The return from the city center to the outskirts was a descent into the underworld. Left behind was the blinding glare of marble and the sterile beauty of porcelain figures who walked as if gravity were a distant suggestion. The air, which up there smelled of jasmine and expensive incense, gradually grew heavier as the polished stone path gave way to dry mud and accumulated debris. They reached the inn of rough stone, a building that seemed more solid than the rotting wooden shacks surrounding it. The interior was plunged into constant gloom, saturated with the smell of tallow, old straw, and kitchen grease that seemed impregnated into the very walls. The sound of gruff voices and the clinking of mugs created a background noise that was actually quite peaceful compared to the discomfort felt in the noble part of the city.
Skewer called for the tavern owner, a red-faced man with large hands who seemed to measure a person's value by the glint of the metal they carried. The negotiation that began became a chirping of words the protagonist could not decipher, but the gestures were clear. He pointed to the staircase and then outside, indicating an imminent departure for the mission. Skewer had "told" him it would last about three days. The innkeeper looked at the protagonist with a suspicious gaze, but with more ill-disguised fear, maintaining a safe distance while his eyes sought the coin pouch.
The leather pouch was opened, and its contents poured onto the wooden table. The clinking of raw metal coins momentarily silenced the surrounding noise. With a deliberate movement, the amount was divided. Half the coins were pushed toward the man. It was an exorbitant fee, enough to ensure the boy had not only a roof and food, but the host's full attention so that nothing would happen to him during their absence. Leaning slightly forward, ensuring the purple glow of the eyes was visible beneath the shadow of the hood, a finger was pointed at him and then toward the boy's room—a silent warning that the payment was a contract of life or death. The man gathered the metal in a hurry, averting his gaze while nodding frantically.
With the lodging secured, the companion went upstairs to pack his things and speak with the boy about what was to come. The protagonist went out again into the peripheral market, where the smell of cheap meat and smoke was constant. Large pieces of pork were purchased—fatty and heavy—along with dark roots and vegetables that still bore the soil of their cultivation. The little that remained of the coins was used to ensure that rapid regeneration would improve the wounds, knowing the mission would demand it.
Moving away from the noisy streets of the periphery, carrying the heavy burden of meat and roots, absolute isolation was required for what would come next. In a shaded corner at the foot of the forest, where the roots of colossal pines projected from the ground like the fingers of giants, creating a natural shelter away from the curious eyes of the townspeople, the protagonist sat on the soft earth, feeling the slight sink of the damp soil while the surrounding forest remained silent.
Without hesitation, the protagonist began to devour the pieces of fatty, raw meat, tearing through animal tissue. As the first piece of warm fat hit the throat, a clamor of satisfaction seemed to echo from the internal organs. While chewing, the corrosive void in the stomach—which previously seemed to consume its own organs to maintain basic functions—began to disappear. The chemical process of reconstruction was triggered almost instantaneously, demanding an immense tribute of calories that could finally be paid with that raw nourishment.
The pain began shortly after, but it was not the pain of a wound; it was the acute suffering of something growing back at an unnatural speed. Beneath the grimy bandages and rags, live red flesh, intertwined with silver graphene filaments that shimmered in the gloom, began to pulse with feverish intensity. The itching was unbearable, a sensation of thousands of invisible needles and insects stitching muscles and skin together, but as if they all wielded welders. It was a frenetic and cruel speed; the muscle fibers in the legs and torso could be felt tightening and multiplying, closing the deep gashes that had left the internal structure exposed.
The heat emanating from the torso became so intense due to abnormal cellular multiplication that a thick white mist began to drift from the skin and the gaps in the rags. This was the physical result of extreme accelerated cell division—a phenomenon where metabolic heat transformed air moisture and sweat into a dense vapor that rose from the shoulders and neck in an almost supernatural scene. The vapor hissed like boiling water, creating a curtain of smoke that smelled of iron and blood. The synthetic dermis struggled to cover the exposed muscle mass, consuming every gram of internal fat to accelerate the formation of the new protective shell. As the body reconstructed itself in this whirlwind of heat, the gray mist that clouded the vision began to dissipate rapidly. The grainy and unstable sight, which previously turned the world into a blur of shadows, gave way to a sharp and absolute clarity.
