The silence in the stall was heavy. The only sound was the hum of rusted pistol in Silas's hand and the terrified breathing of Joren beside him.
Elian didn't move. His eyes were looking at the barrel of the gun, but his mind was racing, processing the data stream across his vision. The blue text of the Inner Archive flickered urgently.
[System Alert: Hostile Intent Detected]
[Aspect Capacity: 5%]
[Status: Vulnerable]
Five percent. It was a pittance, a joke. He knew the theory, every Awakened walked around with the same library inside their head. The Inner Archive was the universal constant, the operating system of the world. But an operating system was useless without power.
A Warden, someone high up in the Spire's ranks, would have an reservoir of energy massive enough to power a city block. They could manifest shield of light or call down fire for hours. Elian? He was running on fumes. With five percent, he couldn't summon a shield. He could maybe make a lug nut, but nothing else.
Silas leaned forward, the rusty pistol steady in his grip. The scar tissue on his face pulled tight as he smiled.
"You're thinking," Silas said. "I can see the gears turning. You're calculating. How much fuel do I have?"
Elian stayed silent. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remeaned a mask of grease and exhaustion.
"It's written all over you," Silas continued, tapping the pistol against the counter. "That look in your eye. The confusion. You survived a Trial, congratulations. You're officially one of the elite. But you reek of fresh ozone, boy. You're a Seeker."
"You haven't even stabilized your core enough to be a Bearer," Silas spat. "You're leaking energy like a broken sieve. I've been a Warden for ten years. I've killed men who could snap steel beams with their bare hands. You? You're an ant trying to fight a boot."
Elian's mind processed the words. Seeker. Bearer. Warden. The hierarchy of power. Silas wasn't just a thug, he was a combat veteran of the Gyre. The difference between them wasn't only skill, Silas has a bigger fueltank.
"I can fix things," Elian said. "That extractor. Your cybernetics. You need a mechanic."
"I have a mechanic," Silas lied, nodding to the enforcer on the left. The massive man stepped forward, his hydraulic piston legs hissing as he moved. He raised a heavy pipe, the metal dented and stained. "Vance here handles the heavy lifting. And he doesn't ask for the most valuable commodity on the planet as payment."
Vance lunged.
Elian didn't try to block. He didn't try to fight. He dropped.
He threw himself flat against the muddy floor of the stall just as the pipe whistled through the air where his skull had been. He scrambled forward, sliding underneath the stall's counter.
"Grab him!" Silas screamed, overturning a crate to get a clear shot.
Elian's hand moved on instict. He wasn't a fighter. He was a mechanic. He was the world in parts and pressures. Under the counter, hidden from view, was the main pressure line for the stall's heating system. It was old, patched up with duct tape, and hot.
He reached into his pocket. He didn't have his multi-tool anymore, he'd left it on the table after fixing the extractor. But he had his Aspect.
Five percent. One shot.
He focused on the coupling joint of the steam pipe. He didn't need to create something new. He needed to remove something old.
Remove the pin. Create a gap.
A sharp, icy pain bit into his palm. The skin on his right hand turned grey instantly, the blood vessels collapsing as the Aspect burned through his fuel. A small, metallic click echoed in his mind.
[Creation Succesful.]
[Fuel Remaining: 0.5%]
The pin he had imagined disappeared. The coupling gave away.
A jet of scalding white steam errupted from the pipe with a defeaning hiss, spraying directly upward through the gaps in the counter. It caught Vance in the legs and stomach. The enforcer howled, stumbling back, his hydraulic pistons seizing up from the sudden thermal shock.
Elian kicked the counter, sending it sliding into Silas's legs. The broker stumbled, his shot going wide and shattering a neon sign above them. Glass rained down.
"Joren! Move!" Elian shouted, scrambling over the counter.
Joren was already running, diving past the blinded enforcer.
"Stop them!" Silas screamed, trying to recover his balance. "Don't let the Seeker get away! He's worth ten times the merchandise!"
Elian's eyes looked across the table as he sprinted. He saw the vials of blood arrange in their cases. He grabbed a handful of rags and swept them across the table, knocking a heavy case towards the edge.
"Careful, you idiot!" Silas shrieked, diving to catch a case of glowing vials. "That's Stalked blood! It's worht a fortune compared to the Lurker swill we feed the dogs!"
Elian froze for a split second, his hand hovering over a vial that had rolled to the edge. It glowed with a deep, angry crimson light.
Stalker.
The word flashed in his mind. A higher rank. A higher density of fuel.
Silas was scrambling, his greed warring with his anger. "If you break that Ravager extract, the boss will flay us both! Don't you know what you're holding?!"
Elian didn't know the specifics, but he knew enough. Raw beast blood was volatile. And high-density fuel was dangerous in an unrefined state.
He grabbed the vial of Stalker blood and hurled it a the second enforcer blocking the exit.
The glass shattered against the man's chest.
The reaction was instantaneous. The blood didn't splash, it sizzled. The thick fluid acted like acid, eating through the man's jacket and sending him into a panic as the blood burned his skin.
"Agh! It burns! Get it off!" the man screamed, tearing at his clothes.
The path was clear.
"Run!" Elian screamed, pushing Joren towards the back exit of the cavern.
They sprinted through the chaotic stalls of the market. Hearing the screams of Silas behind them.
"Kill them! Lock down the sector! I want that Seeker's head!"
The reached the heavy iron door leading back into the drainage system. Joren slammed against the door trying to turn the wheel lock.
"It's stuck! It's rusted!" he screamed with panic.
Elian looked back. Vilas jumped over the counter, sprinting at them with his gun raised. The first enforcerer, Vance, had recovered enough to chase them.
Elian looked at the mechanism of the door. It was a simple deadbolt inside. But the handle was broken.
He only had 0.5% left. He was running on fumes. His vision darkened.
Create a shim. Force the bolt to slide.
He placed his hand on the lock. He poured the last bit of blood he could use into the lock.
Slide.
A sliver of metal suddenly appeared inside the lock, forcing the deadbolt back. The door screaked and popped open.
"Go!" Elian pushed Joren through the gap and went after him. He slammed the door shut and created another shard of metal inside the handle, fusing it shut from the outside.
[Warning: Host Vitality Critical]
[System Shutdown Imminent]
Silas slammed into the door from the other side. The door groaned but the lock helt.
"Elian.." Joren panted, gripping onto his knees from exhaustion. "You… You threw Stalker blood that was… that was worth..."
"Worth our lives," Elian muttered. He leaned against the concrete wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. His right hand was curled into a claw, paper-white and dead.
He looked at his interface.
[Aspect Capacity: 0%]
[Awakened Rank: Seeker]
[Aspect Rank: Lesser]
He was empty. He was weak. And he just declared war on a Syndicate boss.
"Can you walk?" Joren asked, griping Elian's arm.
Elian tried to stand, but his legs gave in. The world was spinning.
"I need… fuel," Elian whispered, his eyes rolling back. "I can't… sustain… this."
He felt forward. Joren caught him before he could fall into the water.
"Wake up, Elian!" Joren screamed, slapping his face. "Don't die on me now! After we made it out!"
Elian didn't answer. The exhaustion pulled him under. He was safe for now, but in his mind, the Inner Archive sat silent and dark, a library with no lights and no power. And in the distance, the heavy sound of boots on concrete echoed through the tunnels.
The hunt was on.