Neale, in despair, ran like a cornered animal, but his mind still seemed cold and thinking strategically within the limits of his situation. Fear was not a brake but a catalyst, turning panic into adrenaline that raced through his body. The mercenary's knife, long and sharp, swung with him, softly reflecting the bright, distant light of the streetlamps along the blade; each flash was like a beacon constantly announcing danger. The icy sensation that accompanied the mercenary's presence seemed to pursue Neale — a supernatural feeling Neale could sense even from afar, stuck to his heels.
"Four days," the countdown echoed in his mind like a scream. He had to shake the mercenary; he couldn't die here when the convoy's arrival was so close.
Despite his small frame, the mercenary was fast, and his footsteps were silent even as he ran. His black cloak billowed as he moved with the familiarity of a predator who knows its territory, as if he were blending into the shadows and shapes around him. Neale used his only advantage: the map he had memorized quickly at Elias's house. He dove into the knowledge he had and ran through streets and alleyways — secondary routes the mercenary didn't seem to know. A great labyrinth of trash and scrap.
They ran and jumped over piles of old tires, broken bottles, sometimes even toys. They slipped under a rusted ventilation duct where the light was as poor as the smell; it was one of the sectors marked on Elias's map, labeled as a blind spot with multiple exits and entrances: the dry, forgotten efforts of the city of Valerium. It was an old drainage network that ran through several industrial blocks. Some passages even led into buildings; it was a nearly narrow tunnel, but you could stand up with a little effort.
Neale forced himself through the tunnel entrance, his backpack scraping along the concrete ceiling. He couldn't stand upright; he had to move crouched as quickly as possible. The mercenary, upon reaching the entrance, paused for a moment.
"Stupid kid," the hoarse, cold voice sounded frightening and strange, as if altered, reverberating in the darkness.
"You're only burying yourself deeper like a rabbit in a burrow with no way out. I'm not a soldier — I have patience. After all, the plan will go on the same."
The mercenary didn't risk following into the narrow tunnel. Exhausted, Neale realized his mistake after using all his focus to run: the mercenary could patrol the surface and wait at whichever exit Neale chose. He had traded a chase for a trap, like a rabbit.
However, the tunnel had a diversion that was also marked on the map he had memorized: a small maintenance duct that led to an old ore-processing plant about a hundred meters away, likely unexplored since it closed — like trying to leave home completely blindfolded.
Dragging himself through nauseating darkness, Neale shoved a duct with his shoulder. The metal gave a loud, dry creak; he managed to open a passage that led into the cold, damp darkness of an old, abandoned warehouse. He was in what seemed to be the industrial heart of the old factory. He looked around and wondered how all this had operated before the war.
The smell of ore and ozone that fused with the old pillars smelled different to Neale since he had never experienced anything like it. He hid behind a broken press. He knew the mercenary would be moving, trying to find him and sealing off the exits.
Neale looked around for a way out of the situation. There was an elevated loading platform connected to a junk rail line beside it; a small old handcart used to carry heavy parts was propped nearby.
An idea lit up in Neale's mind: a desperate move with almost no chance of success, but one he had to try. He began gathering scrap from the old factory while climbing onto a loading platform that still seemed stable enough. Neale piled everything he found into an old wheelbarrow sitting on the platform and then used one of the knives he had bought to cut the ties holding the wheels.
He shoved the little cart using a metal bar as leverage against the gap in the platform rails. The cart rolled faster than he expected, gaining speed and making a loud metallic noise in the silent factory; even the rats fled their holes. The cart tumbled while crashing over the beams, and Neale followed, until it slammed down — the sound unmistakable: something heavy falling onto the dry, cracked floor.
The mercenary, who had been moving calmly on the surface and was about to enter the factory via the tunnel exit, heard the loud, unmistakable noise, and Neale noticed him pass by through a crack.
The hunter headed toward the small cart, cautiously checking to see whether the boy had accidentally killed himself.
Neale hadn't waited; the moment he saw him through the small gap in the wall, he ran in the opposite direction, which led him to the outskirts of Valerium. Within minutes he was outside the city, breathing dust-laden air brought by the wind — still better than those tunnels. The weak light of dawn began to slowly break through the dark clouds.
He had made it — the loud crash in the opposite direction had worked — but he also knew it wouldn't hold for long. He ran as fast as he could, trying to gain as much advantage as possible to escape the situation. Neale sprinted down a corridor that seemed endless until he found himself again at the city gate in a remote corner. Even exhausted, he walked up to the gates and re-entered the city; the streets and the main entrance seemed less crowded even from a distance, and they really were. Kirden's soldiers were restricting movement for the convoy's arrival — like preparations for a high-security event.
"They're coming. It's almost time," Neale muttered, somewhat impressed by the soldiers as he moved back into the nothing-luxurious city.
Time was not an ally. He had to hurry with his plans to get onto the convoy as soon as it reached Valerium; he could hear the clock ticking as the V-zero approached.
Neale began running back to the small building where he spent his nights; his body protested after fleeing the mercenary, but he kept running determinedly, nearly knocking over people and some stalls that were being moved and reassembled. He used some of the routes he had learned from Elias to get there faster.
Around midday, Neale stopped and began organizing everything he would bring onto the convoy so as not to draw attention — he would only take his torn overcoat and the diary.
Everything was almost ready. Now he just had to discover where the V-zero would stop in Valerium and find a discreet way to board during reloading without attracting attention. It wouldn't be easy — there would certainly be one or two elite soldiers with the students and the convoy.
From the center of town, atop a building, he watched the Kirden soldiers and noted what he thought important in his diary, studying the best way to carry out his risky plan.
He gripped the sleeve of his mother's overcoat tied at his waist, trying to muster strength and courage as he pushed down his fear and nervousness about possibly being noticed by the soldiers he watched from afar.
In the distance, Neale noticed some people in black cloaks trailing the soldiers from far away, blending into the crowd — the rats were coming out of the sewers. Neale was certainly not the only one with plans being plotted. The question was who would fare best with their plan. Now there were three objectives on a collision course, and nothing would go their way — and the days passed like that, both sides seeking information and refining their plans, until only one day remained until the convoy's arrival in Valerium, and it would come at night.