— At least the eyelids and vision have returned.
The blurs of trees became detailed trunks with rugged bark. Small movements of animals in the vegetation meters away became visible. The light sensors, previously starving for energy, now operated with a precision that allowed for the cataloging of every detail in the environment, clearing the static from the mind. The constant hum was replaced by silence.
— Good, the eardrum has been regenerated as well.
The protagonist rose slowly, feeling the familiar weight of reinforced muscles now anchored by recovered strength.
— Good, I must have recovered my weight; I must have gained some 25 or 26 kg more. Three more times and the synthetic skin should grow back completely, and the muscles and scars will be regenerated.
Approaching a puddle of dirty water nearby, the hood was removed.
— From Red Skull to Freddy Krueger; it wasn't that big of a change.
The rags were adjusted over the face and chest, concealing the vapor that still dissipated slowly in the cold forest air, and the walk back to the inn began in silence. Back in the room, the atmosphere was one of tense quiet. The boy was curled in a corner, watching every movement with eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness. Skewer handled the preparations for the journey, organizing backpacks and checking the simple weapons used by the mercenaries of this world. He spoke to the boy in whispers, perhaps trying to calm the terror that the protagonist's presence still caused.
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Boots were prepared, adjusting the ties and ensuring the rubber and metal lining was ready for more miles of uncertain terrain. Night fell over the city, and the silence in the room was broken only by the sound of the boy's breathing, who had finally fallen asleep under the furs. The protagonist did not sleep, remaining seated against the wall, watching the door and window, feeling strength return to the limbs with every passing hour. The investment made in the tavern keeper was a bet on that child's safety. With the first light of morning, they were ready to depart. The boy was left in the care of the host, who now treated them with a reverence born of fear and generous payment. They left the inn while mist still covered the dirt streets of the periphery, walking toward the gate that would lead them back to the marble heart and, from there, to unknown roads. The protagonist was recovered, with clear vision and muscles tensed for action. The journey would last three days, and each would be a test of survival where only the most efficient would return to claim their share of the contract.
The morning air was still impregnated with the cold moisture rising from the river when they left the vicinity of the inn. The walk toward the caravan's meeting point served as a final test for the recovered senses. Beneath layers of linen and rags, the protagonist felt the renewed strength in the limbs and the absolute clarity of vision, which now mapped every shadow and movement in the side alleys with a precision long missed.
They reached the assembly square as the sun began to tint the tops of the city's colossal walls a pale orange. The scene revealed was a lesson in hierarchy and despair. In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by an exclusion perimeter maintained by elite guards, sat the carriage. It did not look like the rustic wooden vehicles and creaking planks seen until then. It was a massive cubicle, constructed of a dark, dense wood that seemed as hard as steel, completely devoid of side windows. It resembled an impenetrable vault mounted on reinforced wheels and dark metal rims. The vehicle exhaled an aura of importance and secrecy a cocoon of armored luxury designed to keep the outside world, and all its filth and danger, at a safe and comfortable distance.
What truly captured the attention, however, were the creatures pulling that block of wood. From a distance, they looked like normal horses, with the powerful musculature and stature of high-lineage pack animals. However, as the eyes adjusted their focus, anomalies became evident and disturbing. Near the nostrils and around the eyes, equine skin gave way to plates of dark, shiny scales, similar to those of a reptile, which climbed the temples until disappearing under the thick mane. The strangest deviation was in the feet. Where there should have been keratin hooves striking the ground with a dry sound, there were wide paws with five long fingers and curved claws that dug into the stone pavement with predatory grip. They were impossible hybrids, creatures that seemed molded to maintain the speed of a horse but with the stability of a lizard, moving with a silent fluidity that defied the logic of the nature the protagonist was still trying to understand.
Around this core of wealth and strangeness, the horde of mercenaries began to gather. There were approximately a hundred men, a human mass of rags, animal furs, and ill-maintained steel. They were hired not for refined skill or any sense of honor, but for their capacity to occupy space and absorb blades that would otherwise strike the guards or the carriage. The group was observed, silently cataloging the threat each represented. There were men with deep scars crossing hardened faces, arms disproportionate from carrying heavy axes, and eyes that shined with the same feverish greed seen in the darkest corners of the periphery. Misery was the common trait, but beneath the dirt and hunger, there was an electric tension that saturated the air and made breathing difficult.
