Shattered.
Some people look angry. Frustrated. But scared to speak.
Some look resigned. Expected this. Nothing ever changes.
Some are looking at where Lira disappeared. Confused. Uncertain.
Del's chest tight. The plan—destroyed.
Lira can't help. The crowd won't follow her now. Too scared. Too controlled.
He's alone.
Vence circles the containers again. No more delays.
His hand hovers. Lands on one.
Lifts it. Sets it as the third choice.
Three containers now in front of Del.
The crowd presses closer again. Not demanding. Just: watching. Waiting. Hostile. Expecting failure.
Del needs to touch them. Feel for the scratches.
Tries to stand. Can't. His leg completely gone. No feeling below the knee.
Tam helps. Gets him up. Half-carries him to the three containers.
Sets him down next to them.
Del's hands reach out. Steadying himself on the containers. His vision blurring. The rib grinding with each movement.
His fingers brush the bottoms. Quick. Looking for scratches while appearing to steady himself.
Container four: scratch. Pure.
Container seven: scratch. Pure.
Container eleven: smooth. No scratch. Diluted.
Two pure. One contaminated.
His mind already moving. Can swap container eleven during the ritual. The "balancing" phase. Replace it with a pure one from the remaining nine.
But first: make it look real.
He reaches for his knife. His hands shaking badly. The numb fingers barely responding.
The one-armed man steps closer. Right next to Del. Close enough Del can smell him. Artifact burns. Old infection. Decay.
"I want to taste them first," the one-armed man says. "Before you start."
Del's chest tightens. The rib pressing harder. Can't get enough air.
If he tastes all three, the gap is obvious. Two pure, one contaminated.
"Taste them if you want," Del says. Voice rough. Cracking. "But your mouth will CONTAMINATE them."
The words breaking up. Wheezing between them.
"Your bacteria. Then I'll have to—" He coughs. Wet. Wrong. "—account for that. Add STEPS."
"I'll spit. Won't swallow."
"Still CONTAMINATES." Del forcing volume. His throat burning. "Saliva has—"
"ENOUGH."
Vence stepping forward. Impatient. Angry.
"We don't have TIME for this. He performs. We taste AFTER. That's the test."
The one-armed man backs off.
But his face—
Smile forming. Slow. Starting at one corner of his mouth. Spreading.
Not reaching his eyes first. Just: mouth. Crooked. Wrong.
Then his eyes. Crinkling. Narrowing. Focused on Del like a cat watching injured prey.
The smile wider. His mouth opening slightly. A tooth missing. Second from the left. Gap visible. Dark. And the gum—purple. Diseased. Infected.
His breathing changes. Faster. Shallow. Excited.
His remaining hand clenching. Unclenching. Fingers curling. Relaxing. Like he wants to grab something. Restless.
He leans forward. Body tense. Waiting.
Not just suspicious anymore.
EAGER.
Delighted.
Wants to catch Del so badly he can taste it.
Del turns away. Can't look at that face anymore.
Focuses on the containers.
Takes his knife. The blade dull. Chipped. Still bloody from yesterday.
Holds his left palm up. The hand shaking so badly the blade wavers.
Presses it in. Drags.
The cut opens. Deep. Deeper than intended. His hand shaking too much to control the depth.
Blood wells up immediately. Dark red. Almost black. Thick.
Drips on the ground before he can position it over the container.
The crowd watching. Silent.
Del holds his bleeding hand over container four.
Lets blood drip in. One drop. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The water turns pink. Then red. Spreading. Mixing. Then settles to rust color.
His hand throbbing. Pulse visible in the wound. Blood pumping out faster than he expected.
He moves to container seven. The movement makes his vision blur. Gray. Black spots spreading.
He blinks. Focuses. Can't pass out. Not now.
Blood dripping. Five drops. Six. The water turning red.
Then container eleven. The diluted one.
Blood drips in. Turns the water red.
All three containers now have his blood in them. The water rust-colored. Cloudy.
Del pulls out the artifact fragment. Small. Metallic. Size of a coin. Inert piece he's been carrying.
His hands shaking so badly he almost drops it. Catches it. Barely.
Holds it up. Everyone can see it.
"This is from the OLD WORLD," Del says.
His voice cracks immediately. Too much strain. He coughs. Wet. Painful.
