Chapter 8 : Scars and Steel

  THUD.

  A rough kick slammed into the corner of the mattress.

  Conner jolted awake, heart racing, hand flying to his side—grabbing for a weapon that wasn’t there.

  “Good reflex,” Clara muttered, arms crossed, studying him with that unreadable, tired gaze. “Might actually save your life next time.”

  She tossed something at him—it hit the mattress with a soft clatter.

  The blade. His blade. The same dented, blood-streaked blade he’d used to survive the warehouse, to kill the knight, to crawl out of death’s grip.

  "That your first kill?" she asked, eyeing the chipped edge. "It's dull as hell."

  Conner stared at it for a beat. “It’s not pretty,” he said, voice scratchy, “but it got me here. Good enough for now.”

  Clara grunted, half-amused. “There's a sink out back. Use it. You smell like a dead guy.”

  He blinked blearily. “You didn’t forget what you promised, right?”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed—slow and annoyed. “Come down when you’re done. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Conner peeled himself out of bed, limbs heavy but not screaming anymore. The pain was still there, but dulled, like his body had adjusted.

  He moved toward the rusted sink in the corner, where a smudged mirror sat half-sunk in shadow. The glass was cracked, the reflection blurry beneath layers of dust and grime. But it was enough.

  He unraveled the bandages, wincing as they pulled away from healing flesh. The material clung—wet, sticky with blood and the translucent, viscous paste of regeneration.

  Not quite scabs. Not quite wounds. Something in between.

  Beneath them, the skin was... wrong.

  Closed up. Fused. Crimson scarring where open gashes used to be.

  His stomach and ribs were leaner now—but harder. More defined. He’d worked out back home, sure, but nothing like this. This wasn't natural. It was like his body had been... synced. Hardened. Rewritten.

  He stared at his reflection. His eyes looked back at him—and for a moment, he didn't recognize them.

  “Yo!” Clara’s voice rang up from the stairwell. “You done checking yourself out, pretty boy?”

  Conner winced. “Coming.”

  As he stepped into the hallway, a bundle hit him square in the chest.

  FUMP.

  A black T-shirt.

  “Put that on unless you plan on going full barbarian,” Clara muttered, heading down the stairs. “Which—y’know—respect, but you’ll freeze your balls off.”

  Conner looked around, confused. “Where’re my clothes?”

  Clara paused for half a second, then answered flatly, “You still got your pants. The shirt? Soaked through with blood. Had to toss it.”

  "...The scarf too?"

  She gave him a sharp glance. “Yeah. That bloody rag? You wanna wear a monster beacon, be my guest. Otherwise, keep it gone.”

  He stood there, quiet. He knew she was right — but it still hit hard.

  Clara watched him for a moment, her posture softening just a little. Her voice came quieter this time.

  “Look... stuff like that? It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “What?” he asked, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

  She hesitated—just a breath—and then said,

  “Sentiment.”

  Then she looked away.

  He pulled it over his head, still rubbing his temple. “So... how are you—”

  “No questions.”

  She shot him a warning look, finger raised.

  “Follow me. That was the deal. And no, there’s no breakfast. This ain’t a hotel.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  They moved down the stairs. He glanced at the smudged red handprint on the wall—the one he’d left there when Clara dragged him in bleeding.

  She caught his glance. Their eyes met briefly. Then she turned away.

  They stepped outside into the ruined morning light.

  Clara crouched near the body of the knight—the one Conner had felled. She waved him over silently.

  He approached, the scent hitting him before the sight.

  A gut-churning stench of rot and chemicals—like boiling oil mixed with old blood.

  Whatever had been inside that armor had leaked through the cracks and seams. Viscous fluid, dark red and greasy, oozed from the pauldrons and neck ring. Acidic, maybe. Some of the inner lining had corroded.

  “Something… melted in there,” Conner muttered.

  “Uh huh.” Clara grinned slightly. “So what do you think?”

  “What are they? Are they even—?”

  “Monsters,” she cut in. “That’s all that matters.”

  She stood and dusted her hands. “Well? Get to it.”

  “Get to what?”

  “If you wear it like that, you’ll smell like fermented guts for a week.”

  “...Wear it?”

  She turned, arching a brow. “You a little slow, or just being dramatic?”

  Conner looked at her, baffled.

  “Yes, dumbass. Clean the damn thing. Armor’s armor. It’s better than running out there shirtless.”

  “You’ve done this too?” he asked, skeptical.

  She smirked. “Why do you think I’m still alive?”

  She drove it into the dirt with a practiced motion, the blade biting into the earth with a soft crunch.

  Then she leaned on the hilt like it was an old friend, her weight casual, her smirk anything but.

  "See?" she said, eyes gleaming with confidence.

