The acid rain had stopped, replaced by a cold, cutting wind that sliced through the gaping hole in Arthur's shirt. He had collapsed twenty minutes ago, half a mile from the subway exit, wedged deep beneath the skeletal ruins of a derelict billboard. Adrenaline, the only true anesthetic in this world, had finally abandoned him.
Now, only the agony remained.
His right arm was a dead weight. The pain wasn't just a throbbing; it was a rhythmic, white-hot, tearing sensation, a direct consequence of overriding his body's limits with the desperate energy of Iron Will. He forced himself to move his fingers. The small bones ground together with a sound like grinding concrete, sending a paralyzing shock up his neck. The Swordplay pattern on his hand, once a pale scar, was now visibly swollen and dark, a testament to the internal damage.
A clean fracture would be better. This is worse.
He couldn't fix this with field gauze and rationed painkillers. The bone fragments needed immediate setting, and his nerve endings—scorched by Aether overload—needed calming. He stared up at the grey sky, his mind working with the cold, mechanical precision of a surgeon.
He had three critical, immediate needs, none of which could be solved by remaining here:
Repair: His arm required professional realignment; failure to do so meant permanent loss of function.Resource: He had depleted his high-grade ammunition on the Hunter, and his objective—the Sanguine Core—was still needed for his next upgrade.Avoidance: He could not, under any circumstance, approach the formal Valkyrie City gates. He was a fugitive from the inevitable questions regarding Vance and Tank, questions that would lead to inspection and confinement.
The choice was clear, if desperate. He needed the Ghost Port.
He spent the next twenty-four hours in a blurred, agonizing trek, avoiding roads and high ground, moving only under the cover of perpetual shadows. He used his good hand to fashion a crude sling from his vest lining, rationing his last water supply while navigating the hostile landscape, every lurch and step a fresh wave of blinding agony. It was the price of his efficiency, the tribute paid to the Iron Will he'd summoned.
He finally reached the Port—a volatile black market and refugee settlement sprawling through the abandoned industrial ruins just outside the formal walls of Valkyrie City. The air here was thick with the reek of chemical runoff, cheap tobacco, and desperate, uncontrolled human energy.
He found a clinic hidden deep within the shell of a ruined steel mill. The air inside was a cloying mix of disinfectant, old blood, and metallic grime. A woman with thick, matted dreadlocks, known only as The Surgeon, sat behind a greasy workbench, idly examining a scalpel, treating the instrument like a piece of delicate art.
"One hour. I want no sound, and no system log," Arthur stated, his voice hoarse and cold from the journey and the suppressed pain, as he placed three mid-grade Aether Cores he'd scavenged from a Rift-Stalker nest onto the table.
The Surgeon's gaze was razor-sharp, flicking from the valuable Cores to his heavily soiled right arm.
"I can do anything, provided you pay the price," she said, picking up a Core and confirming its purity under the weak light. "Looks like you've had a bad few weeks, Ash Walker. Your arm is fractured, and—" her eyes fixed on the burning Swordplay talent pattern on his hand, which was darker, more saturated than any standard Level Three mark, appearing almost scorched. "—you've pushed your Talent beyond its limits. You burned it. I can perform the physical reset, but for the corruption of the Talent itself, I am useless."
"Physical reset. The fastest way." Arthur braced himself against the cold metal of the operating table, consciously forcing his body into a state of rigid relaxation to prepare for the pain.
The Surgeon began her work. She used rough gauze and antiseptic, her movements fast and precise, inducing blinding agony. Arthur clamped his jaw shut, the taste of copper filling his mouth. He allowed no sound to escape. This was the code of the solitary warrior: any display of weakness here would invite immediate, greedy hostility.
While The Surgeon worked, Arthur's enhanced hearing, a subtle benefit of his Gunpowder Mastery focus, collected the surrounding whispers of the Port.
The conversations were thick with the paranoia common to refugees and exiles:
"...they say the Hunters are grouping up now. In Sector D-4, an entire platoon of City Guard was wiped clean, no noise, no distress call…"
"It's not just the Hunters. Have you heard about the Mimics? The West Patrol found a Rotten Glutton, and it was using a shield! Like a man! Blocking and maneuvering just like a heavy infantryman…"
Arthur's heart sank. His chilling observation had been validated. The creatures were adapting at a pace that demanded his immediate escalation. His proclaimed efficiency and ruthlessness were rapidly becoming insufficient.
"Done, young man," The Surgeon announced, snapping a primitive metal brace around his arm. "That's the most efficient physical repair possible. Do not use that arm for three days, or you'll lose it forever."
"Thank you." Arthur stood, pushing the remaining two Cores toward her.
His next destination was Shell Alley, the Port's ammunition exchange. He needed to trade his hard-won Sanguine Core (he'd grabbed it during his desperate, blind crawl away from the Hunter) for high-grade Armor-Piercing Rounds. His Gunpowder Mastery was stalled; he needed higher quality ordnance.
In Shell Alley, he found a silent, grubby Blacksmith whose face was obscured by grease, only his eyes burning with a feverish intensity.
"I need five hundred high-density alloy, Aether-infused, armor-piercing rounds. Caliber matching this," Arthur placed his aging rifle on the counter, then added the prize—the precious, throbbing Sanguine Core—beside it.
"Ash Walker," the smith rasped, having recognized him. "This Core is priceless. Five hundred rounds? You insult my craft."
"It buys you reputation; it buys me targets," Arthur countered, his gaze cold. "I give you the Core. You give me the rounds and one high-density alloy sword blank. No questions asked. Deal."
The smith conceded. He recognized the man's terrifying deadness. The transaction was completed. Arthur received the un-edged, heavy alloy sword blank and five hundred satisfyingly heavy rounds.
He left immediately.
Just as he was about to exit the Port and return to the wasteland, his Environmental Awareness flared violently.
At the far end of the docks, a squad clad in sleek silver armor was cautiously navigating the chaos. Their shoulder plates bore the familiar emblem of the Silver Wing Guild—Elena's faction. They were silent, organized, and clearly searching for someone.
They're looking for me.
Arthur's mind tightened. He did not doubt Elena's honesty, but a Guild's involvement meant tracking and demands—the very complication he sought to avoid.
He melted into the shadow of a stack of rotting crates. He heard the Silver Wing captain pressing a local informant:
"We're looking for a lone operator. Dual talent. Sword and gun. Code-name: Ash Walker. Did he make any large trades here recently?"
"If you find him," the Silver Wing captain's voice continued, "tell him that Guild Master Elena needs all available intel on the D-4 Hunter incident. His warning is proving accurate."
"She also said one other thing," the captain added, "Tell him: 'You saved four lives. You owe the world four lives, and you will not pay that debt with your own death.'"
A spike of raw, unadulterated pain—deeper than any physical fracture—lanced through Arthur. Elena's words were a precise strike, defining his desperate solitude not as noble atonement, but as cowardice—an avoidance of responsibility.
Arthur waited until the footsteps faded. He did not chase them. He simply finished loading his new armor-piercing rounds.
He knew he must become stronger. Not merely for survival, but to prove his solitary path was right, and that her faith in bonds was fatally wrong.
With a fully repaired, if temporarily inert, arm and a renewed focus, Arthur vanished from the Port, heading deeper into the uncharted territories. He was being hunted by the monsters, and now, he was also being sought by the only person who seemed to understand the true cost of his survival.