Cold steel bit into the flesh of Alrien’s throat. Ozone filled the cramped apartment, sharp and metallic, burning the back of his nose. White armor gleamed under the flickering fluorescent bulb of the kitchen, scarred by deep, acid-etched grooves that spoke of countless battles in the Cursed Dimension. Clara whimpered in her sleep on the mattress behind them, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged hitches. Alrien didn't dare swallow, knowing the slightest movement of his Adam's apple would press it deeper into the razor-sharp edge of the blade. Sweat dripped down his temple, tracing a cold path to his collarbone. His right arm felt impossibly heavy, throbbing with a dull, sickening heat. Looking down, his chest tightened at the sight of his own limb. Black, crystalline scales coated his skin up to the elbow, catching the light like polished volcanic glass. Sharp claws tipped his fingers, still dripping with the foul, oily residue of the low-tier Curse he had just choked to death with his bare hands. He was mutating, transforming into the very nightmare he spent his entire life trying to avoid. Fear, cold and paralyzing, clawed at his chest, reminding him of the day his mother turned to ash before his eyes. Back then, he had failed her because he was too terrified to touch her cursed, blistering skin. He would not let Clara suffer the same fate. "Please," Alrien whispered, his voice cracking with dry terror. "She has nothing to do with this." Captain Vance of the Iron Vanguard did not lower his weapon. A low hum vibrated through the white-hot edge of his heavy broadsword, a weapon designed to sever the spiritual pathways of corrupted beasts. With a slow, deliberate movement, Vance tilted his helmeted head, analyzing Alrien with cold, calculating eyes behind the dark visor. Instinct screamed at Alrien to pull back, to run, to use his newly mutated claw to tear through the wall and escape. Instead, he did the opposite. Alrien reached out, his newly mutated, obsidian fingers wrapping directly around the glowing edge of Vance's blade. Metal grated against bone, or what passed for bone now beneath the thick layer of dark crystal. Pain flared, sharp and blinding, but Alrien didn't let go, squeezing harder to keep the weapon from advancing toward the bed where Clara lay. Sparks of silver energy hissed against his black scales, but the skin did not break. Vance paused, his armored shoulders tensing as he felt the sheer physical resistance of the young man's grip. He had expected a mindless beast to lash out, to bite, or to beg for mercy while trying to flee. This deliberate, self-sacrificing gesture was entirely human. Slowly, Vance lowered his eyes to the obsidian hand wrapping his sword. Pressure from the blade eased slightly, though the weapon remained drawn. Under the light of the dying lamp, the black scales on Alrien's arm weren't chaotic or rotting like a typical corrupted mutant. They were perfectly aligned, forming a natural, defensive gauntlet that throbbed with a faint, steady heartbeat. This was not the chaotic rot of a failing human vessel. This was high-tier adaptability, a legendary passive mutation so rare that most Hunters only read about it in ancient logs. Vanguard units spent fortunes trying to cultivate such traits in their elite soldiers. If this boy had obtained it naturally, his survival rate in the deeper zones would be astronomical. Alrien watched the Captain's visor, holding his breath as the silence stretched between them. Clara's breathing grew louder, accompanied by a wet, rattling cough that made Alrien's heart sink. Her skin was turning a pale, translucent grey, the telltale sign of curse-seep taking hold of her vital organs. Vance pulled his blade back with a swift, clean jerk, shearing a layer of black dust from Alrien's palm. "Your humanity is still intact, mutant," Vance said, his voice deep, filtered through the helmet's vocal modulator. Alrien cradled his heavy, dark hand against his chest, the scales warm and pulsing. "I am still myself," Alrien insisted, stepping back to shield Clara's sleeping form with his body. "I killed the thing that attacked us, but she... she's breathing in the residue. She needs a doctor." Vance let out a harsh, mocking laugh that sounded like grinding gears. They both knew doctors in the outer districts didn't touch curse-seep without a mountain of credits. Auxiliary units of the Iron Vanguard were the only ones with access to high-grade suppression serums. It was a brutal system, designed to force the desperate into the meat-grinder of the Cursed Dimension. "You think anyone in this city cares about a dying girl in a tenement block?" Vance asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. Clara let out a soft groan, her small hand clutching her chest as a thin line of black bile trickled from the corner of her mouth. Without hesitation, Alrien dropped to his knees, his gentle nature warred with the primal urge to scream. "Help her," Alrien begged, looking up at the imposing white figure. "I will do whatever you want. Just save my sister." Vance reached into a pouch at his waist, pulling out a heavy, metallic case. This was the moment of decision, the trap snapping shut around Alrien's neck. Inside the case lay a glowing, bronze syringe filled with a thick, amber liquid. Vance throws a bronze syringe to the floor, whispering, 'This buys her seventy-two hours; fail your first raid tomorrow, and I will execute you both myself.'

Chapter 3: A Pact Written in Bile