It had been three days since Protector joined the group.
In that time, Sacrifice had carved ten hours out of every day for him alone.
It still wasn't enough.
A dying man was one thing.
A walking corpse with an oath and too much stubborn pride was another entirely.
His condition deteriorated in small, relentless ways. Breath rasped where it shouldn't. Joints locked without warning. Blood appeared without a clear cause, as if his body no longer remembered how to keep itself whole.
Sacrifice treated him anyway.
She cleaned wounds that refused to close. Reset joints that ground like broken gears. Forced food and medicine past a man who claimed hunger had abandoned him years ago.
Protector never complained.
He only apologized—quietly, every time her hands trembled from exhaustion.
By the end of the third day, Sacrifice understood something unpleasant.
This wasn't maintenance.
It was preservation.
And even that was failing.
Sacrifice sat down heavily, the stone cold beneath her, and turned her gaze toward Reth.
He was leaning against a crate, smoking a tightly rolled paper stick like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
He flinched.
Reth inhaled too sharply and nearly swallowed the roll as he snapped his head toward her.
[Reth]: B–Boss— cough— sorry, I wasn't—
She didn't let him finish.
Sacrifice's eyes flicked to his pockets. A moment later, her hand was already there. She plucked the remaining rolls out, calm and precise, like confiscating medical supplies.
Reth froze.
She pulled off her gloves, struck a light, and brought the roll to her lips.
One deep pull.
The paper burned fast under her breath. Smoke filled her lungs, harsh and grounding. She exhaled slowly, staring ahead rather than at him.
[Sacrifice]: If only I had coffee with this.
The smoke drifted between them, heavy and tired.
Reth didn't dare speak.
For the first time since Protector arrived, Sacrifice allowed herself to sit still.
And she looked exhausted.
Her shoulders sagged, just slightly. Enough for Reth to notice.
[Reth]: Boss… maybe you should rest. You've been running yourself dry for three days straight. That big guy hasn't done anything suspicious. Honestly, he gets along with everyone. Even Mordred likes him—and that's saying something.
Reth hesitated, then added quietly.
[Reth]: And he's not some weak stray like me. If he wanted to, he could kill all of us. One swing—forty people gone. Easy.
Sacrifice didn't look at him.
She flicked the lighter again.
[Sacrifice]: The only thing I worry about… is his body.
Smoke curled upward.
[Sacrifice]: Dying. Rotten. Decayed. Half crystal. Open wounds that won't close—no matter what I do.
Her jaw tightened.
[Sacrifice]: That's not strength. That's a countdown.
She lit another roll.
Then a voice came from behind her—low, steady, almost careful.
[Protector]: …Sorry. Sara. I didn't mean to worry you.
She stiffened.
[Sacrifice]: Call me Sacrifice. Not Sara.
A pause.
[Protector]: You just reminded me of someone. An angry dragon.
For a moment, there was almost a hint of warmth in his tone.
[Protector]: May I have a roll? The last time I smoked was with my Captain in Kazimierz—when he won the title of [Black Rose Knight].
Reth turned sharply.
He stared at Protector, eyes wide now.
[Reth]: Boss Protector—were you the [Coffin Weeping Knight]?
Protector didn't answer immediately.
Reth pressed on, voice rising with disbelief.
[Reth]: The one who won the Major twice? The first time, you walked in carrying a coffin full of black flowers… and a headless body inside.
Silence.
[Reth]: And when you won every round—when they crowned you—you carried the coffin straight into the Hall of Glory and screamed—
Reth swallowed.
[Reth]: "This is the real champion."
The camp felt suddenly smaller.
The words settled over the camp like falling ash.
Protector stood very still.
[Protector]: …Yes. That was me. I won the first time for my captain. The second time was for myself.
He tilted his head slightly.
[Protector]: Strange that you know of this.
Reth let out a dry laugh.
[Reth]: Every Sarkaz knows.
He gestured vaguely eastward—toward Kazimierz.
[Reth]: A Sarkaz knight crushing Kazimierz's finest twice. Breaking through the Silver Gates of their capital alone when they tried to hunt him down for winning.
Reth grinned, sharp and humorless.
[Reth]: We laughed for weeks when the official report came out. All praise for the "heroic knights of Kazimierz"—until halfway through it just… panicked.
His voice dropped, mimicking the tone.
[Reth]: "—a hostile Sarkaz force breached the Silver Gates of the Pegasus—"
He snorted.
[Reth]: Turns out that "force" was just you.
Silence followed.
[Protector]: …They wanted their glory back. So I showed them the consequences of their actions.
Sacrifice studied him for a long moment.
[Sacrifice]: This reminds me of what your job was before you came here.
Protector didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was plain. Almost dull.
[Protector]: Nothing special. I was a watchmaker.
Reth blinked.
A few nearby mercenaries—who had very much been pretending not to listen—stiffened.
[Protector]: Had a family. And fists good enough to keep food on the table.
