Dawn in Sector Four brought no light. It only emphasized the outlines of debris and ruins, turning vague shadows into grotesque monuments of the past. The air, thick with magical smog, felt like a suspension of lime dust and burnt wool. Every breath scraped my throat like sandpaper.

  They dragged me out of the underground not as a man, but as defective cargo that needed to reach the warehouse as quickly as possible. Two guards in faceless steel masks clutched my elbows and hauled me forward. My feet barely touched the stone; the cold-iron shackles felt as if tombstones had been strapped to my ankles.

  This iron was the Order’s curse. It didn’t just bind—it drained heat. I felt the cold crawl up my forearms from my wrists, turning my blood into thick, prickly ice. The mana that once flowed like a warm stream in my chest now lay at the bottom of my lungs as heavy, frozen sediment. It didn’t flow. It had stopped.

  The cart waited in the center of the yard—a grim box lined with dull lead sheets to suppress any magical surge. They threw me onto the filthy straw, reeking of old urine and dried blood. The impact rolled through my ribs in a blunt, nauseating wave.

  Opposite me sat Kyle.

  He didn’t look like a predator. His armor wasn’t shiny—it was coated in gray dust and small dents. His usually smug face had gone pale from exhaustion and twitched with a nervous tic. He wasn’t a hunter; he was a frightened soldier tasked with transporting a live bomb. He gripped his short sword so hard that his knuckles whitened.

  “You don’t even know how much I want you to move,” he rasped. His voice was dry, stripped of former bravado. “Give me a reason to punch a hole through your lungs. I don’t care about protocol. I just want to reach the Central Block and wash this stench off me.”

  I stayed silent. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I felt Zeno’s key clenched in my fist—a tiny piece of steel pressed so hard that its edges had long cut into my skin. Blood mixed with sweat, making it slippery. That was the main problem. If it slipped now, with my fingers numb from the cold, I wouldn’t be able to retrieve it. My fingers felt like stiff wooden twigs.

  The cart lurched. The screech of unlubricated axles bit into my skull as we rolled from the Citadel toward the Whispering Cliffs.

  [Will to Live] didn’t sing songs of freedom. It vibrated—a low, irritating hum that made my teeth itch. The skill tried to pierce the shackles’ suppressive field, and the struggle turned my nervous system into a battlefield. Every impulse of “help” felt like an electric shock at the base of my skull.

  An hour passed. Maybe two. Time lost all meaning in the metal box. The dim glint of Kyle’s blade in the half-light was my only anchor. He never took his eyes off me. Every time the cart hit a bump, he flinched, and the sword tip edged dangerously close to my throat.

  “You know what they’ll do to you there?” he suddenly asked. There was no triumph in his voice—only tired inevitability. “They won’t just place the Seal. They’ll cut out the parts of your brain that say ‘I want’ and ‘I don’t want.’ You’ll walk. Breathe. Even kill on command. But inside? Void. Silence. And honestly… I envy you. In this hell, silence is a luxury.”

  I looked at him. His pupils were wide. Kyle was on the edge. That was bad—an unstable guard strikes first. But it was also good. His focus had cracks.

  The air outside changed. The wheels’ hum turned hollow, echoing off invisible walls. We entered the canyon.

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  The Whispering Cliffs. A place where veins of anomalous ore drove compasses mad and dampened magical artifacts. I felt it instantly. Pressure squeezed my temples. The shackles emitted a faint, barely audible chime. The Order’s suppressive field collided with the chaotic energy of the mountains.

  Numbness in my fingers turned into burning pain—blood pushed back into deadened tissue. It felt like thousands of molten needles stabbing under my nails. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I slid the key into the lock.

  Kyle noticed.

  “Hey! I said—don’t move!” He jabbed the sword into my shoulder. The tip pierced fabric and sank into flesh.

  I didn’t scream. I just stared him in the eyes until the key finally found its groove. The lock was clogged with dirt and hardened mana. The key wouldn’t turn. Metal pressed against metal.

  “Hands! Show me your hands, you bastard!” Kyle lunged, raising the sword for a strike.

  At that moment, the cart tipped sharply. A wheel fell into a deep crack in the stone. Kyle was thrown onto me. It was my only chance. I pressed my full weight forward, breaking my thumb to create leverage.

  Click.

  The mechanism gave way. The heavy iron splintered, freeing my wrists. But there was no relief. There was horror. Without the suppressive field, mana inside me erupted like a coiled spring. [Will to Live] went mad. The world blazed crimson.

  Mana surged through channels that had been dead a second ago. It wasn’t energy—it was poison. The skill clung to my nervous system like a parasite trying to revive a corpse.

  Kyle collapsed on top of me, his armor driving my ribs into the floor. I heard a dry crack—another rib gave way—and icy fire flooded my lungs.

  “Bastard!” he growled, spitting in my face.

  There was no room to swing. He thrust downward, trying to pin me. The first strike slashed my side, the second drove into my thigh. My mouth opened in a silent spasm. The pain should have blacked out my consciousness, but the skill wouldn’t allow it. It forcibly rewired my pathways, burning out the receptors.

  I kicked him. The chain around my ankle wrapped around his knee. I yanked with all my strength, feeling his joint twist impossibly. Kyle howled. He dropped the sword; steel clanged on the lead floor.

  We rolled across the straw like two rabid beasts. This wasn’t a duel—it was a fight in a coffin. I reached for his neck. My fingers barely bent, but the skill forced them to close around his throat.

  “Hey! What’s happening there?!” The driver’s voice came from somewhere far away.

  The cart skidded. Through rips in the tarp, I saw the gray canyon wall drop into nothingness. Kyle slammed his elbow into my temple. The world shattered into shadows, but I didn’t release my grip.

  “Your… Order…” I rasped through blood filling my mouth. “…won’t save you…”

  I jerked the chain, flipping him, and grabbed the fallen sword. The hilt was slick with my own blood.

  The Whispering Cliffs awoke. Searching spells tore through the canyon—the Order detected my mana surge. Blue, ominous lights bloomed across the slopes like corpses in flower.

  “Stop! Stop the cart!” Kyle shouted.

  He realized: at this speed, the cart would become a collective grave. I looked at the rear flap. Behind it—void. Below—roaring river hidden in mist. Nine times out of ten, that meant death. Staying meant guaranteed destruction of the soul.

  “Choice, Kyle. Remember?”

  I didn’t cut the tarp—I struck it with my back, tearing the rotted fastenings. Kyle grabbed my jacket; the fabric ripped, but I rammed the sword hilt into his nose. Wet crunch. He recoiled.

  I stepped into the void.

  The fall lasted an eternity. Air punched the lungs out. I watched the cart shrink, wrapped in the Order’s blue signal smoke.

  Then—impact. Not water, but rocky shore at the riverbank. My left shoulder took most of it. The joint shattered completely. [Will to Live] issued a critical brain error. Vision went utterly black.

  I tumbled down—a knot of flesh, cloth, and metal. Stones tore at my muscles, thorny brush whipped my face. When I finally stopped, face-down in wet silt at the water’s edge, there was no triumph. Only life leaking from the wound on my leg in pulsating beats.

  Above came shouts. The Order doesn’t abandon its tools.

  I tried to lift my head. Silt filled my mouth. The skill was silent—it had burned everything to keep my skeleton intact during the fall. Now I was alone. Without magic, with a useless arm, and a leg turned into a block of lead.

  I crawled. Not as a hero, but as a crushed worm, dragging myself over slippery stones with my one working hand. Every inch cost me my consciousness.

  From behind, in the mist, came the sound of water splashing. Someone—or something—was approaching.