Chương 46: The Hunters at the Exit

Zayn stayed in the shadow of the broken turbine. The first Ashes man lay behind him, throat open, body still warm, reduced in his mind to two things: a useful uniform and +1. That was perhaps what worried him least. What worried him more was how quickly his mind had filed away the rest. Face: secondary. Name: unknown. Last breath: irrelevant. Recovered equipment: rope, short blade, sealing sigil, black vial. Value gained: low, but real. Current soul strength: 31.

The dead man had stopped being a person before he had even finished bleeding. Zayn slung the rope over his shoulder, checked the small black vial without opening it, then turned his attention back to the main conduit. The other two Ashes men were still there. 26 33 The 26 was starting to get impatient. The 33, on the other hand, barely moved. Bad sign. People who panic make noise. People who think force other people to make it.

"Taren?" the weaker one called. Taren. So the corpse had a name. Very well. Zayn looked at the body behind the turbine. Taren had provided +1, a rope, and a social detail. An honorable contribution, for someone who had tried to capture him. The 33 raised a hand.

"Not so loud." His voice was low, hard. Not a court officer. A man used to giving orders without needing to dress them up. The 26 turned toward him.

"He should've come back by now."

"Yes."

"You think he found something?" The 33 looked toward the side conduit where Taren had disappeared.

"I think he would've said something if he hadn't." The silence that followed was very useful. Zayn slowly backed away behind the turbine, grabbed Taren's body under the shoulders, and dragged it as quietly as he could. Not easy. A human corpse had an incredible ability to become immediately cumbersome, as though death transformed people into malicious furniture. He wedged the body against a broken rail, then quickly searched his belt. An identification ring. A small gray medallion marked with a house sigil.

A fragment of black wax. And a folded mission plate in an inner pocket. He did not read it immediately. Priorities. He took the ring and flicked it softly into the conduit, far enough to make a metallic sound against the stone. The 26 turned at once.

"Taren?" The 33 did not move. Very bad sign. The weaker one advanced anyway, lamp low, blade raised. He was cautious. Not cautious enough. Zayn pressed himself against the wall of the side conduit, into the angle where the 26's light would take a second too long to fall. He slowed his breathing. His left hand tightened on the dagger; his right held the short blade taken from Taren. The 26 reached the entrance.

"Taren?" Again with the name. The living really did waste a tremendous amount of time calling the dead. He stepped in. Then a second step. His light swept over the broken rail. Over the blood. Over Taren's foot. He drew breath to shout. Zayn struck before the sound. The short blade went into his throat from the side, not cleanly enough. The man jerked violently, his sword hit the wall, and the noise cracked through the conduit. So much for perfect silence. Very good for urgency.

Zayn slammed him against the wall, but the Ashes man was stronger than expected. 26 was not a perfumed noble in a gallery. It was a trained, nervous man who knew his life had just become very short and intended to sell it at the most inconvenient price possible. His elbow drove into Zayn's ribs. Pain exploded. Zayn clenched his teeth, pressed harder on the wound, then drove his dagger under the armpit, where the soft armor left an opening. Once. The man still struggled. Twice. His legs gave out.

Zayn followed him down to keep him from hitting too hard. Blood ran over his fingers. Hot. Thick. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. The Ashes man's gaze stayed locked on his for a second. No pleading. Hatred. Almost restful. He died. [Soul strength absorbed: +1] The warmth entered. Small. Insufficient. But real. Current soul strength: 32 Zayn held back a breath. Thirty-two. He was progressing. Slowly. Dirtily. Not enough. But he was progressing.

Then a voice, from the main conduit:"So Taren is dead." The 33. Not panicked. Not surprised. Just informed. Zayn remained crouched between two corpses.

"That depends," he replied.

"He can still serve as decoration." Silence. Then the 33 almost laughed.

"You talk more than expected." Zayn rose slowly. His ribs throbbed. His arm too. His left shoulder had become a personal collection of bad decisions.

