At the edge of the broken road, beyond the drifting smoke and shattered terrain, a line of lights cuts through the haze. He narrows his eyes, focusing past the distortion, and the markings come into view.
Iron blues. Muted blacks.
"The Director's Camp." Midas mutters. He turns immediately toward Anora. She's standing a few paces away, unmoving, her gaze fixed forward but unfocused, like she's staring straight through the shield instead of at the world around her.
"Anora," Midas calls. "Look."
No response.
He glances back at the approaching convoy, then at her again. Her posture is stiff, jaw tight, fingers twitching faintly at her side. She's there, but not really. "Anora," he says again, sharper.
Still nothing.
Midas exhales, irritation creeping in. He strides over, plants himself in front of her, and grips her face, turning her head with firm insistence toward the road. "Look," he says flatly.
Her eyes snap into focus.
The convoy was impossible to miss now. Armored vehicles rolling in disciplined lines, banners snapping faintly in the wind. The insignia of The Director's camp is stamped cleanly onto every surface.
Reinforcements.
Something flickers across Anora's expression with relief, dread, and exhaustion all tangled together. Midas releases her and immediately pulls a flare from his belt. With a sharp motion, he fires it skyward.
The red streak arcs overhead and bursts, marking their position unmistakably. The convoy then headed to the source, coming to a stop as soon as they were near enough.
The doors open. Personnel pour out in organized groups, unloading equipment, erecting barriers, deploying sensors. Within minutes, a temporary encampment begins to shape. It was built efficiently and modular, looking as if it was more for containment rather than comfort.
As the camp forms, a single figure steps away from the convoy, walking toward them with calm, measured strides.
The Director.
He stops in front of Anora, eyes sharp, posture composed. "Report," he says. Anora straightens, pulling herself together. "From the outside," she begins, "there's almost no visible indication of what's happening inside the shield."
She pauses.
"But based on the sounds," she continued, voice lower, "there's extensive destruction. Screams. Explosions." Her jaw tightens. "Something resembling a massacre." The Director absorbs this without visible reaction. He turns to Midas.
"There is truly no conventional way to disable the shield?" he asks. Midas answers immediately. "No. Any regular attempt either fails outright or triggers a catastrophic response."
The Director nods once. "Very well." He activates a communicator "Bring them forward." Movement stirs near the convoy. A figure begins to approach, their presence distinct even before they fully emerge.
The Director gestures toward them. "This," he says evenly, "is the individual I brought specifically to make an entrance through the shield." From the direction of the convoy, a girl steps forward.
She moves with the easy confidence of someone used to unstable terrain and worse company, boots still dusted with the pale grit of the wastes. The equipment strapped to her belt isn't ceremonial or polished, but practical, worn, and clearly replied upon.
She stops a few steps away and inclines her head politely. "Matilda," she says. "Specialist from the wastes. Opilus' personal assistant." Midas' eyes narrow slightly, measuring her. Anora remains silent.
The Director steps in. "She was visiting the camp to retrieve materials Iris requested," he explains. "The present situation proved… educational in her eyes." Matilda smiles faintly. "Unplanned, but valuable."
Her gaze drifts toward the distant dome, then back to Midas. "If I may," she adds, tone casual, "this looks like a containment field triggered prematurely. Automated fail-safe, perhaps?"
Midas stiffens. "That's not possible." Matilda arches a brow. "Machinery fails," she says simply. "Same with me, others, and the best-built systems in the world." Midas shakes his head immediately at her however.
"Not this one. The shield doesn't activate on its own. Every safeguard has no options of self-activation." His voice hardens. "If it's up, it's because someone from inside the system activated it."
Matilda studies him for a moment, then lets out a quiet hum of skepticism. "You're very confident."
"That's because I know my work," Midas replies sharply. "I wouldn't be able to build this if it weren't for my knowledge with old-world technology."
"Sadly, confidence doesn't make systems infallible," Matilda counters. "Especially for systems these complex." Midas opens his mouth to argue further, but Anora's attention drifts, not to the debate, but to the figure standing beside Matilda.
Just behind her shoulder was a kid, lingering close enough to stay protected but far enough to avoid attention. She was trying to make herself small, posture tight with her eyes flicking nervously between faces.
Anora's gaze lingers.
The kid notices and shrinks back a step.
