Cold grease and stale sweat hung heavy in the air.
Descending into the gut of the Iron Vanguard's fortress felt like crawling down a wet throat. Metal stairs rattled under Alrien’s boots, telegraphing his shaky descent to everyone below. Steam hissed from overhead pipes, coating the concrete floor in a slippery, grey film.
Below him lay the subterranean training facility, a cavernous chamber of reinforced steel and iron cages. Rusted weight racks clanked as hulking figures threw iron plates around like toys. The air smelled of cheap disinfectant, copper, and the unmistakable rot of low-level curse contamination.
Every eye in the pit snapped toward him.
Whispers rippled through the crowd of hardened recruits, sharp and mocking. A scarred man with a metal jaw sneered, spitting a glob of dark phlegm onto the floor. "Look what the cat dragged in. Did we start accepting stray dogs?"
Laughter erupted, low and vicious.
Alrien kept his chin down, adjusting the heavy wool cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders. Hidden beneath the thick fabric, his left hand throbbed, wrapped in layers of clean linen bandages to conceal the jagged, obsidian scales of his mutation. The skin beneath the wraps felt hot, itching with a phantom hunger that terrified him.
Slight of build and pale from weeks of starvation, he looked like a gust of wind could knock him over. His ribs practically showed through his thin shirt, and his gentle, wide eyes did nothing to hide his fear.
"Hey, trash bag," a massive recruit stepped into his path, blocking the bottom stair.
Silas was his name, stenciled in faded black ink across his stained leather vest. The brute stood over six feet tall, his chest broad as a brick wall, covered in jagged scars from low-level Curse encounters.
"Vanguard auxiliary is for fighters," Silas growled, leaning down so his sour breath hit Alrien's face. "Not dying orphans who belong in a hospice. What's with the cloak? You freezing already, little lamb?"
Alrien swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Instinct screamed at him to apologize, to make himself small, to avoid the confrontation at all costs. His gentle nature recoiled from the raw malice radiating off the giant.
"I was assigned here by Captain Vance," Alrien said, keeping his voice as steady as he could manage.
"Vance?" Silas laughed, a booming sound that drew more onlookers. "Vance collects garbage. He probably wants us to use you as a living shield."
Without warning, a thick, calloused hand snatched Alrien's bandaged wrist, squeezing hard.
Pain flared through Alrien’s hand, but it wasn't the pain of weak flesh—it was the pressure of his mutated, obsidian bones grinding against each other. Deep beneath the linen, a dull, unnatural heat began to radiate from his palm.
His [Divine Adaptability] was already stirring, reacting to the hostile pressure. If he let it trigger here, the mutation would break through the bandages, exposing his monstrosity to the entire room.
"Let go," Alrien whispered, his jaw locked tight as he fought to suppress the dark energy crawling up his forearm.
"Or what, little girl?" Silas sneered, twisting the wrist further. "You'll cry?"
"Drop him, Silas."
A heavy, metallic thud echoed through the chamber.
Standing behind the brute was a man leaning against a massive, dented iron tower shield. His hair was shorn close to the scalp, and his eyes carried the dead, hollow look of someone who had seen too many comrades die. A deep scar ran from his temple down to his collarbone, puckered and grey.
Silas scoffed but released Alrien's wrist, turning to face the newcomer.
"Mind your own business, Jaxon," Silas spat, though he took a half-step back. "Just checking out the new meat."
"He's not meat yet," Jaxon said, his voice flat and dry as dust. "He's just garbage. Like the rest of us. Go flex your muscles somewhere else before I use this shield to flatten your nose."
Silas muttered a curse, turning back to his weights with a final glare directed at Alrien.
Jaxon watched him go, then turned his dull eyes toward Alrien.
"Follow me if you want to keep your fingers," Jaxon muttered, slinging the strap of his massive shield over his shoulder.
Alrien hesitated for a fraction of a second before quickly stepping into stride beside the shield-bearer.
They walked toward the darker, damp edge of the training hall, away from the loud, aggressive main group. The walls here were weeping with condensation, and the smell of the sewers below was much stronger.
"Thanks," Alrien said quietly, rubbing his throbbing, bandaged wrist.