"I've often been told the opposite."

"This is not about your feelings."

"Too bad. I had prepared a long, depressing lecture with no declared taxes." This time, the 33 did not laugh. Good. Humor had limits against competent people. Zayn picked up the 26's blade, then quickly detached a second black vial from his belt. Same model as the first. He still had no idea what it did. Poison? Sedative? Antidote? Sealing agent? Local sauce to improve the taste of black bread? Given his luck, probably all four, in the wrong order. The 33 spoke again:"You know you're not getting out through there."

Zayn looked down the conduit. The possible exit was behind the man. But the Ashes operative stood between him and the side grate. Good position. Hooded lamp. Short sword in one hand, wrist-shield on the other. Not a flamboyant duelist. A blocker. Exactly the kind of person one placed in front of an exit when one wanted to stop a wounded animal from getting through.

"You came in force for someone who wasn't even at thirty," said Zayn.

"You passed thirty." The sentence landed softly. Zayn did not move. The 33 continued:"The reports were delayed." So they knew. Not everything. But enough. Zayn felt the mark under his collar pulse once, like an ember under cloth.

"You count too?"

"No. We observe those who do." Interesting. Very interesting. Zayn forced his face to stay neutral.

"So the plan was what? Bring me back on a leash?"

"If you stayed clean."

"I'm in a mine full of corpses, covered in blood, hunted by a demon that steals voices. Your hygiene standards are severe."

"Clean didn't mean washed." The 33 took one step. No more.

"Controllable." There it was. The expected word. Zayn felt something cold close inside his stomach. Not fear. Confirmation. The Ashes had not come "just in case." They had already categorized the outcomes. Zayn alive, if he remained controllable. Zayn dead, if he did not. Zayn studied, used, cut open, recovered depending on condition. Not a hero. Not even a prisoner. A logistical risk with potential. It was almost insulting. Almost flattering too. A very bad mixture. He slowly backed deeper into the side conduit.

The 33 did not follow him.

"You want to draw me in." Zayn sighed.

"And you want to block the exit. We both have plans. Yours is just less creative."

"Mine works." True. For now. Zayn looked around. Two corpses. A broken turbine. Rails. Rusted ventilation pipes. Puddles of black water along the wall. A side grate farther on, behind the 33. Above, an old chain system meant to move metal panels. And in the conduit, farther down, something was vibrating. Not the weaver. Not directly. Small values were approaching. 5 7 4 Drawn by the blood. Good. The blood had finally decided to work for him. The 33 turned his head slightly. He had heard it too. Not the values.

The claws.

"You're going to get us surrounded."

"I prefer to say I encourage local participation."

"They'll bite you too."

"Yes. But they weren't sent here to tie me up. So they already have the moral advantage over you." The first small body dropped from the ceiling. 5. It fell behind the 33, who pivoted fast enough to cut it in half. Good reflex. Too good. The second attacked from the floor. 7. The Ashes man kicked it away, but not hard enough to kill it. The beast rolled toward Zayn. Zayn let it come, then bent as if to strike it. At the last moment, he threw not the dagger, but the black vial taken from the 26.

It shattered on the stone between him and the 33. A thick cloud burst out. Not black. Pale gray. The smell hit at once. Bitter. Metallic. Zayn backed away, covering his mouth with his sleeve. The 33 cursed at last. So not an antidote. Good news. The cloud did not kill the small beasts. It panicked them. The 7 started clawing circles into the stone. The 4 hurled itself against a rail. The 33 stepped back twice, coughing, but stayed upright. Solid. Too solid. Zayn used the smoke to move. Not toward him.

Toward the chains. He grabbed the rope taken from Taren, hooked it onto a suspended metal panel, and pulled with all his strength. The mechanism refused. Of course. Even dead machines remained touchingly attached to uselessness. He pulled again. His shoulder screamed. The panel finally moved. Slowly. Too slowly. The 33 emerged from the smoke. His eyes were red, but his blade was perfectly steady.

