Meanwhile, after Azrael's disappearance without a trace, Viktor was in a state of mild shock. He searched all around the cabin, combed the surrounding area with the radio in hand, but found not a single trace. The teenager seemed to have dissolved into the cold air along with his strange fox.
"Probably left," he resigned himself, feeling a strange mix of annoyance and relief. The mysterious savior was like a ghost—appeared from nowhere and vanished into thin air.
A few days later, the promised combat squad arrived. The rumble of the SUV's engine tore through the dead silence of the forest. Viktor came out of the cabin to meet them, pulling up his collar against the piercing wind.
The vehicles stopped. Doors opened.
The first to step out was a man in his mid-thirties to forties. He had an imposing appearance: a neatly trimmed black beard, hair just as black as coal, tied back in a short ponytail, and… red eyes. Bright, like fresh blood. "Like Itachi, heh," an inappropriate, joking thought flashed through Viktor's mind.
Following him emerged a second man. Snow-white hair, sharply contrasting with the dark uniform, and piercing blue eyes, cold and deep as the ocean abyss. He looked about twenty-five to thirty.
A third man stepped out, around thirty to thirty-five. Black hair, and again—scarlet, burning eyes. Viktor began to doubt his memory—or was this normal here?
And finally, a… girl got out of the vehicle. She looked no older than sixteen. Long hair the color of a raven's wing, braided in an intricate plait, and the same bright red eyes as two of her companions. Her gaze was sharp and assessing.
"There are four of them. And she is… whose daughter?" Viktor thought in confusion, feeling unprepared for such a visit.
The man with the black beard (the one who looked 30-35) took a step forward. His movements were precise and economical.
— My name is Ragnar, — he introduced himself, his voice low and slightly hoarse.
Next, the older man (35-40) with red eyes but no beard approached. His face was lined with scars.
— Michael, — he said curtly, not offering a hand to shake.
The third, with white hair and icy blue eyes, introduced himself with a slight, barely perceptible hint of superiority:
— Solomon. Of the Crimson Clan. And this, — he nodded toward the girl, — is my daughter, Quinn.
"Crimson Clan?" Viktor repeated mentally. The name sounded familiar and ominous. He'd heard rumors. The elite. People with unique abilities, those at the top of the food chain in this new world.
The only question swirling in his head was: "Did they come here for a picnic or something?" They looked too… clean and unperturbed for this godforsaken place.
Sometime later, inside the cabin, Viktor told them everything. About the monster attack, about the squad's demise. But he deliberately omitted any mention of Azrael. There was no point in telling them about the mysterious teenager with inhuman skills. It would raise unnecessary questions, which could lead to trouble. To them, he was just the sole survivor, miraculously spared thanks to luck and a hidden shelter.
Solomon listened with cold, detached politeness. His daughter, Quinn, didn't take her piercing scarlet eyes off Viktor, as if trying to read between the lines. Ragnar and Michael silently inspected the cabin, looking into every corner.
A few hours later, a jeep arrived for Viktor. His evacuation time had come.
Gathering his meager belongings, he left the cabin. The combat squad (if they could be called that) was already loading into their vehicles. They had completed their mission—found a survivor.
Viktor nodded to them in farewell.
— Thank you for finding me.
Solomon nodded silently in response. Quinn held her gaze on him for a second, and he thought he saw something like mild curiosity or distrust flash in her eyes. But she immediately turned away and disappeared into the SUV's cabin.
The vehicles started moving and soon disappeared behind the snowy hills, leaving the cabin once again in oppressive silence. Viktor sighed, watching the receding taillights. He was leaving this place. And the mysterious Azrael and his fox remained somewhere out there, in that white, silent hell.
He got into the jeep, and the car carried him back to people, to safety, leaving behind the mystery he took with him.
Ragnar silently, with practiced efficiency, checked his gear: tightened the pouches' straps, checked the sharpness of the blades on his katanas, recounted the pistol magazines. His movements were honed to automaticity—a ritual before a hunt.
Solomon, having secluded himself in a corner, picked up the radio. Static hissed, but his voice, quiet and authoritative, broke through:
— "Hawk," this is "Patriarch." Confirm anomaly coordinates... Over.
He listened, his scarlet eyes narrowed in concentration. He was gathering information about the Rift's location.
Michael, in contrast, maintained an icy calm. He sat at the rough table, sipping strong, almost black tea from a travel mug. Next to him, sitting with a perfectly straight back, was Quinn. She held her mug with unflappable, detached elegance, her red eyes fixed on emptiness. It seemed she wasn't here but was already mentally solving problems within the walls of the future Academy.
Finishing the call, Solomon put down the radio and joined them. Michael, without looking, slid the teapot toward him.
Solomon was the first to break the silence:
— I've learned the Rift's location. About a few hours' walk. Should be able to handle it in two days, I think. There and back.
— Good, — came Michael's stern voice, with a barely perceptible softness. He raised his mug and drained the remains of the tea in one gulp, as if it were water. — A tight but feasible deadline.
— So when do we move out? — Ragnar asked in a voice sharp as steel. Michael's younger brother and Quinn's uncle, he was always a man of action, not words.
Quinn, who had been sitting in silent contemplation until now, finally set her mug on the table. The sound was quiet but precise.
— Let's go right now, — said Solomon, his voice losing its soft tone, becoming businesslike and hard. — It's cold here. We'll handle it quickly and go home. There are two years left until the Academy, and my daughter needs to study, — here his gaze softened for a moment, turning to Quinn.
The girl, hearing this, shuddered. She turned her head to her father, and a warm, almost childish smile bloomed on her usually cold face. Gratitude and determination flashed in her scarlet eyes.
Gathering their things—simple travel gear and their main weapons, the katanas—they stepped out into the piercing cold. Solomon led the group west.
— It's about three to four hours that way, — he tossed over his shoulder, his breath turning into plumes of steam.
Everyone nodded silently and set off. Their footprints printed clearly on the fresh snow. Along the way, they encountered monsters—lone SP-series and other, smaller creatures. But none of the elders drew their blades. They coldly handed every threat over to Quinn.
She needs to learn, — was Solomon's unshakable logic. And Quinn learned. Her movements weren't as polished as her uncle's or father's yet, but they already hinted at the lethal grace and power inherited from the Crimson Clan. Her katana flashed in the crimson light, ruthlessly and efficiently dispatching one monster after another. She didn't waste extra effort; her scarlet magic (Will? Aura?) aided her, enveloping the blade in short bursts of energy.
After several hours of trudging through the frost, they saw it. The Rift.
It hung in the air like a vertical wound in reality itself. Small, about three meters tall, it pulsated with a sickly purple light that made eyes water. The ground around it was charred and barren, the air vibrated, emitting a low-frequency hum, and smelled of ozone and something rotten.
They approached closer, maintaining distance, and began to analyze. Solomon took a strange device from his belt, resembling a geodetic compass, and started taking readings.
— Sealing the Rift will take several days, — he frowned, and worry appeared on his face for the first time that day. — Damn it. I thought we'd manage in two.
— Damn, — Ragnar swore in solidarity. — That's a long time.
— But you're right, — Solomon turned to him. — Two days to prepare the ritual. But for that... I won't be able to help you fight the freaks that will crawl out of here. My concentration must be absolute.
Everyone understood silently. They accepted the plan without unnecessary words. Their roles were clear: Solomon would work on sealing the Rift. Michael, Ragnar, and Quinn would form a living shield around him and fend off the waves of monsters that would inevitably pour forth toward the source of magical interference.
It would be a long and exhausting siege.