I ran until my legs screamed in protest with sharp pains; my body refused to take another step. The forest was my temporary ally, hiding me among its leaves and trees, but with every branch that snapped under my worn sneakers—even as I tried my best to avoid them—the panic I'd felt earlier threatened to paralyze me. I had never been a natural runner, and the lack of sleep and the adrenaline from the night before were taking their toll on my body. Finally, I fell to my knees, coughing, the cold air burning my lungs.
Seeing my mother's overcoat torn like that brought back memories of my family, but with them came a hatred that swelled in my chest—a hatred that, on one hand, pushed me forward, but on the other, consumed me and left me exhausted. I clung to what was left of the coat on my body, pressing it against my chest; it was the only thing between me and the freezing wind of the long dawn.
I was off Route 305, but after perhaps a ten-minute walk, I managed to make out a familiar silhouette through the trees in the morning light: a small, abandoned border post. It was a relic of the old "normal" my parents held so dear—a checkpoint from the time my parents were young, before this war turned everything into a hellscape.
I stumbled toward the old structure. It was a pre-fab concrete cabin with shattered windows and a severely dented metal door, likely from some ancient, cruel attack of the war combined with the passage of time. The symbol of the Order—a clenched fist wreathed in blue flames—was faded on the side of a wall. The fist represented the Order, while the blue flames indicated the House of Cleopatra.
The post was cold and empty, the rising sun filtering through the cracks. There were no signs of recent fighting, which was a relief. The place smelled of mold, dust, and old, damp, shredded paper. I dragged myself into a corner, away from the broken windows, and allowed myself a moment to breathe.
The physical pain was immediate and cruel: muscles trembling, head throbbing, and worst of all, hunger. My stomach was twisting—an undeniable reminder that while vengeance was my new spiritual fuel, my sixteen-year-old body needed something more tangible.
"Food. I need food," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
I began to scavenge. The post didn't have much: a rusty steel table missing a leg, an overturned chair, and a worn-out metal locker. The locker was locked, but the mechanism was old. Using a piece of rebar I found on the floor, I pried the lock with all my strength and weight. The metal groaned in loud protest but gave way.
Inside was a moldy first aid kit, a few torn and empty ammunition boxes, and finally, a treasure: a vacuum-sealed tin of Order emergency biscuits and a nearly full plastic canteen—likely filled with collected rainwater.
I sat on the dirty floor and pried open the tin. The biscuits were hard and tasteless, but they served to dull the hunger. I ate slowly, forcing myself to chew while drinking the water from the canteen. The feeling of energy slowly returning to my body was almost euphoric. It wasn't the comfort of home, but it was enough to keep me moving.
As I ate, I scanned the post carefully for anything useful. That's when I noticed something buried under a pile of old, torn maps in a dark corner: a small, vintage Order backpack. It was a model from the beginning of the war—the new ones are made from the remains of the Absolute Races—but it was sturdy, with two side pockets and a main zipper that seemed intact.
I opened the backpack. It wasn't empty. Inside was a small sewing kit—which immediately made me think of the torn overcoat, though I had no skill in sewing, let alone the ability to reconstruct the entire bottom half that had been ripped away—a multi-tool with a still-sharp blade, and most importantly, a small Order soldier's diary. I took the diary but set it aside to read later.
I packed the remaining biscuits and the canteen into the backpack, along with the sewing kit and the multi-tool. The overcoat was the last thing I packed, folding it carefully. I had supplies, a direction (the city of Kirden), and a goal (vengeance against the Absolute Races).
I was weak, but now I was at least minimally prepared. It was time to get back on the road. The sun was fully visible now, though it was still rising on the horizon; daylight brought a different kind of risk than the darkness of night.