The corridors of the Carnifex Base felt like a labyrinth, but Hadvar moved with eerie precision, guiding Stick and PP through hidden passages and bypassing traps as though he had built the place himself. Stick followed, but unease clawed at his thoughts.

  “There’s a briefing during the shift change,” Hadvar whispered, his voice calm but clipped. “The barracks should be empty right about now.”

  Stick glanced at PP, who shifted the unconscious Shadis in his arms, careful not to jingle his shackles too loudly. Despite the urgency in Hadvar’s tone, that same nagging question surfaced again, louder this time: How does he know all this?

  Hadvar led them into the barracks—a long room filled with rows of iron-framed beds and military-standard chests at their feet. The smell of damp wool and unwashed bodies lingered in the air. Stick froze just inside the doorway, eyes darting around. Empty. For now. Hadvar, however, didn’t hesitate. He darted to the chests, flipping them open one by one with practised efficiency. His expression darkened with each search, the controlled soldier’s calm giving way to frustration.

  “No,” he muttered after rifling through yet another chest. “No… no…”

  Finally, he froze over one particular chest, his gaze locking on the insignia etched into the lid. “Scarlet Steel,” he murmured.

  A flick of his fingers, similar to General Solo, and an invisible interface shimmered briefly in the air before disappearing. In an instant, crimson armour materialised around him in pieces—shoulder plates, breastplate, gauntlets, helmet.

  “Better than nothing,” he muttered, flexing his hands. The suit fit like a second skin, but even now, something about him looked incomplete. “I don’t have a weapon…”

  Stick’s stomach churned. He knew what Hadvar was. A survivor. A killer. That was clear now, wasn’t it? Stick pulled up his own interface and stared at the [Battle-Proven Selachii Sword] sitting in his Inventory. Could I give it to him? Should I?

  Before he could decide, the door to a side room opened. A soldier stepped into the barracks, towel slung lazily over one shoulder. He froze mid-step.

  “Hide!” Stick hissed.

  They dove under the beds, the metal frame pressing painfully into Stick’s back. But PP’s chains rattled as he adjusted Shadis in his arms. The sound was deafening in the silence. The soldier’s footsteps paused.

  “Who’s there?” His voice wavered—young, uncertain.

  Stick’s pulse thundered in his ears. He was just a kid. Younger than Stick, maybe. Still in training, by the look of him. If we are lucky, maybe—

  Hadvar slipped out from under the bed without a sound, moving like a shadow. Before the soldier could turn, Hadvar’s fist struck the base of his neck in a precise Stunning Blow. The soldier crumpled to the floor, his towel fluttering to one side. Stick exhaled in relief, though his hands still shook. The soldier’s chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths. Unconscious. Not dead.

  Hadvar crouched by the fallen man, his helmet obscuring his expression.

  “I can’t afford to be seen,” he said, almost to himself. “We need to move.”

  Stick forced his thoughts back to Shadis, lying crumpled in PP’s arms. His ragged breaths were barely audible. Stick’s fingers trembled as he opened his interface. Life Points: 0.

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  Stick’s heart clenched.

  “He’s breathing,” PP whispered, as if sensing Stick’s fear.

  The rattle of chains dragged Stick back to the present.

  “We should really do something about these shackles,” he muttered, trying to bury the knot of dread in his gut.

  “You could always just abandon the NPCs,” Hadvar said flatly, dragging the unconscious soldier toward an empty chest.

  Stick’s head snapped toward him. The cold indifference in Hadvar’s voice sent a chill down his spine.

  “We’re not leaving anyone behind!” he said.

  Hadvar shrugged, hoisting the soldier into the chest as though it were routine.

  “Suit yourself,” he replied. “But I can’t afford to drag them all with me.”

  They slipped out a side door, the chill of winter biting into Stick’s cheeks. The city stretched out before them, pale and quiet beneath a heavy grey sky. It was the kind of silence that made every sound louder—PP’s chains, Hadvar’s armour, the muffled thud of their cautious footsteps. Hadvar led them through narrow alleys, his movements smooth and practised.

  “They haven’t noticed us missing yet,” he said.

  “Let’s keep it that way,” Stick replied.

  “Our best bet is the port,” Hadvar continued. “We’ll need a ship to leave the kingdom.”

  Stick didn’t know enough about the kingdom to argue and reluctantly agreed.

  The group wove through the streets, narrowly avoiding patrols by hiding behind crates and in shadows. Guards with bows stood on the walls, silhouetted against the grey sky.

  “There’s so many of them,” Stick whispered.

  Hadvar grunted. “We’ll be forced to fight eventually. And all we have is bad armour, low levels, and a dying geriatric. If I had a sword, I could at least activate my skills.”

  Stick hesitated, pulling up his Inventory to inspect the [Battle-Proven Selachii Sword]. An interface with bold red text popped up:

  You do not meet the appropriate LVL Requirements for this weapon. (Required LVL: 50)

  A second, white lettering spelt underneath it:

  [Unbound Skill, Passive: Unshackled Hands]

  Can be equipped. Stats will be adjusted to your LVL.

  Then it happened.

  “Hey! What are you doing here, soldier?”

  Stick’s head jerked up to see a low-level guard in red armour standing at the end of the alley. His visor was up, his expression puzzled but not yet alarmed. Without hesitation, he handed the sword to Hadvar. The blade barely touched Hadvar’s hand before he moved—swift and lethal. The guard’s confusion froze him in place.

  “What? You’re—”

  Hadvar cut him off, striking with a silent, practised efficiency. In one clean motion, Hadvar disarmed the guard and struck him across the temple with the hilt. The man crumpled. Stick exhaled in relief—until Hadvar raised the sword again.

  “What are you doing?” Stick yelled.

  Hadvar plunged the blade down, silencing the unconscious man’s shallow breaths.

  Stick rushed to stop him, but Hadvar shoved him back with ease.

  “He saw me,” he said coldly, plunging the blade again.

  Blood pooled beneath the body, dark and spreading across the cobblestones.

  “You’ll kill him!”

  “I can’t allow myself to be seen. Not yet,” Hadvar replied, his tone emotionless.

  “Stop it!” Stick shouted.

  Hadvar finally straightened, turning to Stick. “We need to go to the port.”

  Stick stumbled backward, bile rising in his throat. “You killed him! He was unconscious!”

  Hadvar turned, his expression hidden behind his helmet. “He saw me.”

  “We could’ve tied him up or—” Stick clenched his fists. “He was just a kid!”

  “Kids can talk,” Hadvar replied, his voice flat. He turned away, wiping the blade on the fallen guard’s tunic. “We’re wasting time.”

  Stick stared at the body, his chest heaving. Blood. So much blood. He dropped to his knees and touched the soldier’s shoulder, his fingers trembling.

  “Come on.” Hadvar says, but PP blocked his path, Shadis still in his arms.

  “Back off,” PP growled.

  Hadvar’s helmeted gaze lingered on PP, but Stick stepped between them, his voice breaking. “Go away!”

  Hadvar took a step back, his expression unreadable. “I suppose I’ve repaid you enough for my escape.”

  Stick’s anger boiled over. “You murderer!”

  “You think I don’t know?” Hadvar’s shoulders stiffened. “I’ll go to the port.”

  He stopped for a moment. “The guards will be too distracted by this to notice someone on the bridge.”

  Then he turned and ran, leaving Stick and PP behind. Stick knelt by the lifeless guard, who couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. Before he could say anything, hurried footsteps echoed down the alley. It was Nakamura.

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