Matilda sighs, following Anora's line of sight. "Right. I should probably address that." She steps slightly aside. "This is Jacklyn." The kid stiffens at the mention of her name. "She's an orphan," Matilda continues, her voice even. "Opilus took an interest in her. She's at the age of her awakening."
Anora frowns. "Doesn't she seem a bit too… small for her age?"
"Height affects everyone differently," Matilda replies. "It might also be a side-effect of her awakening manifesting." Jacklyn grips the edge of Matilda's coat, knuckles pale.
"She's just here to observe," Matilda adds. "Field exposure. Nothing more than that." Her tone sharpens just enough to make it clear that it wasn't negotiable. "I've already requested for her to accompany me on missions to understand how real operations function."
The director inclines his head. "Her request was approved." Matilda nods. "If she's going to awaken, she should know what the world looks like when plans fail." Jacklyn peeks out briefly, her eyes meeting Anora's before darting away again.
Anora studies her, expression unreadable. Midas exhales slowly, rubbing his temple. "This isn't a lesson," he mutters. "Whatever's inside that shield isn't a malfunction." Matilda glances back at the dome, unconvinced. "Then I suppose," she says calmly, "we'll see which of us is right eventually."
The Director shifts his attention back to Midas, his gaze sharp and deliberate. "I want you to join Matilda," he says. "You'll accompany her during the breach." Midas blinks once, then nods. "That's sensible."
"If anyone starts tampering with the shield without knowing its structure, there are dozens of ways for things to go wrong." His expression hardens. "Feedback loops, recursive sealing, energy inversion. Any one of those could kill everyone inside and outside the dome."
Matilda glances at him sidelong. "You assume I'd be careless and make a mistake."
"I assume you don't know my system," Midas answers flatly. "And it would be better to be safe than sorry in these situations." She gives a faint, unconvinced smile but doesn't argue.
"Then it's settled," The Director says. He turns next to Anora, and his tone softens, just slightly. "Anora, you're to rest," he says. "As soon as the tents are ready."
"I'm fine," she starts, immediately. "You're not," he cuts in calmly. "You're exhausted and distracted. That makes you a liability and you know it." Her jaw tightens. She looks past him toward the distant barrier, toward whatever might still be happening inside. Toward Pheo.
"...I can still help," she insists.
"You won't," The Director replies. "Not like this."
Silence stretches until finally, Anora exhales sharply. "Fine."
She turns and walks toward the encampment, shoulders tense and movements stiff. The tents are already up by the time she reaches them, canvas glowing softly from the lights within.
She pulls one open and steps inside, seeing her gear already there. Laid out nearly. Familiar. Every essential piece accounted for, placed exactly how she prefers it. Backup components included with an emergency kit within arm's reach.
Her brow furrows.
"...You planned this," she mutters. "But just how far did you see?" Annoyance flares. Being predicted so precisely always does. Reduced to a variable in The Director's calculations. And yet–
Relief settles beneath it. He hadn't dismissed her. He'd prepared for her. Even now. Anora sinks onto the cot, rubbing her temples, conflicted. "...Thanks," she whispers, even if he'll never hear it.
Outside, Midas steps into position beside Matilda, the shield looming in the distance. After a moment, he speaks. "What exactly are you planning to do," Midas asks, "that could break my barrier?"
There's no accusation in his tone. No challenge, but genuine curiosity. Matilda glances at him, then smiles faintly. "You think I doubt your work?"
"I don't," Midas replies. "I want to know what flaw it has." She considers that for a moment as they walk. "From what I can see," she says slowly, "it's flawless for most people. Structurally, mechanically, and conceptually. Yet somehow, it still failed somewhere."
Midas stops walking. "...Then how?" he asks. Matilda keeps going for two more steps before stopping herself. She turns to face him. "My ability doesn't exploit flaws," she says. "It counters machinery itself."
Midas's eyes narrow. "That's not an answer." She tilts her head. "Think of it like an EMP," she explains, "but not indiscriminate. Not broad-spectrum." Her fingers tap lightly against her glove. "Selective. Based on what I decide shouldn't be on anymore."
Midas feels a chill crawl up his spine. "So no matter the machine, you can decide whether it still works or not?" Matilda nods. "Circuits. Control logic. Feedback systems. Power relays."
She shrugs. "If it qualifies as machinery, I can tell it to stop. Forever." Midas studies her like she's just rewritten a law of physics in front of him. "...Can I watch?" he asks. Matilda's smile widens slightly. "Of course."