Tries again. Louder. Forcing it.
"ARTIFACT METAL."
The words breaking. Wheezing between them. Spit flying.
"The same metal that CHANGED—"
He coughs again. Can't help it. The rib pressing on his lung. Blood taste in his mouth now. Not from the cut. From inside.
Spits. Blood-tinged saliva hits the ground. Dark. Too much blood.
The crowd murmurs. Bodies shifting.
"—he's dying—"
"—can't even talk—"
"—this won't work—"
Del continues. Has to.
"—that changed my BLOOD."
He touches the fragment to the first container. His hand shaking. The metal makes contact with the water. Small sound. Clink.
Nothing happens. The artifact is inert. Dead. But looks impressive. Mysterious.
Does the same to the second. The third.
His vision blurring worse. The black spots spreading. Merging.
He blinks. Hard. Focuses.
"The blood needs TIME," Del says. Wheezing after each word. "To BIND the corruption. To DRAW it out."
Pause. Breathing. Shallow. Controlled.
"But FIRST—"
He looks at the circle of nine remaining containers. Has to move now. While he can still stand.
"—the purification requires BALANCE."
Voice breaking on the word. Spit flying. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smears blood across his face.
"The three must be ALIGNED with the nine. Ancient POSITIONING. Energy FLOW."
He picks up container four. The crowd watches. Silent. Tense.
Del tries to stand. Can't. His leg won't respond.
Tam helps. Gets under his arm. Lifts.
Del's vision whites out. The rib grinding. Moving. Something crunching inside him.
Comes back. Gray. Blurry.
He's standing. Barely. All his weight on Tam.
Hops forward. Carrying container four. Each hop sends pain through everything. Rib. Knee. Head.
Reaches the circle of nine. Crouches down.
The rib shifts when he crouches. Grinds against bone. Against lung. He gasps. Can't help it.
Sets container four between two others.
While crouched, his hands brush the bottoms of nearby containers. Feeling for scratches. Quick. Hidden by his body position.
This one: scratch. Pure.
This one: smooth. Diluted.
This one: scratch. Pure.
He finds container eight. Pure. Clean-looking. Scratch on bottom.
Perfect.
Picks it up. Holds it. Stands slowly. His vision graying again.
Walks back to the center. Each step careful. Controlled. Can't fall. Not now.
Sets container eight down next to container eleven.
Both on the ground. Side by side. Close together.
His body blocks the view. He's crouched again. The crowd can't see his hands clearly.
This is the moment.
Right hand on container eleven. Left hand on container eight.
Just switch them. Quick. Smooth.
His hands move—
"WAIT."
The one-armed man's voice. Sharp. Loud. Cutting through everything.
Triumphant.
Del freezes.
Everyone looks.
The one-armed man steps forward. Fast. That asymmetric gait—scrape-step, scrape-step—but faster now. Excited.
That smile splitting his face. Wider. The missing tooth visible. The purple gum. His eyes bright. Alive.
A small sound escapes him. Half-laugh. Half-exhale. Delighted.
He's been WAITING for this. Watching. And finally—FINALLY—caught something.
Points at Del. His hand shaking slightly. Excited.
"What are you DOING?"
"Balancing," Del says. Doesn't move. Hands still on both containers. Heart pounding. "The energy REQUIRES—"
"You're MOVING them."
The one-armed man crouches next to Del. Fast. His face close. That smile still there. Breath hot. Rotten.
"SWITCHING them."
He's almost laughing now. Can barely contain it. Years of watching. Suspecting. And now: proof.
The crowd erupts.
Not organized sound. Just: noise. Wall of it. Bodies pressing closer. Voices overlapping.
"—KNEW it—"
"—cheating—"
"—he's SWITCHING—"
"—LIAR—"
Bodies shoving. Someone falls. Others stumbling over them.
The smell intensifying. Fifty people pressed tight. Sweat. Fear. Anger.
The guards moving in. Clubs raised. Watching for violence.
The one-armed man's face right next to Del's. That smile stretching. Eyes locked on Del's hands.
"Show us," he says. Voice almost gentle. Mocking. Savoring this. "Stand up. Step BACK. Let us SEE which containers you have."
Del's stomach drops. The rib grinding harder. Can't breathe right. Vision blurring.