For a long moment, no one moved.
The corpse at the old man's feet was still warm, blood slowly crawling across the metal flooring. The group stood frozen — shaken and silent, unsure of what to do or even what to feel.
The old man, however, was composed as ever.
After wiping the knife clean, he offered it, handle-first, to the newcomer — the guard who had opened the door for them and followed them inside with a limp.
"Here," the old man said mildly. "Take it. Ugh… I really hate resorting to this kind of thing."
The guard accepted the blade without a word. There was no recoil nor disgust in his face — just a steady, almost clinical focus. He then shifted his eyes to the lifeless body slumped against the floor.
His expression tightened.
"…That man," he muttered, pointing faintly with the blade, "was the locksmith. Wasn't he?"
The old man gave a small nod. Almost regretful, but not quite. "Yes. He was the one who got our restraints off before all hell broke loose."
Kael's eyes widened at that. 'So that's how they get it off... because of him?'
His gaze drifted to the guard — their "new guy."
A man in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Short, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Tired eyes that had seen too many alarms, too many shifts, too many corpses for one lifetime. His guard uniform was torn and splattered, one shoulder dented as if something had bitten straight through the armor plate.
He looked back at Kael, causing their eyes to locked.
And for a moment, the guard simply stared—taking in Kael's bound wrists, the dangling shackles, and the awkward grip on the empty rifle.
"…Why is he still cuffed?" the guard finally asked.
The old man sighed, scratching his neck. "Ah, that. A little… souvenir we picked up along the way."
He glanced toward the freshly cooling corpse.
"A shame about our loss of a helping hand, but… this works out, I suppose."
His gaze shifted back to Kael.
"Balance restored."
Kael swallowed hard. How could he say that so casually?
How could the old man stand there — unbothered and unrushed — after stabbing one of his own men through the heart? No hesitation nor remorse was showing on him. Hell, not even a flicker of doubt.
The way he talked about the dead locksmith… As if the man was nothing more than a tool that had finally served its purpose. A piece of equipment that broke in transit. Replaceable and forgettable.
Kael had seen corpses before — thousands, in fact. Burned bodies. Frozen ones. Those torn apart by beasts. Those who still twitched when he threw them into the incinerator. He'd seen death in every shape, every smell, every stage of rot.
But this?
This was different.
A man killed as cleanly and coldly as blowing out a candle.
No ritual. No grief. No anger.
Just… necessity.
Kael's stomach tightened, and before he could think further, the guard's voice cut in.
"…Should we burn it?"
The boy didn't even think. The answer slipped out of him.
"I'll do it."
The guard turned to him, brow raised slightly. "You?"
Kael exhaled, lowering his eyes. "I'm... a burner."
It wasn't pride. Just fact. The only thing he'd ever been good at.
"Help yourself," the old man said with a wave of his hand. "But do it somewhere far from us, would you? I don't like the smell of charred meat."
The guard reached into his utility belt and tossed two items toward Kael—a small vial of accelerant oil, and a metal fire-starter with a flint wheel.
Kael caught the vial against his chest, but the fire-starter slipped for a second before he pinned it between his bound wrists. With his hands full, he was forced to let the empty rifle clatter to the ground.
"Catch up when you're done," the old man added, already turning to lead the others deeper into the bay.
Kael said nothing.
He simply crouched, gathered what tools he had been given, and—with the practiced, almost automatic efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times—headed off alone toward a darker corner of the chamber.
***
Once he judged he was far enough, Kael finally let the corpse slide from his shoulder. It hit the ground with a dull, fleshy thud. He exhaled sharply and immediately dropped to his knees, hands already moving to search — pockets, sleeves, belt, anything.
This was part of why he'd volunteered to burn the body. Sure, it fit the kind of "dirty work" people like him naturally got assigned… but that wasn't the real reason. Corpses could hide things. Tools. Keys. Opportunities.
And the old man — after using this poor fellow like nothing more than a disposable instrument — hadn't even bothered to check the body. As if discarding a broken toy.
'Works for me...'
Kael rummaged harder, almost desperate now, sweeping his hands under the body, checking seams in the fabric, tugging at boots, even shaking the limp arms in case something was strapped beneath the sleeves.
After a long, bitter stretch of searching, he sat back on his heels.
Nothing.
Not a single damn thing.
"Damn..."
Here he'd thought — just maybe — there'd be something. Anything. A tool small enough to slip his restraints, or at least loosen them. They'd said this man was the locksmith. The one responsible for removing their shackles.
So much for that.
Speaking of... it looked like every member of the old man's little crew had been chosen for a reason. The locksmith for the restraints. Beardy — for his absurd, brute-force strength, the kind capable of matching abjections head-on. The guard, likely for… what? Inside information? Knowing the fortress, knowing the patterns of patrol?
But that young man — the one around Kael's own age. What was his role then? He hadn't shown anything remarkable so far.
No use thinking. Not now.
He took one last look at the corpse lying twisted on the cold ground, then brought his shackled hands together and bowed his head.
"…May your soul find its way back…"
***
Kael moved fast through the corridor. He expected to have to run to catch up—
—but he didn't.
Beardy was already there, leaning with one shoulder against a fractured wall, arms folded, posture stiff but unhurried. As though he had been waiting.
The moment his eyes caught Kael approaching, his jaw tightened.
"Don't follow us again."
No preamble nor an attempt at softness. Just blunt force in words.
"If you're really not after the treasure," he continued, pushing himself off the wall, "and if you actually value that little life of yours—"
He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward a narrow, slanted passage half-hidden behind debris "—then go there. Over this path, there'll be a crawlway. One tight enough for your size. You should fit through."
He paused, scratching his beard, irritation masking something almost like… resignation.
"That tunnel should lead you outside. And once you're out, it's just praying for your luck that there aren't more of those abjections lingering around."
His gaze hardened again.
"But following us? That'd be even more suicidal. Your death'd be guaranteed."
Kael just stood there quietly. Then, after a breath:
"…Back then… why did you save me?"
Beardy exhaled sharply through his nose, annoyed at the question, annoyed at himself, maybe annoyed at the memory.
"Didn't save you," he grumbled. "You just happened to be in the way. And you didn't freeze."
He jerked his chin.
"That's it. That alone was more than I can say for half the fools we've dragged through here. And that's why I'm giving you this chance now."
A chance.
'Right...'
If Kael genuinely wanted to survive, he would've accepted the offer instantly. He knew that.
But he didn't.
Because so far, on this twisted metanoia of his, the 'treasure' the old man's group chased — whatever shape it took — felt alarmingly close to what he believed might be the key to completing his Trial.
And besides...
Kael couldn't help it — but there was something off in Beardy's warning, something unsaid, something that didn't fit the man's usual bluntness; there was more to all this than met the eye.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
"But if it's all the same to you… I'll trust numbers over my dumb luck."