Deacon crouched low as he carefully eased the manhole cover back into place in order not to bring any undue attention to himself. After the shit he'd just been through, he did not need some guard or priest on his tail and ruin all the effort he'd gone through to pass undetected.
"… Please, for the love of the System, don't slip," Deacon muttered to himself as his fingers pinched the grooves of the manhole cover, pressing it flush against the lip of the sewer tunnel. After which he'd done so, he pulled himself back and rose into a low crouch with nary a sound.
Slowly rising from his crouch, as his eyes swept the space around him, Deacon rolled his aching shoulders and massaged his lower back from having to climb up the tunnel while pressing in on himself to prevent him from getting more sewer muck on himself.
Finally fed up with the muffled wheeze of his own breathing through the mask's regulators, he yanked off the black, sponge-like mask that still reeked of sewer muck.
Deacon's mind immediately went at ease after taking his first breath of surface air as for the first time since stepping into the tunnels, the stink of rot and bile no longer held his lungs in a vice, and instead filled them with the scent of tulips, grass, and trees.
He was no longer underground; he was standing in the middle of a garden.
"Sun Garden," Deacon muttered under his breath as he pulled out his manaphone and started forward a few paces. He peeled the mask from his face, its sputtering filtration enchantments flickering like dying embers, and tossed it into a metal garbage bin tucked in the corner of a hedge with a silent prayer: Thank you for your service.
Opening his eyes back up and looking at the glowing map beneath his gauntleted thumb, Deacon located where he was quite easily due to the garden being the largest patch of greenery within Dawn's Breath. "… So, this is supposed to be a Sun Garden, huh?"
Looking up from his manaphone, Deacon let his eyes sweep the garden as he pressed himself against the corner of the hedges to avoid the golden glowing lights of the lamp posts strewn about and began stalking the dark corners of the garden to maneuver about.
As Deacon surveyed his surroundings, he took notice of the bright green trees stretched overhead, their trunks twisting into thick crowns that swallowed the moonlight. Every few trees, marble benches sat at their bases, their legs choked with ivy. By the fountains, he spotted small altars painted with the sigil of the sun, and surrounding their bases were offerings of food, wine, and silk. The moment he came across them, they didn't stay beneath the sun altars long. Each one quickly found its way into a new home: his Spatial Sling Bag.
"Thank you, I'll put these to good use," he whispered, brows knitting as his lips twisted into a wry half-smile as he quickly popped a strawberry into his mouth.
Flicking his manaphone back open, Deacon shifted his focus to the map. After a moment of tracing the glowing lines, he finally pieced together the path he'd need to take to reach the nearest water well without having to walk through the holy flame-powered street lamps that protected the gates of the Sun Garden.
"Oh," he breathed, surprise curling through his voice, as he noticed on the map there was a decent-sized opening in the eastern side of the garden's walls – however, Deacon barely gave it any more than a glance and focused on the southern walls of the garden instead, where the closest water well was.
Given how there was an obviously destroyed wall section on the garden wall, and how some dumbass leaked the maps of both kingdoms online, it was probably either patched back up by some of the cadets who chose to have construction classes or maybe even trapped by them, Deacon mused to himself. Which means that I should just say fuck it, and leap onto the wall and land on the rooftops of some house near the southern wall.
***
Approaching the water well with his spear tucked neatly between his arm and side, Deacon kept his stride steady and face tense in order not to appear out of place. And judging by how nobody gave him more than a passing glance, he'd succeeded.
As he saluted the guards stationed around the plaza, armor a touch fancier than his own and that of the other soldiers, he mimicked the same salute he'd seen plenty of others give on approach. They barely spared him more than a curt nod before dismissing his presence entirely and turning their attention back to their game of backgammon.
When he reached the well, he braced the spear against his side and set his hands on the pulley's crank. The old wood creaked, ropes straining as the bucket came rattling up from the dark below.
Hushed voices drifted through the plaza; guards on patrol trading words while pretending to keep their eyes sharp, and cadets murmuring amongst themselves as they took their breaks from manning the Outer Wall.
"…still doesn't feel real," one muttered off to his left, low and bitter. "General Obi's just… gone. Azul above, the man trained half of us, and now his corpse is being defiled by them – probably transforming him into an undead slave."
Another voice, older, steadier, answered, "We just have to trust Azul. Trust the Bishop. Faith's what holds us now, and with that, we must focus on enduring and keeping diligent to prevent the undead from breaching the walls."
Deacon's hands didn't falter on the crank, but his lip curled faintly under the helmet.
As the full bucket of water thunked against the stone lip of the well, unable to rise any higher due to some full stop preventative measure someone had implemented on it, Deacon lowered his upper body slightly and dragged it up.
From his right, another group of voices carried closer – cadets, judging by the way they whined.
"…still pissed we lost it," one grumbled. "We had Kaius on his knees, I swear it. One more push, and the General would've dropped, but fucking of course not. Those bastards who were on the undead's side got our general first! We were so fucking close man," the male cadet grumbled as he kicked a small stone away from his path. "Fuck, man."
"Yeah, and what were we supposed to do?" another snapped from beside him. "Fight Liam Ross' Party for it? The guy's the Heir of the Ross family. And by the tits of the Ever Sanctity, practically everyone in the top 50 who joined his Party was on his side from the start."
