“A miracle worker…” The officer's voice, a dry rasp against the wind, snapped the fragile silence. His gaze narrowed, scanning Bayani from boots to brow. “The Kalis Guild has been searching for someone like you for months. Someone with the unique gift to undo hexes.” Bayani felt the hairs on his arms rise. The title pinned him like a target. He tightened his grip on his sleeves while the Kalis lieutenant stepped forward, leather scuffing packed dirt. “This isn’t a request, ‘Datu’. This is an invitation. An opportunity. You cleanse curses, you work for the Kalis. You’ll have resources, protection. Influence.” His hand, once hovering over his sidearm, now gestured expansively at the city beyond the wall, as if offering a kingdom. Bulan spit blood onto the grit. “Work for Kalis? No way! Datu doesn’t take orders from thugs like you! He’s a free man!” The officer spared Bulan a dismissive glance. “Loyalty, admirable. But naive. Every soul in Bastion serves someone, eventually. Better to serve the powerful than to be crushed by them.” He refocused on Bayani, teeth bared in a tight grin. “Think of it, ‘Datu’. No more scavenging in the outer districts. No more fighting for scraps. You’ll be in a gilded cage, perhaps, but a comfortable one. With immense power at your fingertips.” Cold sweat beaded along Bayani's collar. Kalis captured rare talents and turned them into caged tools. He could not submit to chains, but the patrol held crossguards and spears ready. “I appreciate the offer, Lieutenant,” Bayani said, keeping his tone measured. “But my ability is not clean. There are consequences.” He held the man's gaze. “System protocols are volatile. Purging an affliction like that hexed point isn't simple extraction. It forces a rupture.” He let the word settle, recalling obscure records of skill-feedback loops and interface fractures he had cataloged in old archives. “Every time I force such a rupture,” he continued, carefully choosing his words, “there’s a recoil. A buildup of unstable energy. Use it too much, too often, or on a curse too potent… and it could lead to a catastrophic release.” The lieutenant's eyelids drooped into slits. “A release? What kind of release?” “An explosive one,” Bayani stated, meeting his gaze directly. “Uncontrolled. Destructive. To everything and everyone in a wide radius. Including me. Including you and your men.” He gestured subtly at the still-recovering Kiko. “That boy was lucky. The curse wasn’t severe enough for a full backlash. But against a deeper, more rooted curse? Or if I were to be forced to use it repeatedly? Bastion would have a new crater, and Kalis would claim only ash.” Bayani tracked the micro-twitches in the man's jaw. Kalis prized obedience above all else. An asset primed to detonate handlers was useless scrap. Any hint of structural instability made even hardened enforcers second-guess a collar. The commander's shoulders locked. His gaze flicked from Bayani to Kiko, then down to the inert arrowhead in the dust. The threat took root. “You carry this risk every time?” the officer asked, slick confidence curdling into caution. “Always,” Bayani confirmed, his voice firm. “It’s why I operate alone, why I’m careful. To minimize collateral damage.” He knew he was walking a tightrope, but the alternative was slavery. The man stood motionless, recalculating odds. He signaled behind his back, where his squad shifted backward on their heels. Finally, he gave a sharp nod. “Very well, ‘Datu’. Consider this a… postponement of our invitation. But know this: the Kalis Guild always gets what it wants, eventually.” He turned to his patrol. “Let’s go. There’s nothing more for us here.” The patrol turned in formation and retreated down the alley, boots kicking up gray grit. Bayani watched them turn the corner before his knuckles uncurled. Bulan whooped, breaking the tense quiet. “You told them, Datu! Sent those tin-plated bullies packing!” Bulan clapped Bayani hard on the shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling. “Explosive recoil, huh? Brilliant! I knew you had some crazy secrets up your sleeve, but that was next level!” Kiko, still pale but now sitting up, looked at Bayani with wide, grateful eyes. “Thank you, Datu. You… you saved me.” Bayani could only offer a weak nod, his mind still reeling. He had done it. He had bluffed his way out. But the Kalis Guild wouldn’t forget. He was now on their radar, a potential threat, or worse, a prize. “Come on,” Bayani said, helping Kiko to his feet. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.” “And where are we going, Datu?” Bulan asked, already falling into step beside them. “Those Kalis scum won’t bother us if we’re with you! I’m sticking with the guy who blows up curses! My old guild kicked me out for ‘insubordination’ anyway, so I’m a free agent. Your personal scout, if you’ll have me!” Bulan, disgraced but perpetually optimistic, beamed. Bayani sighed internally. He had wanted to operate alone, but Bulan’s boisterous presence, for all its annoyance, was also a shield, a cover. Back in the humid crawlspace of Bayani’s shelter, Kiko slept on a straw pallet. On the floorboards lay a tarnished silver pendant the boy had dropped during the scuffle. A sour purple hum leaked from its cracked bezel—a minor 'Blight of Rot' scavenged from the fringe ruins that steadily drained an owner's endurance. Bayani pinched the metal, triggering [Appraisal]. Fractured diagnostic script crawled across his retina, looping jagged errors into the silver filigree. A brittle degradation loop, far thinner than the black thorn from earlier. He found the syntax flaw in the blue text and pinched down. The malignant glyph cracked, dissolving into dry sparks. The vibration ceased, leaving cold, inert metal. [CURSE CLEANSING SUCCESSFUL] [MINOR CURSE OF DECAY CLEARED] [ADAPTIVE ABSORPTION PROTOCOL INITIATED] [+1 VITALITY] Bayani froze. The floating notification had no precedent in the standard survival primers. He pulled up his profile. [NAME: Bayani (Datu)] [LEVEL: 3] [SKILLS: Appraisal (Tier 1)] [STATS: Strength 8, Dexterity 9, Vitality 11 (+1), Intellect 14, Wisdom 12] The figure had stepped up from ten to eleven. He had siphoned the corruption's reservoir directly into his flesh. Cleansing was not mere maintenance; it was consumption. Every corrupted rune he solved metabolized into raw attributes. His archivist's cataloging habit was an engine of conversion. He stared at the dead pendant. He was no fragile healer; he was a devourer, and Bastion's ruin-choked streets were piled high with fuel. His eyes, once filled with the shadow of imposter syndrome, now burned with a hungry, cunning light. The Kalis Guild had no idea what kind of monster they had just let slip away.

A Gilded Cage