The air was a raw wound. Riven’s lungs burned with every shallow breath. His improvised filter, a crudely woven mesh of scavenged fiber and activated charcoal from a defunct power cell, did little to soothe the sting. It merely kept the worst of the airborne particulates from tearing his throat. He moved. A low crouch, a slithering motion through the skeletal remains of what might have once been a cargo container. Rust flaked like diseased skin. Acid dripped from overhead pipes, hissing on the gritty ground. Each drip was a tiny, persistent predator. Kael's knowledge, Riven's instinct. They were blurring. The abstract data points from a forgotten simulation now manifested as a visceral map in his skull. This sector. Sector Gamma-7, the old Waste-Processing Hub. Known for its 'Crimson Glowroot' spawns. Also known for its 'Scrabblers'. The Glowroot was his target. Potent. Rare. Essential for the deep wound salve he needed to craft. His left forearm throbbed, a dull ache from a close encounter two cycles prior. Not critical, but festering. Untreated, it would be a death sentence. A metallic clang echoed, distant. Not human. Too heavy. Scrabblers. He froze, pressed against corroded plating. The sound died. He waited. Five slow heartbeats. Ten. The Substratum taught patience. Or it killed you. He edged forward. His eyes, now sharper than Kael’s ever were, pierced the perpetual gloom. Orange bio-luminescent moss clung to cracked concrete. It offered just enough visibility to navigate the debris field. Twisted rebar snaked across his path. He stepped over it, not through. No unnecessary risks. His worn boot found purchase on something slick. He stopped. A greasy sheen. A trail. Not from a Scrabbler. Their trails were chitinous fragments, dried slime. This was different. A thicker, oily residue. A new variable. His internal mechanics screamed. Unmapped entity. Danger. He drew his blade. A shard of reinforced plasteel, honed on broken ceramite. It hummed with a low vibration he almost felt in his bones. Not perfectly balanced, but deadly. He gripped it tighter. His knuckles were bone-white. He followed the trail. Cautious. Slow. It led deeper into the hub's core, towards the massive, collapsed processing vats. The air grew thicker here, more acrid. A faint, sweetish smell overlaid the industrial decay. The Glowroot. He was close. But the oily trail persisted. It seemed to converge on the same area. Competition. Or worse. Other Rust-Stalkers were usually territorial. And often, merciless. He ducked behind a stack of fused waste cubes. Peered around. The vats loomed. Gaping maw-like structures, corroded edges dripping with something viscous and dark. And there. Below one of the vats. A faint crimson pulse. Low to the ground. Small. The Glowroot. It wasn't unguarded. Not by Scrabblers. He counted three figures. Hunched. Clad in patched rags, their skin a mottled gray-green. Like his. But these were leaner, their movements more erratic. Gang-affiliated, by their crude markings. The 'Slag-Scavs'. Game data called them 'Disciples of the Rust God'. Fanatics. Predictable in their savagery. Unpredictable in their methods. They were prodding at the ground near the Glowroot, grunting. Their weapons were crude clubs, sharpened rebar, one held a sparking coil-whip. Bad news. Three of them. He was one. A direct confrontation was suicide. He pulled back, his mind racing. Kael's tactical simulations kicked in. Flanking maneuvers. Environmental hazards. Distractions. Riven’s body felt the chill of calculation. Above the Slag-Scavs, a section of the catwalk hung precariously. Loose rebar. Weakened bolts. It wouldn’t hold his weight. But it might hold something else. He scanned the immediate vicinity. Debris. Twisted girders. A half-collapsed wall of concrete blocks. Too much effort to move, too noisy. He needed something smaller. Something quick. His gaze landed on a cracked pressure gauge. Still attached to a rusted pipe. The pipe led to an overhead vent, choked with decades of dust and grit. A thought sparked. A volatile substance. He crept towards the gauge, careful not to disturb the ground. His fingers were nimble, despite the cold. He worked quickly, prying the gauge free. A small hiss of escaping air. Barely audible over the ambient hum of the Substratum. The pipe was still pressurized. Not much, but enough. He found a loose chunk of ceramite. Heavy. Jagged. Perfect. He circled, using the towering vats as cover. He positioned himself above and behind the Slag-Scavs, on a higher platform. The pipe with the loose vent ran just above their heads. He carefully aimed the ceramite chunk. The Slag-Scavs were still absorbed in their task, arguing in guttural growls. They hadn't spotted the Glowroot yet, only its faint aura. They were likely looking for easier pickings. Riven took a deep breath, held it. He lobbed the ceramite. It was a precise, practiced throw. Not at the Slag-Scavs. At the pipe. *CRACK.