"Missed." Zayn let go of the rope. The panel kept descending in jerks. Not fast enough to crush the man. But fast enough to alter the space. The 33 realized too late that the goal was not to kill him. The panel dropped between them and the side grate, cutting the conduit into two sections. Not a full wall. A slanted barrier, heavy, with just enough space beneath it to crawl. The exit was no longer clean for either of them.

Zayn grabbed the 7 beast, still dazed by the smoke, and threw it under the panel to the other side. It landed near the 33's legs. The man killed it in one blow. But while he did, Zayn vaulted a side rail and slipped into the maintenance conduit behind the turbine, the one he had noticed earlier without taking it. The 33 saw him. Threw his secondary blade. Zayn felt the metal open his side. Not deep. Enough to tear a real cry out of him. He slammed into the wall, nearly fell, then forced himself onward.

The 33 struck the panel.

"You can't run forever." Zayn slid into the maintenance conduit.

"Good news: I hate running. So nobody's satisfied." He moved backward, one hand clamped over his side. The 33 could not follow with armor and shield without giving up his position. Exactly what he did not want to do. The distance widened. Not enough. Never enough. Zayn stopped only when the main conduit vanished behind a bend. There he let himself slide down against the wall, breathing short, one hand red with blood. Superficial wound. Painful.

He had killed two men, gained +2 in total, recovered equipment, learned that the Ashes had standing orders on him, and still had no real exit. A mediocre result, but not catastrophic. He finally pulled out the mission plate taken from Taren. The metal was thin, folded three times, sealed with a gray mark. He broke the seal with the dagger's point. The text was short. Very short. The Marches apparently liked to economize even on words. Subject: Z. V.

/ fifth invoked Expected state: isolated or separated from primary group Priority: live retrieval if readable and obedient If contamination active, mutation visible, or resistance irreducible: immediate bleeding Do not hand over to the Clergy Do not leave with the College without Ashes witness Transfer to Ash-Breach if stabilized Zayn read it twice. Then a third time. Not because he did not understand. Because each line added another layer of confirmation. They had planned for his isolation.

Not necessarily orchestrated all of Rhel-Fosse, perhaps. Not alone. Maybe they had exploited the weaver. Maybe they had only profited from an already rotten mission. But they were waiting for an outcome. Him, separated. Him, recoverable. Him, or his blood. He folded the plate slowly. His face did not change much. Inside, something hardened. He had already known humans would use him. The Crown had classified him. The Clergy would have erased him. The College would have studied him.

The Ashes, though, had just simplified the whole thing down to the bone. Alive if obedient. Bled if not. Very clear. Very useful. One could almost not fault them for ambiguity. A voice echoed then in the conduit behind him. Not the 33's. Not Lena's. Taren's, the first dead Ashes man.

"Alive if readable." Zayn froze. The weaver. Already there in the sounds. The voice repeated, with an imperfect imitation but one recognizable enough:"Alive if readable." Then the messenger's voice from Aurelis:"Immediate bleeding." Then his own voice, lower:"Controllable." Zayn closed his eyes. The weaver had heard. Or understood enough to use the words. Very well. Even the demon found human politics exploitable. Magnificent interspecies cooperation around his containment. The conduit vibrated.

The 47 was moving again somewhere nearby. And in the main conduit, farther down, the 33 was still alive. Not finished. Not forgotten. A human hunter at the exit, a weaver in the walls, and him between them with proof in his pocket, a wound in his side, and 32 soul strength. Zayn rose slowly. He slipped the plate against his chest. Then he smiled. Not widely. Not madly. Just enough to feel that something inside him had just chosen a new rule. He was not going back to the Ashes. Not alive. Not obedient. Not readable.

And if he ever had to see them again, he would return their form covered in enough blood that they would no longer need to fill in the results section.