Chapter 3

The vertical shaft was like a vein driven deep into the belly of the desert, churning with thick, grayish-white substance that resembled rotting fog. The air circulation system had long since failed, leaving the shaft to fester with a stench of ozone mixed with the rot of century-old bones.

Lucas hung from the winch, bait tossed into the maw of a meat grinder. He descended, his metal-soled boots scraping against the scratched shaft walls. When he reached two-thirds of the depth, the nightmare sparked into reality.

It was a presence that defied visual perception—tentacles coiled from the grayish fog. Without warning, they surged from a rupture in the wall, locking precisely onto Lucas’s ankles. He let out a piercing, heart-wrenching scream, the sound ricocheting through the narrow shaft and exploding directly into the eardrums of everyone in the command center via his comms link.

"Detach the hook! Detach it now!" Lieutenant General Weber roared at the console. But the tech in charge of the winch was deathly pale, fingers flying over the keyboard. "The winch system is locked! Load-limit exceeded, the motors are burning out!"

On the monitor, Lucas thrashed violently in mid-air. A tremendous force yanked his body downward. The tentacles weren't in a hurry to tear him apart; they were dragging him toward the deeper darkness, as if savoring the catch.

"Damn it."

I stepped out from the shadowy corner of the control room, a crude harness of rags and salvaged wire strapped around my waist. Weber whirled around, his tightly pulled face twisted by a mixture of unbridled resentment and sheer terror.

He stared daggers at me, his voice rigid. "What are you doing? Cain, that’s a Rex boy. This is a restricted military site—you better get back to your hole before I..."

"Shut up, Weber." I cut him off, my tone as mundane as if I were discussing tomorrow’s weather. I walked to the edge of the shaft and peered down into the chaotic abyss where the boy was being dragged.

"A hundred years," I muttered, pulling an unopened can of 'Blues' from my inner coat pocket. It was infused with high-purity nano-repair fluid—to these low-level parasites, it was essentially concentrated acid. "I’ve had the things inside tamed and disciplined for a century. Today is the first time anyone’s dared to stir up trouble on my turf."

Without a flicker of hesitation, I lunged, diving headlong into the shaft.

Gravity accelerated me into the dark. In the split second before touching Lucas, I twisted the cap off the beer and flung it. The liquid didn't just scatter; it formed a precision mist. The moment the droplets hit the tentacles, a sickening hiss erupted, as if boiling oil had been dumped into ice water.

The tentacle let out a shrill, beastly whine and recoiled back into the fissure. I grabbed Lucas by the collar, pulling him into a vice-like hold with my arm, and threw the manual brake on my harness with my left hand.

"Stop thrashing," I growled coldly at the limp boy in my arms.

Using the friction of the metal wall against my homemade harness, I hauled him back up inch by agonizing inch. When we scrambled out of the shaft and back onto the cold floor, the entire command center went dead silent.

I tossed the boy onto the ground and wiped off the putrid slime splashed on my face. I turned to leave, uncaring of the soldiers who held their rifles aimed at me but lacked the courage to pull the triggers.

"Wait."

The voice came from behind me—dry, trembling, and choked with the desperation of someone whose world had just torn in half. Lieutenant General Weber hurried a few steps forward, his face whiter than a shroud. His eyes, which had held such cold authority moments ago, now trembled.

"Who... who the hell are you?"

I stopped, without turning back. I reached up and fingered the badge on my chest—the outline polished smooth by a century of wear.

"Marcus, quit the act." My voice carried a weariness that felt as old as the desert. "That 'Communications Officer Tactical Manual' you kept by your station a hundred years ago—what was written on the first page?"

The room was muffled by total silence. Weber’s body swayed like a skyscraper stripped of its foundation. His hands, which had once held the line as a stalwart defender, dug their nails deep into the alloy edge of the console until blood seeped from under his cuticles, dripping onto the pristine floor.

He remembered. It was a dead law, buried for a century, an absolute order one had to carry as long as they breathed.

"Abyssal Warden Supreme Authority," Weber whispered unconsciously, his voice as thin as parchment. "...The order must never be questioned, under any circumstances."

I looked back at him once. He was utterly broken.

I walked straight toward the door, my silhouette growing more resolute under the terrified gazes of the soldiers. Just as I crossed the threshold of the research station, I heard the Lieutenant General—the man who once stood high above the world—whisper a final, broken, and utterly reverent word:

"...Sir."