After consuming the stale bread, which brought a minimal sense of satisfaction, Neale reflected on the information he had gathered and his next steps.
"One week, Neale... just seven days until V-Zero arrives with the students. I just have to hold on," he whispered to himself, trying to stay motivated.
He was now isolated in the small building he had found earlier—one of the few spots in Valerium that offered any semblance of privacy for his thoughts. The feeling of being watched earlier hadn't been mere paranoia; the icy discomfort that had settled on his skin was an instinctive warning that had momentarily replaced the pain, hunger, and exhaustion in his body. That short, hooded man—with a presence that weighed on and disturbed the senses, not through raw strength, but through something that crawled and screamed beneath his feet and stretched through his shadow—was a man who seemed to carry the deaths of many on his shoulders, his hands dripping with blood as he stalked Neale through the streets.
Neale jolted awake. It was still dark, and sweat poured down his forehead. That man was definitely a threat, perhaps even a member of the Power Mercenaries the soldiers had mentioned. Neale stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow. He needed to calm down and, from now on, avoid drawing any attention to himself to keep from being robbed—or worse—by the threat hunting through the city of Valerium.
Approaching one of the broken windows to breathe in the slight night breeze, which carried the scent of mold and rust, Neale crouched low. With the faint moonlight illuminating the dusty floor beneath his feet, he opened the backpack leaning against the wall and pulled out Sergeant O.M.'s diary and his mother's torn overcoat. Memories of his family flooded back, and he recalled the map his mother had made him memorize, along with flashes of the time he had spent with his parents.
Using the dusty floor and the weak moonlight filtering through the clouds, he began to sketch parts of the map he remembered. Based on his memory, the Steel Bridge wasn't marked as an Order outpost, but combining the soldiers' talk with the diary, it was clear the bridge was a neutral, relatively forgotten point about two or three days from Valerium—not accounting for detours through woods, war debris, or the Absolute Races that could appear at any time.
Neale traced a path on his makeshift map, trying to predict the route the Order convoy would take during its journey. Since the bridge was neutral ground, Neale couldn't imagine what the Order commander was thinking, as that could also be a route for humanity's enemies, including the mercenaries. Valerium, despite its chaos, was a hub of opportunity and one of the closest cities to Kirden. The city's black market had to be thriving with Kirden as its neighbor.
Slow down. First, a disguise, he thought. All he had was his mother's torn overcoat and decent clothes that were now ripped and filthy. He looked like someone who had just crawled out of a war zone or the nearest landfill. While Valerium wasn't a symbol of luxury, there was a limit to what one could wear; Neale's current state screamed "filthy outsider." But the real problem was the white streaks in his hair—they drew more attention than everything else combined. He remembered one of his father's survival lessons: a mixture of soot and animal fat used to darken fabrics. Perhaps it would work for his hair.
He scavenged the building and found empty cans, old burnt rubber, and, most importantly, an old wood-burning stove that had been used by other squatters. At the bottom, there was a good amount of dry black soot. Using the little stagnant water left in the cans, he created a thick, dark paste. It was uncomfortable and irritating, but he carefully covered the white streaks, turning them into a matte, messy black that blended with the rest of his hair.
White streaks hidden. Next step: Valerium.
The clock was ticking. He had one week ahead of him. He needed a way to survive until the convoy reached Valerium and a way to ensure his safety while he waited.
The Sanchez R. boy picked up the multi-tool—the small tool he had found with the diary. It was likely dull by now, the tip worn down and the blade still stained with the dark, viscous blood of the lesser winged demonic beast.
He left the building, glancing at the moon. It was likely between ten and midnight. Even though Valerium never truly slept, its frantic pace had slowed. The air was cold and dense, and the smoke from campfires created a low, dark mist. Neale headed toward what seemed to be the industrial night center. It looked vastly different from the morning; abandoned warehouses gave way to small shacks, tents, and slightly larger buildings pulsing with bright lights. This was the beating heart of Valerium's night market.
He heard murmurs, the sound of drunks playing illegal games of chance, the shouts of vendors, desperate refugees losing their last coins, crowded bars, and women selling themselves in alleys. The first thing that caught his eye, after a few women waved at him, was a burly man in a leather vest with a belt full of knives of various shapes and sizes. He was also selling what appeared to be Order military rations at exorbitant prices. Neale knew these rations were vacuum-sealed with the Order's symbol to preserve them for long periods. They were hard to get; either the packaging was fake, or the man had contacts within the Order. Neale approached, feigning mild curiosity.
"Hey, kid. You're too young to be out this late, especially on a street like this. Go find some scrap or something else to do," the vendor growled, his eyes narrowed and suspicious as he glanced toward the women nearby.
"I'm not as young as I look, and I'm hungry," Neale replied, deepening his voice to sound older. "I... have this. Is it worth anything?"
He opened his hand, revealing a small fragment of oxidized copper about the size of his palm. It wasn't worth much—maybe the equivalent of a single coin. Neale was testing him.
The vendor laughed—a dry, raspy sound followed by a light cough. "Copper? Kid, my stall isn't for trading scrap or charity. That's worth a few coins at most—one, if you're lucky."
Neale nodded, his eyes fixed on the knives and food while he listened intently.
"Hmm... But you'd trade if it was something valuable that you could resell for a high price, right? What do you think of some silver pieces and this?"
Neale pulled the silver fragments he had torn from the overcoat's trim out of his pockets, along with his multi-tool.
"Silver, huh? It doesn't look pure, so it's not worth much. Just a few pieces... two coins, I'd say. And this knife, kid? What is this junk? It's worth nothing."
Neale looked the vendor in the eye. "Are you sure? Look again. Don't you feel the energy coming off it? This is a blade coated in the blood of a lesser winged demonic beast. I imagine you could sell it for a lot of money... and it would be worth even more if you used it to coat your 'beast-remains' coins with its energy. Those are rare."
The vendor hesitated. A blood-coated blade was valuable. After a moment of caution, he reached a conclusion. "Fine, kid. I'll buy the knife, but I don't have enough cash on hand for what it's worth. How about the money plus something from my stock?"
Neale agreed and chose two knives, each about the size of his forearm.
"But if this knife is worth so much, why didn't you coat your own coins, kid?" the vendor asked.
Neale shook his head, saying he would have, but lacked the resources.
The vendor finalized the deal. "Here. One coin made from beast remains, and twenty normal coins."
Neale took his knives and his money and left. He now needed to focus on food and clean clothes to pass as a student and infiltrate the convoy. The plan was risky, but if he was lucky, they wouldn't notice him when they departed after refueling.
Now he just needed a bar with decent food that wasn't too expensive and a clothing store. While walking, Neale heard strange whispers coming from a dark alley. He stopped; there were people in black cloaks.
He didn't want to linger, but a word caught his ear: a mission with a massive reward. He couldn't see them clearly—there were three, maybe five of them—but the mission they were discussing concerned the Order convoy coming to Valerium, and Vehicle Zero specifically.
Neale's gaze frozen. He wasn't the only one after the Order. But while he wanted to become a student, they wanted something much more violent in the name of profit.
Things were taking a turn for the worse.