She turns back toward the barrier. "It won't be immediate, though. Your shield is complicated. Dense. Layered." A hint of respect enters her voice. "I'll need time to decide where to start."
They resume walking. Matilda moving with easy confidence while Midas having his instinct split between fascination and doubt.
If she's wrong, she'll get us all killed.
But if she can make an entrance…
Just maybe we can save whoever remains inside.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ryu's expression remains unreadable as he moves through the streets, stepping past body after body in his search for the monster. The ait is thick with the aftermath, with metal, smoke, and blood. Each corpse was a silent question he can't yet answer.
Why so many?
He keeps going forward, to continue walking past the bodies even as his mind turns inward. Was there a purpose behind this? Some buried sin of the village, a crime committed long ago that demanded repayment in flesh?
Or was it nothing so grand. Nothing more than cruelty indulged, death treated as nothing but a pastime, something done for entertainment or simply because it could be?
He doesn't know.
He's met people like that before. Many of them. Faces with smiles that didn't match their actions, voices that justified horrors with reasons that collapsed under the slightest pressure.
Personalities so warped that even trying to understand them felt like stepping into a void with no bottom. He keeps walking, searching for an answer, for a solution, anything that could justify what he's seeing.
Then he sees it.
The entity stands ahead, partially obscured by smoke and rubble, but close enough now that the details are unmistakable. Large portions of its body are exposed, the layers of cloth now burnt away to reveal what lies beneath.
Rotting flesh.
Its face, if it can be called that, was now visible. Sagging. Decayed. Something that was once alive, now wearing death as if it was its second skin. Ryu's gaze hardens at the sight of it.
All the questions he had, all the theories he made, all the possible justifications collapsed into a single, undeniable truth as he watches it move.
Violence.
That was its reason.
Not retribution.
Not justice.
Not even madness with a cause.
Just violence. Raw, purposeless, and relentless.
And Ryu knows, with a grim certainty settling in his chest, that it won't stop on its own.
The entity then turned its head toward him. A grin slowly spreading across its ruined face, the muscles tugging at decayed skin that should no longer be able to move. In response, strips of cloth tear free from the surroundings.
Rags, bindings, remnants of garments still connected to him searching all around for any signs of life snapped through the air toward Ryu like living things.
"Tsk."
Ryu moves before they can touch him. His body twists and slides between the lashes with practiced ease, each strip missing him by inches. In the same breath, he plants his foot, boosts forward, and closes the distance in a blink.
His fist crashes into the entity's torso. The impact sends it flying, its body slamming hard into a stone wall with a sickening crack. Dust and fragments rain down as it slides slightly, leaving a dark smear behind.
Ryu pulls his hand back and wipes it against his palm. The spot where he struck it is coated in something viscous. Slimy, stringing slightly between his fingers. He grimaces.
"Disgusting," he mutters. "Fits. You're ugly inside and out." He tries to scape the substance off, irritation clear on his face, until he hears it.
A sound.
Low. Wet. Broken.
His eyes lift.
The entity was moving again, its head twitching as a garbled mumble spills from its mouth. Words. Or almost words, push through the distortion, fragmented and warped, but unmistakably an attempt to speak.
To converse.
Ryu's expression shifts. Not to fear, but to sharp surprise, quickly replaced by cold refusal. "No," he snaps. "Shut up." Whatever it was trying to say doesn't matter. He doesn't want it in his head. He doesn't want to hear the reason.
The entity reacts instantly. It launches itself forward, abandoning whatever the cloth strips were anchored to. The bindings whip back, coiling tight around its fists, hardening into crude, reinforced wrappings as it swings.
The air shudders as it closes in, fists drawn back, intent clear. Ryu squares his stance, eyes locked onto it with not a hint of hesitation in his eyes. If it wants violence, he'll end the conversation the only way it understands.
They collide again, fist against fist. The exchange is brutal and close, knuckles crashing into warped flesh and reinforced bindings, each impact echoing through the ruined space.
Ryu presses the assault relentlessly, his movements sharp and efficient, while the entity staggers and counters in uneven, almost clumsy motions. All the while, it continues to mumble.
Broken sounds spill from its mouth, half-formed syllables dragged through decay, repeating and overlapping as if it's forcing its throat to remember how language works. The noise grates on Ryu's nerves.
