The bunker's emergency lights flickered, casting long, jagged shadows against the reinforced lead walls. The Brigadier coughed, a spray of dark oil hitting the inside of his gas mask. He looked at Raiden, then at the glowing gold-and-black mark on the boy's palm.
"You've opened a door you can't close, kid," the Brigadier wheezed. "The White Organization doesn't forget. And the Academy? They've already marked this entire sector for 'Saturation Purge.'"
"Then we leave," Raiden said. His voice was different now—deeper, vibrating with the low-frequency hum of the Archive.
"Leave? To where? The wasteland is crawling with S-Rank aberrations, and the cities are death traps." The Brigadier pointed a mechanical finger at a hidden hatch in the floor. "There's only one person who can get us across the Neutral Zone. But he doesn't take credits. He takes... pieces."
Two Hours Later - The Under-Market
The Under-Market was a labyrinth of rusted shipping containers buried deep beneath the slums. It was a neutral ground where monsters and humans traded in the only currency that mattered: Essence.
Raiden walked through the crowded aisles, his hood pulled low. Mia gripped his cloak, her eyes wide as she saw creatures that were half-smoke and half-flesh bartering for jars of human memories.
They stopped in front of a stall draped in crimson silk. Behind the counter sat a figure wrapped in blood-red bandages. No skin was visible, only a pair of glowing yellow eyes that seemed to rotate in their sockets.
"The Crimson Merchant," the Brigadier whispered.
The figure leaned forward, the scent of old copper and dried roses wafting from the bandages. "A 'Zero' with a pulsing heart... and a 'Governor' who smells of sunlight. What a rare harvest has stumbled into my garden."
"We need passage to the Iron Citadel," the Brigadier said, tossing a heavy bag of refined Livar crystals onto the counter.
The Merchant didn't even look at the bag. He waved a bandaged hand, and the crystals turned to dust. "Keep your rocks, old man. I want something from the boy."
The Merchant's gaze locked onto Raiden's scarred arm. "Ten years of your future memories. Give them to me, and I will give you the shadows you need to bypass the Academy's orbital lasers."
"Raiden, no!" Mia cried, clutching his arm.
Raiden looked at his hand. The Archive pulsed, a hunger pang echoing in his gut. Ten years of memories. He would forget the faces of the people he was trying to protect. He would forget why he started this fight.
"Five years," Raiden countered, his voice cold. "And I choose which ones."
The Merchant laughed—a sound like dry leaves skittering on a grave. "A bargainer! Very well. Give me your five happiest memories of the woman who raised you. In exchange, I grant you the Cloak of the Unseen."
Raiden felt a sharp pang in his chest. His mother's smile. The smell of the bread she used to bake. The sound of her singing to Mia.
"Deal," Raiden said, his voice barely a whisper.
The Merchant reached out and touched Raiden's forehead. A cold, numbing sensation washed over Raiden's brain. For a moment, he saw his mother's face... then it blurred, faded, and vanished into a gray fog. He tried to reach for it, but it was gone. He felt lighter, but the hollowness in his chest grew until it was almost unbearable.
The Merchant pulled back, holding a shimmering ball of golden light. He tucked it into his robes and handed Raiden a tattered, pitch-black cloak.
"The shadows are yours, Zero. Use them well... while you still remember who you are."
As they walked away, Raiden didn't look back. He didn't notice the tear rolling down his cheek, because he could no longer remember the face that used to wipe them away.