lena watched the Ash Walker vanish. He was a dark, fast shadow climbing the ruined heap, leaving behind only the metallic smell of blood and the sudden, profound silence.
The City Guard sirens were audible now, growing closer.
"Lian! Get our wounded out. Captain Rex, secure the Pass and meet the Guard. Report the enemy pattern, not the methods used to defeat them. No mention of the lone operative." Elena's voice was strained but held the absolute authority of a General.
She needed to deal with the immediate crisis first.
The cleanup was fast, brutal, and political. She spent the next six hours in heated council meetings, arguing with old, rigid commanders who refused to believe the Mimics were using human strategy. They wanted to know why she didn't capture the Ash Walker.
"He's an asset, not a prisoner," Elena insisted, her exhaustion finally showing through her polished demeanor. "He knew the threat before we did. His methods, however extreme, saved the Pass."
After the council meeting, Elena walked straight to her office in the Silver Wing Guild headquarters. She found her Vice-Guild Master, a meticulous, perpetually worried man named Marcus, drowning in paperwork.
"Marcus, I'm taking leave," Elena announced, dropping her greatsword with a loud clang that rattled the windows.
Marcus stopped writing, his pen hovering over a roster. "Leave? Elena, the Pass almost fell! The city is on high alert. You have three supply requisitions and the quarterly budget to approve!"
"You have it, Marcus. I need you to handle the Guild for the next week. Fully," she said, stripping off her shoulder armor. "Focus on logistics and internal defense. You are the rock; keep the Guild from fracturing."
Marcus stared at her, horrified. "But… where are you going? You always lead the defense."
"I'm going after the truth. The Mimics are evolving faster than our walls can rise, and Arthur knows why," Elena said, her voice dropping to a low, determined whisper. "He doesn't fit our system, but his efficiency is the only thing that works now. We need his knowledge, not his cooperation."
The truth, Marcus, is that I saw the dead look in his eyes. He is broken, fighting a war of atonement, and he will kill himself doing it. We cannot let the hope he carries die. This was her true motivation: not just strategy, but a deep, aching pity for his solitude.
Marcus knew her well enough not to argue when her eyes held that specific, burning intensity. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "If I agree, you have to promise to check in. And if you get caught with that maniac, you blame yourself, not the Guild."
"Deal. Thank you, Marcus." Elena allowed herself a small, grateful smile. With the Guild burdens lifted, she felt lighter, focused on a singular, desperate mission.
The Quiet Pause
Meanwhile, Arthur was already two sectors away, deep in a forgotten industrial graveyard. He had found a hidden space beneath a stack of ruined satellite dishes—dark, dry, and safe.
He finally allowed himself to rest.
He pulled out the restorative potions Elena had forced upon him. He hated the idea of using her supplies, but he was a pragmatist. He uncorked the dark liquid and swallowed it down. The potion was rich and potent, instantly sending a warm, healing wave through his battered body. The deep ache in his bones softened, and the violent tremor in his muscles subsided.
She is efficient, too, he thought grudgingly. She knew I would refuse payment, but not necessary supply.
The quiet was the hardest part. Without the immediate threat of combat, his mind reverted to the past. Vance, Tank, Becca—they were ghosts in the silence. He gripped the hilt of the Reckoning Blade, the new sword now fully integrated into his psychological defense system.
Isolation is strength. Don't let them close.
He spent the next two days in rigid, absolute recovery, his only contact the distant, howling wind. This forced lull—this moment of "comfort"—was essential. It let him fully integrate his new Level 20 skill, Focus Fire, and prepare the Reckoning Blade for its true test.
On the morning of the third day, Arthur was scouting for a target—something high-value, deep in the Shattered Plaza, a zone known for civilian refugees attempting desperate escape routes. He was looking for a high-level Devourer—the perfect target for a solo ambush.
The Catalyst
He didn't find the Devourer. He found three Mimics—scouts from the horde he had just defeated—setting up a hidden ambush.
Their target wasn't a military patrol. It was a cluster of civilians: two dozen people, mostly elderly and young children, making a silent, desperate crawl towards a rumored safe corridor. They were carrying heavy packs, moving slowly, and were entirely unaware they were walking straight into a Mimic trap.