The first voice scoffed. "Doesn't matter. We still could've had it if not for the timing – we had the undead general on his knees and practically had him with both feet in the grave… fuck man…"
Deacon's brow twitched as the memory of him killing Jeremiah came to mind. While he hadn't seen much of the fight outside, after he'd received the notification that the Floor had completed, he'd quickly stored Jeremiah's body into his Spatial Storage and as he leaped off the top of the movable siege tower, he did remember catching the sight of the Undead General, General Kaius, looking barely able to stand on two legs before he got teleported to the back lines to get healed.
"…Not wrong," Deacon muttered under his breath. "Looked like Kaius was half a corpse by then."
Another cadet chimed in with a snide laugh. "Doesn't matter. Liam had it locked. Rich bastard's never fought fair in his life."
Deacon's brow rose beneath the helmet as he immediately recognized the voice of the person who'd just spoken; the cadet from Floor One who'd threatened to bite his dick off when he and Jass were headed to the substation.
Deacon's lips twitched into a grin he hid behind the rim of the bucket. You've gotta be shitting me.
Tilting the kettle helm down a fraction, he angled his head away from the sound of that voice and let the shadow swallow most of his features. No point tempting fate. He hooked the bucket up onto the stone lip of the well with one hand, unclipped his Water Tin with the other, and twisted its lid free with slow, careful turns. Setting the cap down against the stone, he hefted both, keeping his movements casual, almost bored.
Lowering his arms so they stayed below the lip of the well, he tipped the bucket, stream of water sloshing into the tin. His gloves darkened under the overflow as the tin filled too quickly, thin rivulets sliding down his knuckles and dripping back into the well below.
Only after a full minute, long enough for the vial he'd dumped earlier to be thoroughly bled into the water and disguised under the constant trickle, did he let the bucket drop. The pulley rope rattled as it fell, a distant splash echoing up from the dark shaft. Deacon raised the now full tin, screwed the cap back on.
"What are you doing here alone, soldier?" said a voice from beside him after a hand clamped down on his pauldron.
Holy mana thrummed through the grip, seeping past leather and steel to bite into his skin like a nest of hornets, and the flesh beneath his left shoulder writhed, twitching against the sanctified touch.
Deacon's head shot up, eyes going wide for the briefest second before instinct took over and he drew in a breath.
Turning fully to face the one who'd seized him, Deacon squared his stance, making sure his back stayed angled away from the cadets whose chatter still rang in his ears –especially the one belonging to Hames Michaels.
The man who grabbed hold of his shoulder wasn't just any officer. He wore full plated armor, his pauldrons were trimmed in silver and gold, displaying three dots atop a sword and spear, chestplate scrubbed clean compared to the dull, grime-spattered armor of the others.
He was a platoon commander.
…Fuck.
"Your answer, soldier?" The voice of the platoon commander made a few surrounding conversations stumble and die.
"Where is the rest of your squad?" the commander pressed while keeping his tone low and staring directly into Deacon's eyes.
A beat passed in silence before Deacon wetted his dry lips and answered, "Resting. My squad is resting."
The commander's brows pulled together, a look of raw incredulity flashing across his face, and for a brief moment, it looked like he was going to lash out right then and there.
Instead, he closed his eyes and dragged in a breath through his nose, visibly reigning himself in. When his eyes opened again, they burned hotter than before.
"I will offer you the utmost benefit of the doubt," the commander said, his tone cutting through the plaza like a blade, "and ask you to explain before I flog you right here, right now."
Deacon didn't flinch and kept his voice steady. "My squad is recovering, sir. They had been gravely injured while fighting."
The commander's lips twitched at Deacon's reply, but he didn't speak.
Deacon let the silence hang, just long enough for it to seem as though he were coming to terms with his thoughts before continuing.
"My brother, Bennett… lost an arm protecting another member of our squad. Because I–" he let the word hang heavy, "–fucked up. I let my anger blind me, did something foolish, and all of them paid for it. They're torn apart because of a mistake I made in the heat of anger..."
His gaze dropped to the ground, his voice almost a whisper now. "I know it happens in war. I know it's not rare. But the priests… the healers… they can't fix everyone – not enough potions, mana, or time to heal everyone. And we don't have the coin to pay for miracles from the higher clergy." He clenched his fist against the shaft of his spear, raising his chin again. "And my base salary barely covers food for all of us after getting them the supplies they need to keep them alive."
"… So, I'm doing anything I can while being on the reserves to get money to get my squad back on their feet; restocking the walls with supplies, mucking out road apples, anything I can to get my squad what they need," Deacon said resolutely.
The commander was still for a moment, looking at Deacon's face hard. In the long, drawn-out silence, the entire plaza was also silent, all holding their collective breath for the platoon commander's reply.
Finally, the commander, seemingly coming to terms with what he was going to say, stepped closer to Deacon and replaced his hand back onto his shoulder and dug his holy mana back into Deacon's shoulder before leaning close to Deacon's ear.
"I want you to go into the alley. The one in front of you." His tone dropped into a growl, quiet enough that only Deacon could hear. "My soldiers are already waiting. We'll have ourselves a little chat."
The commander's head turned just enough for his green eyes to lock directly onto Deacon's dark ones, sharp as broken glass.
"If you go in any other direction," he said, voice flat, final, "I will cut you down where you stand."
The words curled into Deacon's ear like smoke, the last hiss dragging across his nerves.
"Capisce, you undead scum?"