* The sound ripped through the silence. The ceramite struck the compromised section of the pipe, just where the vent cover was weakest. The pipe buckled. A cloud of thick, putrid steam erupted, roaring downwards like a ravenous beast. It was concentrated, corrosive vapor from the decaying processing line. The Slag-Scavs shrieked. One was instantly engulfed, his crude rags dissolving, his skin blistering. He screamed, thrashing wildly. Another gagged, choking on the fumes, his eyes watering. The third, partially shielded by the vat, recoiled, weapon falling from nerveless fingers. Riven didn't hesitate. He dropped from the platform. A silent leap, landing with a soft thud. He was on the unluckiest Slag-Scav first. The one still screaming. His plasteel blade sliced through the man's exposed neck. A choked gurgle. The body slumped, steaming. Riven barely registered the dying thrash. He moved on. The second Slag-Scav was still retching, half-blinded by the fumes. Riven slammed his shoulder into the man's chest. The Slag-Scav stumbled back, tripping over a fallen girder. His head hit the concrete with a sickening crack. He lay still, a thin trickle of blood blooming on the grime. The third. The one who had dropped his weapon. He stared at Riven, eyes wide with terror and something else – recognition. He saw the cold, deliberate efficiency. He saw the predator. "Back off," the Slag-Scav rasped, his voice hoarse with fear. "This ain't worth it." Riven didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes, burning with a mix of Kael’s calculation and Riven’s primal hunger, were enough. He took a step forward. Then another. The Slag-Scav scrambled backwards, desperate. His hand scrabbled for something, anything. A broken pipe. He fumbled with it, eyes locked on Riven. "I said back off!" he shrieked, finding his voice. He swung the pipe wildly. Riven sidestepped the clumsy blow. He didn't rush. He observed. The arc. The man's balance. A slight weakness in his left knee. Game data. Applied. He lunged low, sweeping the man's legs. The Slag-Scav went down with a grunt. Riven was on him instantly. His blade was at the man's throat. The Slag-Scav whimpered. "Please. I got nothing. Just let me go." Kael's old self might have hesitated. Might have seen the fear. The humanity. Riven didn’t. Riven saw a potential future threat. A witness. A weakness. His blade pressed. A bead of blood welled. "Where are your others?" Riven asked, his voice a low growl. He didn't like talking. It felt alien. But Kael knew intel was vital. The Slag-Scav swallowed hard. "No others! Just us! We're… we're from the outer edges. Just scavving!" Riven's eyes flickered. Lying. Or not entirely truthful. The Slag-Scavs operated in larger packs. This was a scouting party, perhaps. Or a discarded one. He pressed the blade harder. "The Glowroot. Where else?" "I don't know!" A tear tracked through the grime on the man's cheek. "It's rare! We just followed the feelers! I swear!" Riven studied him. The fear was real. The specific location knowledge might not be. But the presence of others was a high probability. He couldn’t afford to let this one run back to his pack. He made his choice. A cold, surgical decision. The Slag-Scav's eyes widened just before the blade bit deep. A final, choked gasp. The life drained out of him. Riven pulled back, his face unmoving. Three down. Clean. Efficient. He knelt by the Glowroot. It pulsed softly, a deep crimson light. Delicate. Almost beautiful amidst the filth. He carefully harvested the small, fleshy root, placing it in a reinforced pouch at his belt. It was worth the risk. Worth the kill. He stood, wiping his blade on a dead Slag-Scav’s rags. His gaze swept the area. The steam was dissipating. The smell of death hung heavy. He had done what he needed to do. Survival. That was the only creed. A faint clatter. Distant. But distinct. Riven froze. It wasn't the metallic drag of a Scrabbler. It was lighter. Faster. A rattling, clicking sound. Too regular. Too deliberate. He had been so focused on the Slag-Scavs, so certain his trap had cleared the path. He had accounted for game mechanics. But sometimes, the Substratum threw curveballs. Un-simulated threats. He pressed himself against the vat's cold metal. Listened. The sound grew closer. Rapid. Multi-legged. Not human. Not Scrabbler. It rounded the corner of the vat. A nightmare of scavenged metal and twitching bio-matter. A construct. Roughly canine in shape, but with too many segmented limbs. Razor-sharp appendages jutted from its plating. A single, multi-faceted optical sensor glowed an angry red. A 'Slicer-Hound'. A relic. Cybernetic assassins, deployed by the Over-City during the Collapse to track and eliminate 'ferals'. Untamed, unprogrammed, and unbelievably deadly. Kael had only ever encountered them in the deepest, most secure sectors of the simulation. Always as mini-bosses. Always with a heavy penalty for failure. This wasn't a simulation. This was real. And it had found him. The Slicer-Hound stopped. Its red eye fixed on him. A low, mechanical growl emanated from its chassis. It coiled, ready to spring. Riven instinctively pulled his blade up, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was beyond Rust-Stalkers. Beyond Slag-Scavs. This was the Over-City's cold, calculated wrath, made flesh and steel. And it wanted him.

Crimson Harvest