"Shut the hell up," he growls. He twists, pivots, and drives a kick into its side with enough force to send it skidding across the ground, tearing through debris before crashing to a halt.
For a moment, he expects it to stay down. But instead, the entity rises, slower than before but more deliberate. When Ryu closes the distance again, it raises its arms and blocks.
The impact jars Ryu's forearm. His eyes narrow. The entity steadies itself, its posture no longer purely reactive. The bindings around its fists tighten, shifting as if responding to intent rather than instinct.
Its head lifts, ruined face angling toward him. Then, clearly, it speaks. "No." The word is rough, dragged out of a ruined throat, but unmistakable. Ryu freezes for half a heartbeat, surprise flickering across his face before he reins it in.
His stance loosens just slightly, not lowering his guard, but no longer mid-strike.
It's learning.
An uncomfortable thought surfaces, one he hadn't expected to entertain in the middle of a fight. Was it possible to contact it? He exhales slowly, eyes never leaving the entity as he speaks, testing the space between them.
"...What are you?"
The entity's lips peel back, the motion slow and uneven, as if the muscles beneath are still remembering what they're meant to do. When it speaks again, the words come haltingly, coherent, but stiff. Forced through rot and binding.
"I… am… vengeance."
Ryu doesn't respond immediately. His eyes flick to the bodies scattered across the ground, then back to the thing standing before him.
"Vengeance," he repeats flatly. "Vengeance for what?"
The entity's head tilts, cloth twitching along its arms like nerves exposed. For a moment, it seems as though it might answer. Its lips part.
"Against the village."
Ryu steps to the side and grips one of the corpses by the arm, dragging it into the open with a rough pull. The body is lighter than it should be, drained by death. He lets it drop at the entity's feet.
"This one wasn't village," Ryu says, crouching and turning the corpse slightly. "Clothes aren't from here. No callouses or signs of labor." His fingers point out the details with practiced certainty. "A tourist."
He straightens, voice tightening. "They came for the festival. That means they didn't come alone, but to celebrate it with others. With family. Maybe with his loved one, and maybe they had kids as well."
His gaze sharpens. "If this is vengeance against the village, so tell me," He gestures at the corpse between them. "Why did they have to die? What part of your vengeance includes a tourist, someone who doesn't live in the village, was this?"
For a moment, the entity was silent. Then it smiled. Not wide, nor manic, just enough to show that it understands the question and rejects it. "As long… as the village… is remembered," it says slowly, savoring each word. "I will not… rest."
"As long as they are… known," the entity continues, its voice steadier now, conviction bleeding through the distortion. "As long as their existence… is known…" Its gaze drifts past Ryu, toward the ruins, the bodies, the broken remnants of celebration.
"My goal… remains unfinished."
Ryu straightens fully, fists tightening at his sides. "So it's not justice," he says quietly. "Not punishment." His eyes harden.
"It's erasure."
Ryu doesn't flinch. "That vengeance of yours?" he says flatly. "It's stupid. A lousy excuse to dress up something far more rotten. Something just like you." The entity's grin twitches at his words.
"I don't care what your real purpose is," Ryu continues. "Knowing it would only make you more disgusting than you already are. Selfish, hollow, pretending this is about justice when it's just you indulging yourself."
He rolls his shoulders, settling his stance. "There's no point in talking anymore. Whatever words come next from that sad excuse of a mouth don't matter. When this ends, only one of us is walking away."
The entity laughs. Not loud, but derisive. A wet, broken sound that echoes off the ruined stone. "How?" it asks. "When I'm already dead?" It raises one arm and drags its fingers to cleanly cut its own flesh. The skin parts like spoiled fabric.
No blood spills out.
Nothing pours, nothing drips. There was only an empty gape, as if the body had forgotten what it was supposed to hold. The entity tilts its head, inviting him to look. "How do you kill," it asks softly, "something that doesn't bleed?"
The cloth around its fists loosens, unraveling and slithering back into the air like shed skin. Its form shifts, not fully changing but adjusting, posture warping into something more deliberate, more aggressive. It unravels some of the cloth wrapping its fists and slowly surrounds the Ryu's surroundings with it.
Ryu exhales slowly. "Then I won't kill you," he says. "I'll break you." The entity's laughter fades into a grin as it steps forward, fists raised. This time, it looked as if it was taking him more seriously, its posture filled with raw intent to kill.