Reth stared at him.
[Reth]: …You're telling me the man who tore apart a silver gate for fun used to make watches?
[Sacrifice]: Hard to believe you were repairing springs and gears when you just told me you shattered a gate made of silver.
Protector exhaled. The sound rattled faintly through metal.
[Protector]: When a kid grows up running the family shop… and he's the eldest… it falls on him.
He looked down at his hands.
Metal now.
Once not.
[Protector]: I was reckless. Young. Half-trained. Thought I was stronger than I was.
A pause.
[Protector]: That mistake cost me my brothers.
No one laughed now.
[Protector]: After that… my parents didn't last long. Illness. Debt. Grief. They left us a shop with a bad name—and mouths that still needed feeding.
His jaw tightened.
[Protector]: So I did the only thing I knew how to do.
Reth leaned forward without realizing.
[Protector]: Underground fights. Bare hands. Sometimes, with steel watches strapped to my arms for weight.
A faint, humorless breath.
[Protector]: I beat men with knives. Swords. One of them even brought a gun.
Someone swore quietly under their breath.
[Protector]: Winning brings attention. Not all of it is bad.
He lifted his head slightly.
[Protector]: One night, a man watched the fights without cheering. Didn't bet. Didn't blink.
The ticking in his chest felt louder.
[Protector]: He called himself... I forgot, so let us call him Captain.
Sacrifice's eyes narrowed.
[Protector]: He told me to follow him. Told me not to ask questions.
A beat.
[Protector]: I never regretted listening.
His voice softened—just barely.
[Protector]: He took a broken watchmaker… and gave him a uniform.
A longer pause.
[Protector]: Gave me a reason to hit people for something other than survival. I followed that man in this life…and the one before it.
His mechanical fingers curled once.
[Protector]: I will follow him in the next one as well.
Sacrifice studied him carefully.
[Sacrifice]: You remember all of this?
Protector shook his head.
He lifted one finger.
[Protector]: Many things are missing, Whole years. Battles without faces. Names without voices.
He tapped the side of his skull.
[Protector]: This forgets.
Then he tapped his arm. Metal rang softly.
[Protector]: This remembers.
He raised three fingers.
[Protector]: Three things only.
One finger lowered.
[Protector]: The one who taught me how to punch.
Another.
[Protector]: How to punch.
The last finger stayed raised.
[Protector]: And the one who took him away.
The fire crackled.
No one spoke.
Because everyone understood—
That was enough.
[Note: Protector remembers himself being a Watchmaker because of his heart ticking]
[Somewhere in Nevada... I mean, Kazakhstan... just somewhere on Holy Terra]
[…Somewhere in Kazdel]
Cold stone drank the torchlight.
A Sarkaz with white hair knelt at the foot of a throne carved from blackened rock and fused bone. His mask—bleached and expressionless—hid everything except the discipline in his posture.
Upon the throne sat another white-haired Sarkaz.
He did not lean forward.
He did not need to.
The air itself seemed to wait for his permission.
[Sarkaz with white hair]: Lord Qui'sartuštaj. I have confirmed the rumors. The wandering Wendigo exists. He has attached himself to a large caravan of strays led by a Sarkaz girl.
A pause.
[Sarkaz with white hair]: Preliminary assessment suggests the girl carries a high concentration of Diablo's blood.
The figure on the throne rested his chin against one knuckle, pale eyes half-lidded.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: A Wendigo.
His voice was calm. Almost curious.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: A race reduced to remnants. Five… perhaps fewer. And one walks openly across Terra without our notice?
A faint sound—something between a breath and a laugh.
He lifted a finger.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: Did you determine why it remains alive?
The kneeling Sarkaz lowered his head further.
[Sarkaz with white hair]: No, my lord. Only that it is heavily augmented and no longer fully biological.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: Then extract what remains.
His tone did not change.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: Secure its genetic material. Once obtained, dispose of the body. A Wendigo that walks free is a waste.
He shifted his gaze, sharp now.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: As for the girl… drain her completely. Diablo-blooded Sarkaz are not grown. They are rare now.
The kneeling Sarkaz did not hesitate.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: The rest of the caravan is irrelevant. Cull them. Retain only those with exceptional traits.
He paused, fingers tapping the arm of the throne.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: Take Qui'saršinnag with you.
The name carried weight.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: And bring the experiment.
A faint, almost fond smile crossed his face.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: Use her until failure. When she expires, recycle what remains. Combine it with the new materials. Construct a replacement.
His eyes sharpened.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: My dear sister… my daughter{Yes, that is true}…She is growing close to her.
Silence thickened.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: That will not do.
He leaned back.
[Qui'sartuštaj]: Go, Confessarius.
The kneeling Sarkaz pressed a fist to his chest.
[Confessarius]: Yes, Lord Qui'sartuštaj.
He rose, turned, and vanished into the darkness—leaving the throne, and the quiet hunger seated upon it, behind.
[chapter end]