"Don't thank me," Jaxon replied, not looking back. "Saves me the trouble of cleaning up your blood before the real work starts. I hate the smell of fresh blood. It draws the wrong kind of attention."
Heavy locker doors clanged open as Jaxon dropped his shield with a loud crash, leaning it against a dented metal bench.
Jaxon pulled a rusted flask from his belt, took a long swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You're Alrien, right?" Jaxon asked, squinting. "The one who supposedly survived a close encounter with a Class 2?"
"I survived," Alrien said simply.
"Barely, by the looks of you," Jaxon remarked, his gaze lingering on Alrien's bandaged left hand. "Why the wraps? You hiding a bite? If you're turning, I'll put a bolt through your head right now."
Panic flickered in Alrien's chest, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. He thought of his mother, how her skin had turned to ash when the curse took her, and how he had been too terrified to touch her. The guilt burned in his stomach like hot coals.
"Just a bad burn," Alrien lied, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. "It's healing. I'm not infected."
A dry, hacking laugh escaped Jaxon's throat, sounding like gravel grinding together.
"Keep your secrets," Jaxon said. "In this place, everyone has something they want to bury. But down here, the Curses smell fear before they smell blood. You smell like a rabbit in a den of wolves."
"How long have you been in the auxiliary squad?" Alrien asked, trying to steer the conversation away from his hand.
"Six months," Jaxon said, his expression darkening. "Which makes me a grandfather in this unit. Most don't last six days."
Alrien frowned, looking around the room. There were about forty recruits in total, most of them looking rough, desperate, or half-mad. Some were shivering, staring blankly at the floor.
"Why is the mortality rate so high?" Alrien asked. "Captain Vance said we were the vanguard's support."
"Support?" Jaxon laughed again, a sound completely devoid of humor. "Vance lies. The Vanguard brass doesn't waste their elite hunters on scouting dark sectors. They keep them safe behind concrete walls until the path is cleared."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"We are the auxiliary," Jaxon said, pointing a dirty fingernail at Alrien's chest. "But what that really means is we are the Vanguard's garbage."
"Garbage?" Alrien echoed.
"Bait," Jaxon corrected, his eyes dead serious. "We get sent into the unmapped zones first. We walk into the dark, make a lot of noise, and wait for the Curses to jump us."
Memories of Clara's pale, sweating face flashed in Alrien's mind. She was dying of the curse, and the only thing keeping her alive was the suppression serum Captain Vance had promised. He had no choice. He had to survive this, no matter how dirty the game was.
"They use us to draw them out," Alrien whispered, the realization settling heavy in his gut.
"Exactly," Jaxon said, nodding slowly. "Once the Curses reveal themselves by eating a few of us, the real hunters—the high-ranking Elites—move in to clean up and take all the credit."
"That's murder," Alrien said, his fists clenching.
"It's math," Jaxon countered. "One cheap auxiliary life to save ten expensive elite lives. The Vanguard runs on those numbers. If you want to survive, stay behind me. My shield can block physical strikes and minor hexes. But if we get separated, you're on your own."
Alrien looked down at his bandaged hand. If they were thrown into the jaws of the beast, his mutation would be his only shield. But every time his [Divine Adaptability] triggered, he became less human. He could feel it—the cold, unyielding hunger of the obsidian flesh waiting to crawl further up his arm, waiting to consume him.
"Why are you telling me this?" Alrien asked, searching the older man's face. "If we're all just bait, why do you care?"
"Because dead bait doesn't help me stay alive," Jaxon said bluntly. "The longer you run, the longer the Curses are distracted. It gives me a better chance to find an exit. We survive together, or we die alone."
Cold, logical, and brutal. This was the reality of the world under the Curse. There was no room for compassion, no space for Alrien's soft-hearted hesitation. He had to adapt, or he would die.
"Understood," Alrien said, his voice hardening.
"Good," Jaxon said, reaching out to pat his shoulder.
As Jaxon claps Alrien on the shoulder, a crimson warning light bathes the room in red, and the floor plates slide away to drop the recruits directly into the maw of Sector 9's infected sewers.