The march had barely stopped when a scream tore through the camp.
Steel rang. Boots hit dirt. Half-asleep mercenaries rolled to their feet with weapons already in hand.
[Sacrifice]: How the hell are you still alive?
The voice came from inside a medical tent.
Those closest hesitated—then peered in.
Protector stood there without armor.
Bare to the waist.
And impossible.
His chest rose—but not naturally. Each breath was dragged in through a web of tubes and filters bolted into his back, hissing faintly with every inhale. The sound that followed wasn't a heartbeat.
It was ticking.
Metallic. Rhythmic. Wrong.
His arms were gone.
Both replaced by crude mechanical prosthetics—Sarkaz-made, mismatched, bolted directly into ruined flesh. Where steel met muscle, the skin had necrotized. Blackened tissue peeled away from rusted plates. Pus seeped from seams that should never have existed.
Crystals jutted from his ribs.
From his collarbone.
From his spine.
Advanced Oripathy—untreated, unchecked, and somehow stalled rather than killing him outright. His blood carried a metallic stench strong enough to taste. Metal poisoning layered on top of organ failure, layered on top of sheer refusal to die.
Sacrifice stepped closer.
Her eyes didn't widen.
Her hands didn't shake.
But her voice lowered.
[Sacrifice]: Your lungs are assisted. Your heart is artificial. Your blood is toxic. Your infection level should have killed you years ago.
She reached out and pressed two fingers against his chest.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
[Sacrifice]: You're not alive.
Protector met her gaze calmly.
[Protector]: I know.
She pulled her hand back slowly.
[Sacrifice]: You are a walking body being carried forward by machinery and stubbornness.
A pause.
[Sacrifice]: …Who did this to you?
Protector was silent for a long moment.
When he finally spoke, his voice was distant, like he was trying to remember something painful.
[Protector]: I did.
A pause.
[Protector]: Ursus wasn't merciful to us. As soon as I left the clan—with the others—we were hunted.
His gaze drifted, unfocused.
[Protector]: I can't remember much. Just fragments. Snow. Iron. Screaming.
Another pause.
[Protector]: There were eight of us.
His jaw tightened once.
[Protector]: I'm the only one left.
Sacrifice exhaled through her nose.
[Sacrifice]: Of course, you can't remember.
She stepped closer, fingers already moving—tracing scars, seams, inconsistencies.
[Sacrifice]: Your skull creaks when you turn your head.
She tapped lightly behind his ear.
[Sacrifice]: I found three nails driven into the back of your head. Unsterilized. No anesthetic.
Her voice sharpened.
[Sacrifice]: Removing them without proper tools—or without severing the wrong connection—will kill you.
She followed the embedded wires with her eyes, down his neck, into his shoulders.
[Sacrifice]: They're tied directly into your spine. Your nerves. Routed into the control lattice for these arms—
She stopped.
Stared.
[Sacrifice]: …Is that rust?
Protector glanced at his arm, then shrugged faintly.
A dry chuckle scraped out of him.
[Protector]: Looks like it. Guess iron can rust after a few years of stress.
Sacrifice didn't respond immediately.
Her eyes tracked the pipes along his spine—the way heat pulsed through them in uneven waves. The smell of old metal and infection hung heavy in the tent.
[Sacrifice]: Then start talking.
She tapped one of the exposed conduits, heat stinging even through her glove.
[Sacrifice]: These pipes are venting excess heat. And the wounds from your neck down to your waist aren't cosmetic.
Protector inhaled—slow, mechanical.
The sound that followed wasn't breath.
It was rhythm.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
[Protector]: You hear that?
[Sacrifice]: I do.
[Protector]: That's my heart.
He placed a hand over his chest. There was no pulse beneath it—only vibration.
[Protector]: It's an engine. Has a ticking meter to regulate pressure and keep the blood moving.
A pause.
[Protector]: Or… that's what I remember it being for.
His brow furrowed.
[Protector]: The rest is fuzzy.
He gestured weakly to the tubing running up his back.
[Protector]: My lungs were removed. Both of them. Replaced with a single artificial lung.
Another pause.
[Protector]: Plastic… or steel. Not sure anymore.
Sacrifice's jaw tightened.
[Protector]: Everything else—
His fingers twitched against metal plating.
[Protector]: Replaced. Reinforced. Hollowed out.
He looked at her then, eyes steady.
[Protector]: It was the only way to survive Advanced Oripathy. They kept swapping parts as the crystals spread.
His voice dropped.
[Protector]: Until most of my insides crystallized anyway. What was organic didn't last.
Silence filled the tent.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Sacrifice finally straightened.
She turned away, rummaging through her medical kit with controlled movements.
[Sacrifice]: Fine. For now.
She set down vials and tubing.
[Sacrifice]: I can't undo this. I can't remove the nails. I can't replace what's gone.
She looked back at him.
[Sacrifice]: All I can do is slow the infection, treat the metal poisoning, and give you antibiotics.
A pause.
[Sacrifice]: And a blood transfer.
Her voice softened—not by much.
[Sacrifice]: It won't fix you. But it should reduce the pain.
She met his eyes.
[Sacrifice]: That's all I'm allowed to give a body that refuses to die.
Protector exhaled.
The sound rattled through tubing and valves instead of lungs.
[Protector]: …Thank you, Green.
Sacrifice paused mid-motion.
Her hand hovered over the tubing.
[Sacrifice]: Who is Green?
Protector stared at the tent ceiling.
For a moment, the ticking in his chest was the only sound.
[Protector]: The one person I regret forgetting.
His jaw tightened—just slightly.
[Protector]: I don't remember their face. Or their voice.
A pause.
[Protector]: Just the color.
Silence settled again, heavier than before.
Then his eyes shifted toward the tent entrance.
[Protector]: Also—be careful with that vampire.
Sacrifice didn't look up.
[Protector]: I remember his armor.
His gaze sharpened, focus briefly returning.
[Protector]: I've seen it before. Long ago.
He frowned.
[Protector]: And a vampire without a name is rarer than a green slug.
A beat.
[Protector]: Things that are rare tend to survive for a reason.
The ticking continued.
Steady.
[And far away ███████ , and ███████ were watching]
[HINT]
[Chapter end]