  The weapon gleamed faintly. Same style as the knight’s. Straight, double-edged. A simple iron hilt with a worn leather grip and a crossguard polished by use. The blade shimmered faintly at the edge—clean, sharp, and battle-tested.

  Conner’s eyes widened as he falls backwards on his hands

  “Did you just—pull that out of nowhere?”

  “We’re in a game, remember?” Clara said with a crooked grin. “Gotta have an inventory.”

  He frowned, dusting off his palms. Then suddenly,

  “You have it too, y’know,” Clara said, watching him with a glint of something in her eyes. “And you already knew that.”

  Conner blinked. “What?”

  But before the word even finished leaving his mouth—

  “Shhh.”

  Clara was behind him.

  She moved like smoke — fast, silent, unsettling. One moment she was across from him, the next her hands were on his shoulders, firm and steady. He didn’t flinch, but something in his gut twisted — like prey caught mid-breath.

  “You feel it too,” she whispered, voice low, like she didn’t want the world to hear. “That space. Not above you. Not below. Within.”

  Her words sank into him, deeper than they should have.

  “That quiet place,” she continued. “The one that hums when you’re still. Always there. Always yours. The space under your breath.”

  It wasn’t a room. Not a vision.

  But something real—like a presence just beyond the edge of thought, something that had always been waiting for him to notice it.

  “Go on,” Clara murmured, her breath just behind his ear. “Don’t overthink it. Just feel it. Reach for it.”

  Conner closed his eyes. Breathed in. The world around him dimmed.

  And then—

  WHUSHH.

  A sudden flicker—like wind without air. His palm grew heavy.

  He opened his eyes.

  The scarf.

  Tattered. Dried blood still clinging to the fibers.

  He stared at it in stunned silence.

  Clara smirked behind him. “There it is.”

  Bloody. Crumpled. But there.

  “You kept that thing?” Clara groaned. “Ugh. Wash it or you’ll gag everyone within five blocks.”

  Conner smiled, clutching it to his chest.

  Even bloodied, it felt like home.

  “Alright, pretty boy,” Clara said, stretching. “Now get to work.”

  She pushed him gently, almost playfully, toward the carcass.

  He knelt down, grimacing.

  The goo—if you could even call it that—was a sludgy mess of half-liquified flesh. Pulped organs, melted fat, congealed fluid. Thick and rubbery and sticking to everything.

  “Ugh... disgusting...” he muttered, flicking chunks away, but the muck clung to his hands.

  “You sure you don’t want your butterknife?” Clara said, grinning as she pointed to his old blade.

  He grunted, drew the knife, and dragged it through the mush—carving it away like rotten meat.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, he cleared the armor.

  A full plate set. Dented, but intact. From boots to helm.

  He stepped back, panting.

  “You really expect me to wear all that? I’ll sound like a marching bell.”

  "Or a dinner bell" she smirked.

  “Just the chest, arm, and knee guards,” Clara said. Her voice was flat now. Serious.

  “Too much metal and you'll end up announcing your arrival.”

  Conner nodded and picked up the pieces.

  The metal clinked as he strapped them on. The chestplate sat heavier than it looked, but not unbearable. The scarf—his grandmother’s—he tied around his waist, looping it like a sash. For memory. Maybe for luck.

  He reached for the helmet. It was scorched, dented at the back—and inside the dent, a faint crack in the lining.

  He turned it over, holding it up with a weak grin.

  “Look,” he said. “Must’ve stabbed clean through this yesterday.”

  Clara snorted. “You got lucky.”

  “Oh please,” Clara said, rolling her eyes as she watched Conner inspect the dented helmet. “You got lucky. The shiny ones don’t usually walk in packs.”

  “...Packs?” Conner asked, glancing up.

  She nodded. “Yeah. One of those armored bastards, and a couple of their black-laced lapdogs trailing behind. Never just one.”

  Conner’s expression darkened.

  Suddenly her distrust, her hesitation back when they met—

  It all made sense. She wasn’t being cold. She was being careful.

  “And the sword?” he asked, nodding toward the knight’s weapon.

  Clara grinned, wide and smug. “That’s mine now.”

  “What?”

  “Call it payment. I did save your skin.”

  Conner gave a half-laugh. “So we’re even then?”

  Clara scoffed and turned away. “Far from it and You still owe me for the bread.”

  CLIK—CLIK—CLIK.

  Both of them froze.

  Those weren’t footsteps.

  Not human ones.

  Clara's grin returned.

  Conner reached for his blade, tension coiling in his shoulders—

  Clara kicked the sword’s tip up, let it spin mid-air, and caught the handle one-handed in a clean arc.

  Schlink.

  She smirked, eyes glinting.

  “Told ya.”