The hallway remained quiet.
Too quiet.
Blaine moved forward, steps controlled, the jagged pipe still in his grip. Blood—dark, thick—dripped from its edge. He didn't wipe it off. The weapon was crude, but functional. Sentiment didn't matter. Utility did.
The flickering lights above cast everything in unstable shadows. Each door he passed was identical. Closed. Silent. But not empty. He could feel it now—the faint pressure of presence behind some of them. Waiting. Breathing. Watching.
He didn't open any.
Curiosity killed soldiers. Mercenaries knew better than to knock on unmarked doors.
Then—
A sound.
"…help…"
Soft. Weak. Barely audible.
Blaine stopped.
The voice came from ahead. A door slightly open, pale light bleeding through the crack.
"…please…"
Human. Or close enough to mimic it.
Once, as a soldier, he would have moved toward it. Duty. Protect civilians. Standard protocol drilled into every recruit until it became reflex.
Later, as a mercenary, he would have weighed the odds. Profit versus risk. A contract's value against the chance of an ambush.
He had been both. He was neither now.
His body was weak. His instincts were not. And those instincts—forged in one long life of war and contracts—had seen bait before.
A wounded voice in hostile territory. An open door waiting to be pushed. The setup was older than any battlefield he'd fought on.
Too clean. Too easy. Too familiar.
He stepped closer anyway. Not from compassion. From calculation. If something was hunting, he wanted to see its method. Better to face a known trap than stumble into it blind.
He stopped outside the door.
"…help me…"
The voice trembled. Broken. Convincing.
Blaine pushed the door open.
Creak.
Inside, a man lay crumpled on the ground. Blood soaked through his torn clothing. One arm twisted at an unnatural angle. His breathing was shallow, ragged. His eyes—wide, wet—locked onto Blaine with desperate hope.
"…please…"
Blaine stood in the doorway. Still. Silent.
Then he spoke.
"How many?"
The man's expression flickered.
"…what…?"
"How many of them are here?"
"…I… I don't know…"
Too slow. Too uncertain. The eyes had shifted left before answering. Looking for support. Looking for something.
A lie.
Blaine's gaze moved past the man. To the door frame. To the shadow behind it. Faint. Barely visible against the flickering light. But there. Moving. Waiting.
The injured man was bait.
The real threat was patient.
His mind mapped the room the way it had mapped a hundred rooms before. Angles. Distance. The bait's position. The hidden attacker's likely strike path. It would be fast—fast enough to rely on surprise. It would aim high. The throat. The face. That was the pattern these things followed.
"…"
Blaine stepped back.
The injured man's expression cracked. Desperation shifted into something sharper.
"Wait—don't leave—!"
The shadow lunged.
Fast. Silent. Claws aimed straight for Blaine's neck.
But Blaine had already moved.
He ducked—not far. Just enough. The claws passed through empty air above his shoulder. His free hand shot up and caught the creature's wrist, riding its momentum rather than resisting it. A shift of weight. A pivot. He smashed the creature against the wall.
Bang.
The impact shook dust from the ceiling.
Before it could recover, he drove the jagged pipe forward.
Stab.
The metal punched through its chest—higher than the last one, closer to the heart. The creature spasmed once, then went still.
Silence.
Blaine pulled the pipe free. The body dropped. Two in one hour. The pattern was emerging. Fast initial charge. Overreliance on surprise. Weakness after the first strike missed. He could exploit that. Bait the charge. Sidestep early. Strike as it passed.
The system flickered.
[Target Eliminated]
[Strength +1]
[Strength: 3]
No instability warning this time. Either the absorption aligned better, or the system was adjusting to him. He'd take either.
He turned toward the man on the ground.
The injured man was frozen. Not in pain. In terror. His act had cracked wide open.
"…you knew…"
His voice shook.
"You knew…?"
Blaine didn't answer. Because the answer was obvious.
He scanned the room quickly. No other shadows. No other breath. The ambush had been a two-man operation. Bait and blade. Simple. Effective against the unprepared.
He wasn't unprepared.
"Is there an exit?"
The man swallowed hard. His hands trembled.
"…yes… stairs… at the end of the hall…"
Blaine nodded once
Then turned away.
"W-wait!"
The desperation was real this time. No act produces that pitch.
"Please… take me with you…"
Blaine stopped.
As a soldier, he would have carried the man out. Duty. Brotherhood. Leave no one behind.
As a mercenary, he would have named a price. Nothing was free. Everything was trade.
This world had no duty. It had no contracts. But it had lessons.
He had just killed two creatures. More would come. A wounded man was a liability in a straight fight, but he was also information. He had survived here longer than Blaine. He knew the layout. The creatures. The patterns.
Value. Not charity.
He spoke without turning.
"If you can walk, follow. If you fall behind, I won't stop."
"…"
The man scrambled to his feet. Unsteady. Slow. But upright.
Blaine walked forward. The pipe dripped in his hand. The hallway stretched ahead. The stairs waited at the end.
Behind him, the man limped after—silent now, no more pleading.
The lesson had been delivered.