The elite guards forming the security cordon were the exact opposite of that disorderly mass. They wore polished plate armor that reflected the dawn light like mirrors, with blue and white silk cloaks that floated with a grace that seemed to ignore the wind. Their weapons long-shafted spears and flawlessly edged swords were held in a position of absolute readiness. They did not look at the mercenaries as allies or professional colleagues, but as pests or animals that needed to be contained in an invisible pen. It was clear that any suspicious movement, any step toward the carriage not explicitly ordered, would result in immediate execution. They were the executioners who valued only the contents of the wooden cubicle, treating the hundred men around them as disposable and replaceable resources.
Skewer stayed close, his usual agitation and mimicry replaced by a cautious silence and eyes that never stopped watching. He looked at the other mercenaries and then at the cordon of guards, appearing to perfectly understand the gravity of the situation. The pressure in the courtyard changed as the number of men increased and the space diminished. There was no camaraderie or small talk among those men. The contract signed carried an implicit slaughter clause that now seemed to scream to everyone: for every mercenary who fell on the road, the share of the payment for those remaining would increase significantly. It was a direct incentive for murder among allies—a mission where the greatest danger would not necessarily come from the forests or hidden bandits, but from the man walking right behind.
Heavy gazes could be felt on the back and shoulders. Although the protagonist crouched and tried his best to hide beneath the rags, his size did not go unnoticed. Experienced mercenaries, those who had survived long winters and bloody roads, measured the height and the width of the frame, mentally calculating how much effort would be needed to eliminate a subject like him to ensure a larger slice of gold at the end of the journey. It was a game of predators where the march had not yet begun, but the knives were already being sharpened in the silence of each mind. The smell of sour sweat, rusted metal, and fear mixed with the metallic and animal odor of the horses with lizard feet, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of a slaughterhouse before the first blow.
A guard officer, a man whose face seemed carved from cold, non-porous marble, stepped forward. He did not use his voice to address the crowd of ragamuffins; instead, he made a dry, imperious gesture with a polished metal glove. The signal for the start of the march was not given by a command of honor or a war cry, but by the violent crack of a whip over the backs of the scaly animals. The dark wooden carriage began to move, the heavy wheels creaking with a metallic sound against the paving stones, and the hundred began to displace like a tide of shadows and old metal around the armored vehicle. The protagonist positioned himself at the periphery of the group, maintaining a tactical distance from both the carriage and the mercenaries who seemed most aggressive or unstable. The next three days would be a symphony of betrayal, petty strikes, and sudden violence, where the only real mission was to ensure that he and his small guide were the ones left alive to claim the prize. Leaving the limits of the square and beginning the descent toward the outer gates of that porcelain metropolis, the lizard feet of the animals were observed moving with a hypnotic and disturbing cadence. Each claw that dug into the ground was a reminder of being in a world where the rules of life had been distorted in ways not yet fully understood.
The caravan crossed the shadow cast by the immense walls, and the heat of the sun began to beat against the top of the head, making sweat run beneath the bandages. The guards kept a steady pace, flanking the wooden cubicle with a discipline that made any unauthorized approach impossible, while the mass of disposable men was pushed to the edges of the formation, ready to be the first to fall.
The road ahead stretched toward bamboo forests and valleys where the mist never fully dissipate, the perfect territory for what was to come. The soldier within began to process the environment's variables. Steps were counted, distances between men were measured, and the way light reflected off the guards' weapons was observed. Every detail was data; every face was a potential threat. Skewer walked alongside, trying to keep pace with his short legs, and it was clear that his life was now as tied to the protagonist's as the protagonist was to that bloody contract. The march continued, slow and inexorable, toward a destination where most would become just another scrap of meat left behind in the dust of the path. The forest began to close in over the road, the gigantic bamboos creating a green tunnel that seemed to want to crush the caravan. The tension among the mercenaries increased visibly as visibility decreased. No one spoke. The only sound was the creaking of the carriage wheels and the heavy breathing of a hundred men who knew that, from that moment on, any mistake would be their last.
