The stench of the fresh spores was a clawed thing, snatching at the filtered air around Kou. The noodle vendor lay twisted behind her steaming vats, her apron soaked in the glistening sludge. Black sludge pulsed on the counter, tiny motes of light winking like malevolent stars in its depths. Kou’s gaze settled on the congealed mess, then flicked to the still-warm bowl of soup, mercifully untouched. He sighed, a sound barely audible over the growing cacophony of distant sirens and panicked shouts from the market. Vorstag’s broadcast had done its work. Fear, like the spores, was contagious. “Master!” Rinzen’s voice, usually a resonant chime, broke with urgency. Her hand flew to her wrist-mounted comm-pad, her fingers flying across the holographic interface. “My armor! I must summon my armor! The air filters on this suit are not rated for… for *this* level of contamination!” Her silver-plated pilot suit, designed for brief excursions outside her mech, suddenly seemed woefully inadequate. She glanced at the vendor's body, then at the pulsating goo, horrified by a contamination vector Kou found merely inconvenient. Before Rinzen could complete her command sequence, a violent tremor shook the entire noodle stand. The scored plasteel floorboards groaned, then buckled inward with a ripping shriek. Splinters shot skyward, and a massive, segmented head, dripping with viscous green ichor, burst through the gap. Its mandibles clacked, revealing rows of serrated teeth, each the size of Kou’s thumb. Two compound eyes, a dizzying mosaic of black and crimson, fixed on the vendor's body, drawn to the fresh pool of black sludge. It was a hound-beast, a predatory vermin of the settlement carcass made bolder by the rising spore count. Its ribbed husk, a gnarled, rust-colored plating, scraped against the low ceiling, sending rust flakes raining down. “Master, behind you!” Rinzen cried, her hand instinctively reaching for an imaginary weapon. Her training screamed at her to create distance, to deploy suppressive fire, to activate shield protocols. Yet confined in this stall against such mass without her mech frame, she possessed no heavy firepower. Kou, however, did not panic. He did not even flinch. As the hound lunged, its multi-jointed legs scuttling across the remaining floor, Kou shifted half a pace sideways. The beast’s snapping jaws closed on empty air where his head had been a heartbeat before. The momentum of its lunge carried it past him, its thick tail whipping through the air, sending a nearby pot of broth crashing to the floor. Without a word, Kou’s hand moved. It was not a punch, nor a strike in the conventional sense. It was a series of precise, delicate taps. His fingers, seemingly as insubstantial as smoke, danced across the creature’s armored hide. One tap near the base of its neck, another behind its largest compound eye, a third on a specific segment of its mid-body shell. There was no force, no impact visible. Yet, as Kou’s final tap landed, the predator froze mid-snarl. Its mandibles hung open, a droplet of ichor suspended from one tooth. Its crimson eyes stared blankly ahead, fixed on a point in the grimy ceiling. Not dead, not unconscious. Simply… still. Like a monstrous, grotesque statue, perfectly preserved in a moment of violent aggression. Tarkis Lorn, who had been cowering under a overturned metal drum, his face a ghastly shade of grey, risked a peek. His jaw went slack. His comm-pad, which he had been clutching in a death grip, slipped from his trembling fingers, landing with a soft *clink* on the dirty floor. A faint, almost imperceptible red light flickered on its screen, indicating an active recording and data burst. He had captured it all. The impossible speed, the baffling precision, the utter stillness of the paralyzed stalker. “My apologies, Master!” Tarkis blurted, scrambling to retrieve the device. “I… I was merely documenting the… the escalating threat level! For… for public safety!” His words tumbled out in a panicked rush, a thin veneer of civic duty barely concealing his terror. Rinzen, however, was not convinced. Her head snapped towards Tarkis, her eyes narrowing. Her instinct to protect Kou snapped directly onto the cowering informant. Her hand went to her hip, where a stun-projector would normally sit, only to find empty air. But her gaze alone was a weapon. It promised agonizing dismemberment. “You,” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous, “are spying on him. I saw the data burst. Is this how you ‘document public safety’? By transmitting his… his *wisdom* to the Planetary Watch? Do you not understand the sacredness of this moment?” Tarkis recoiled, pressing himself flat against the grimy wall. He had faced plasma cannons and rabid tunnel beasts, but Rinzen Vael’s unblinking hostility threatened immediate execution. He stammered, “N-no, Elite Knight! I merely… I was merely… ” He trailed off, caught between the impossible task of explaining his government-mandated espionage and surviving the current, very personal threat. Kou, ignoring the dispute, stepped around the frozen beast. He poked its hardened plating with his index finger. The creature remained perfectly immobile. He circled it, inspecting its various segments. “Are these edible?” he asked, a genuine curiosity in his tone. “The meat looks tough. But perhaps a long braise? Or roasted over a low flame, the shell split open for the innards.” Rinzen’s murderous glare wavered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. Tarkis, too, paused his internal plea for mercy. The absurdity of the question hung in the air, momentarily deflecting the fatal trajectory of Rinzen’s anger. Her brow furrowed. “Lord Kou, with all due respect, that is a Chitin-Hound. Its flesh is toxic, its blood corrosive. And it’s… it’s a mutant spore carrier. We don’t eat them.” “A pity,” Kou murmured, giving the hound another exploratory tap. “Wastage. Such a large beast.” Suddenly, the market’s battered wall-horns squawked to life again, overriding the distant sirens. Vorstag’s voice, colder and more strained than before, boomed through the dreadnought corridors. “Attention, citizens of the Rustborn Enclave. This is Magistrate Vorstag. The situation has escalated beyond containment protocols. Spore levels are now critical across the entire settlement. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.” A collective gasp went through the market, followed by a surge of desperate, panicked movement. Screams echoed as scavengers clawed at their comm-pads, trying to summon their own utility mechs or find a clean shelter. Several more distant crashes suggested new hull breaches. “You have twelve standard Oroxian hours,” Vorstag’s voice continued, devoid of emotion, “to evacuate the Enclave within fully sealed mecha suits. Any individual, or any structure, remaining within the designated quarantine perimeter after this timeframe will be considered a terminal contamination risk. To prevent an irreversible planetary infection, orbital glass-bombardment will commence precisely at the twelve-hour mark.” The broadcast cut to static, leaving the bazaar paralyzed. Twelve hours. Not to clean, not to contain, but to flee. Or be vaporized.

The Anatomy of a Chitin-Hound