Arthur should have left. Saving civilians was the very definition of inefficiency. It required communication, slow movement, and exposed him to unnecessary risk. It was a Guild's job, a task for a hero.
He raised his rifle, ready to slip away. But then he saw a small boy trip and drop a brightly colored toy. The boy immediately covered his mouth, terrified of the sound. The silence was palpable.
If I leave, they all die, slowly and painfully.
The cold pragmatism that ruled him fractured. This wasn't about Vance or Tank; this was about the clear, clean geometric line of the Mimics' intent versus the helpless line of the civilians. It was a sight his photographer's eye couldn't unsee, a composition of pure horror.
He lowered the rifle. He couldn't risk a gunshot, which would attract the whole Mimic horde.
He pulled the Reckoning Blade and moved.
He didn't make a sound. He covered the fifty meters to the ambush point in a sprint that defied his injuries, using every scrap of shadow and debris for cover. He was a ghost of lethal efficiency.
The three Mimics were waiting, hidden behind concrete barriers. Arthur struck the closest one first, not with power, but with cold, overwhelming speed. He drove the Reckoning Blade straight through the monster's throat before it even knew he was there.
The next two turned, alerted by the death of their comrade. They lunged.
Arthur fought silently, viciously, his movements a desperate mix of practiced precision and brutal, primal rage. He used his empty left arm as a shield, taking a deep, painful gash in the shoulder to buy a microsecond of time. That microsecond was enough. He used Focus Fire to target the remaining two Mimics, not with bullets, but with his sword. He drove the blade into their knee joints and then their eye sockets, one fluid, savage motion after another.
Three Mimics down. Silence returned.
The civilians, frozen in terror, hadn't seen the attack. They hadn't heard the fight. They only saw the dark figure standing over the steaming bodies of the monsters, his arm bleeding freely, holding a jagged black sword.
Arthur didn't look at them. He didn't check their condition. He simply pulled his blade free, wiped the blood on a piece of fallen cloth, and vanished back into the shadows before they could scream or thank him.
The New Hunt Begins
Elena arrived at the Shattered Plaza two hours later. She hadn't been far behind; she used covert Guild resources to track any new, high-intensity Aether signatures in the area, betting Arthur would be nearby.
She found the three Mimic corpses. The scene was gruesome but telling. The kills were impossibly clean—surgical strikes to the neck and joints, achieved without a single gunshot, meaning Arthur had fought them with his damaged arm and sword alone.
She spoke to the terrified civilians, who described the dark figure who saved them as a "ghost with a terrible black sword." They also mentioned his severe shoulder wound.
Elena knelt beside the largest Mimic corpse. She saw the skill, the brutality, and the cold speed required to silence three armed scouts without a sound.
But she also saw the cost. She saw the deep gash on the wall where Arthur had used his own body as bait, and the trail of fresh, dark blood that led into the deepest shadows—the blood from his new shoulder wound.
He didn't just save them. He risked a total physical breakdown for them. He fought silently, so as not to draw the larger horde, prioritizing their safety over his own survival.
This was the catalyst. It wasn't the efficient Pass defense; it was this silent, selfless sacrifice for strangers that broke through her resolve.
"He is not just a weapon," Elena whispered, her emerald eyes filling with unexpected moisture. "He is a protector who hates himself for caring."
The feeling was overwhelming: not just strategic need, but a deep, powerful pity (心疼) for the tormented man. He was the only person she had ever met who carried the weight of the whole city on his shoulders, entirely alone. She believed, absolutely, that this lonely, desperate man was the key to saving humanity.
She stood up, her Guild Master armor suddenly feeling heavy and unnecessary.
"Forget the Guild, forget the rules," she murmured. "I'm not pursuing an asset. I'm going to save the hope of this city, even if he fights me every step of the way."
Elena turned, leaving the clean-up to her covert tracker. She pulled out a small, specialized tracking device—not for tracking monsters, but for tracking high-intensity Aether use in a localized area.
Her hunt began now. The mission: Find Arthur, and wear down his defenses until he accepted his destiny. She was prepared to be relentless.