The two of them walked in silence.
Beardy didn't argue any further, he didn't even grunt at Kael's decision to stay. He simply turned and started back toward the others, prompting Kael to follow him. It's like his silence alone said enough — something along the line of: it's Kael's funeral, as he had already warned him.
When they finally caught up, the rest of the group had settled on the cold metal floor of a widened junction — pipes running overhead, dim lights flickering weakly. They sat in a loose circle, passing along a small glass vial of what looked like water.
The old man took a slow sip, swished it in his mouth as if savoring it, then handed it toward Beardy. He accepted it without hesitation, drinking deeply. Then he passed it on to Kael.
The moment Kael saw the water up close, his throat tightened painfully. Thirst hit him hard suddenly — like just the sight of it reminded his body how dry he truly was.
He raised the vial and drank.
Not a drop wasted. Not a motion careless. He gulped down every trace that touched his tongue, doing his best not to spill even a precious bead.
When he handed the vial back, the guard leaned forward, clearing his throat.
"Where's my oil?"
'Oil...?'
Kael blinked, then remembered.
"I… I had to use it all to burn the body."
A flicker of irritation crossed the guard's face.
"You should've salvaged it first. What a waste—"
"Now, now," the old man cut in smoothly, waving a hand.
"Surely we shouldn't question the boy whose line of work is burning corpses, hm? He knows what he's doing."
The guard muttered something under his breath, unconvinced. But the old man ignored him, instead turning his attention fully on Kael.
"Tell me, boy… in your line of work, how do you tell which corpses are going to turn, and which ones won't? And for those that will — how do you determine how long before the corruption sets in?"
Kael shifted, caught slightly off guard by the direct question — but he answered.
"Well… first thing is to check the cause of death. If it's clean — blood loss, impact, suffocation — then usually it's safe. Those don't turn. But if there's any sign of exposure… even a scratch from an abjection… then it's already questionable."
He lifted his bound hands slightly as he spoke, as if recalling a routine he'd performed countless times.
"For the ones that will turn. First is temperature. Heat accelerates decay; cold slows it. But corruption doesn't follow normal rot — it's not just time, it's exposure. If the body's been anywhere near a tear or residue, the change spreads faster. Skin color, muscle twitching, the odor — those show early. But once the heart turns black and the eyes cloud red…"
Kael glanced at the group, aware they were listening more closely than he expected.
"There's no going back. That's when you burn it immediately."
The old man nodded, as if confirming something privately.
"Good," he murmured. "Very good..."
For a moment, the chamber settled into a heavy quiet, broken only by the muted dripping of water somewhere deeper in the facility. Then the old man's gaze sharpened—lowering to Kael's bound hands.
"Your palm is bleeding," he observed. "It's leaving a trail. You should treat that properly."
Kael blinked down at his own hand. The skin was torn, and the thin line of red was occasionally dripping to the floor.
"I'm fine," he muttered, lifting his hands slightly as if to wave the concern away.
"It can wait. I've dealt with worse, and… well, it's not exactly like I've got much room to patch anything up right now."
He tried to sound casual, but the sting in his voice betrayed the truth.
The old man merely studied him, unreadable.
***
The group resumed their march, tapping their boots against the cold floor. Whatever their true purpose was, Kael still had no clue — and he doubted any of them would be eager to share it. So he stayed at the back, just close enough not to lose them, just far enough that his presence remained unimportant.
He preferred it that way.
At least, until a quiet voice rose beside him:
"Why did you lie?"
Kael stiffened mid-step and turned.
It was the boy — the youngest of the old man's group. The one who hadn't spared Kael so much as a glance since the very beginning… now suddenly walking at his side as though they'd always spoken like this.
Kael blinked.
"…What?"
The boy didn't look at him. His eyes stayed forward, his expression was unreadable, and his voice pitched low — soft enough that the rest of the group wouldn't hear.
"The oil," he said calmly. "You didn't use all of it… did you?"
A subtle shock ran up Kael's body. His fingers tightened — instinctively — around the pocket of his pants, where something small weighed heavily against his palm. A quiet gulp escaped him before he could stop it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Kael muttered.
Silence.
Then the boy exhaled softly, almost bored.
"You can't fool me."
Another silence followed — but heavier this time. Kael's shoulders tensed, and his jaw was tightening as he glanced away.
"…What about it?" he muttered. "You gonna rat me out?"
For a moment, there was no response.
Then Kael glanced sideways—
—and swore under his breath. Just for a heartbeat, he caught it: a faint, knowing smile showing at the corner of the boy's lips.
The boy's voice returned to a whisper, calm and maddeningly certain:
"Just don't do anything you'll regret later on."
And with that, he drifted ahead with a relaxed posture, as though the entire exchange had been nothing more than idle conversation.
Meanwhile Kael could only stared at his figure from the back. He didn't know how the boy had figured it out. He didn't know what he wanted. He didn't even know who — or what — he really was. But in that moment, one thing became painfully clear:
His gut told him the boy was dangerous. Maybe just as dangerous as the old man.