Chapter Text
Log Entry 001
Planet Talia. 816:7263662, 199:2882921.
Once spilled, blood can’t simply be washed away.
Your eyes may close shut, but those crimson specks will dot your vision forevermore. Amid perfume aromas and industrial stench, the scent of iron will always linger in the air. A ghostly, endless trickle, haunting chilled skin with its warm stream. Dripping, dripping, and dripping. Even in the busiest crowds, you can never escape its soft, sickening croon.
Will you ever rid yourself of its indelible stain?
You look down at your trembling hands, wrinkled beneath the freezing tap water. They’re pristine, devoid of any trace of your prior activities. You twist the faucet shut. Still, you can’t help but think you’ve missed a spot.
(May your lifeblood remain untainted within the vessel of man.
Free from ruin. Free from rot.)
Slowly, you raise your fingers for a keen inspection. The faulty fluorescent lights cast dim shadows across them, as if seeking to hide away any malignant marks. It cannot fool an expert’s eye, however, and you see it—the flecks of red marring your fingernails.
That won’t do.
With a defeated sigh, you turn the faucet on for the nth time tonight. The gas station’s water bill will be extravagant this month, and you can almost imagine the attendants’ bulging eyes at whatever exorbitant amount your relentless abuse of the bathroom sink will bring. May the Aeons forgive your impudent overindulgence and allow you this short reprieve. Considering the series of misfortunes you’ve encountered since your arrival on Planet Talia, surely, a bit of obsessive hand washing is well within your rights.
You shift your weight, easing the fresh injury sustained on your side. Talia has been far from kind. It always was—harsh and hostile against all who dared reside in its unforgiving domain. Where everyone and everything is deemed the most unworthy of trespassers, a visitor like you is no different, unexempted from its cruelty. Your wound—a grim-looking laceration streaking scarlet cinders across your right lumbar—is proof of that fact. Truly, you had been luckier than most.
A pitiful, violent thing—that is what Planet Talia is.
Ravaged by war, disaster, and sickness—it’s a reality endured by the entire universe. All planets suffer the brunt of tragedy. That’s a given. No utopia will survive a single day at the hands of mankind. Still, hope is not lost. With the efforts of heroes—of champions bearing the flames of tomorrow—the cosmos manages to swing into another Amber Era.
Again, life is given another chance to make things right.
Talia set itself apart, however, when its fate turned ill-starred upon the arrival of the Cancer of All Worlds.
And everyone knows that even the most fearless paragon will never brave into the unknowns of the Stellaron.
The thought brings a smile to your face. Fearless—you’re known for many things across galaxies, and fearless may be the last thing you could ever be. Intelligent. Empathetic. Inscrutable, as all genius-like individuals are.
Researcher Soteira—your chosen pseudonym, is an altruistic scholar universally famous for her bioengineering feats, whose numerous accolades rival the achievements of entire academic facilities. Her innovative machinery has redefined numerous branches of science, bridging together star systems on the path toward sustainability. Her nanoscience research has led to breakthroughs in theosophy and otherworldly mystics, granting her the distinguished position of Head Researcher at Herta Space Station’s Department of Insight.
And yet, to the confusion of the academic world, she devotes her acclaimed self to the inanely valiant pursuit of the universe’s most precarious plagues. Pray tell, what exactly drives her to take this suicide mission?
Among lowly-whispered rumors, they say even the greatest intellects are susceptible to the horrors of the mind. Whether it be insanity or vainglory, it’s a shame that one’s greatest weapon might also become their greatest downfall. Truly unfortunate, for someone to allocate such treasured ability and acumen to an endeavor that is, more or less—futile.
Why else would one seek to eradicate the Stellarons?
In the spectrum of courage, there lies a fine line between laudable fearlessness and utter lunacy. Undeniably, you’re toeing the latter. Although “toeing” might be an optimistic understatement, as your poorly-stitched laceration speaks of how far you’ve danced along the sorry scope of madness. All this misdirected blame placed upon Talia’s vicious circumstances, when a researcher like you should have remained cooped up inside your cluttered office, hidden within the safety of a secure space station, studying topics that bear no concern for your declining cognition.
The stitches pinch in return, a sharp reminder of the danger you’ve willingly embraced. It’s a shoddy mess, and you can almost hear Dr. Ratio berating you like a child incapable of coloring inside the lines. The wound—how hard is it to simply follow the wound, [First Name]? You can see where panic began to settle in, the attempt at linear needlework branching into a haphazard tapestry of constellations. Really, you ought to start moving before you risk an infection.
The bathroom of an empty, dilapidated gas station in the middle of nowhere offers no true refuge, grounding though the routine of handwashing may be. You splay your wet hands against the tiled counter. The hunt is far from over; and tonight, you are Talia’s most prized prey—you, and the coveted Stellaron in your possession.
Amid the mess strewn across the sink, the Stellaron lies encased within a portable receptacle, a device Madam Herta had most graciously devised and lent to you. The suture kit, used beyond recognition, sits in disarray, bloodied needles and threads scattered in your crude effort to perform first aid. Deliberately, you splatter water over the surface, turning reds into pink, blooming blotches.
Like rosy cheeks and springtime carnations, you tell yourself. It’s not blood. It’s not your blood. Blood is crimson, the shade of death and defeat. And [First Name] [Last Name] may appear stupidly courageous, but she will live and succeed.
The door creaks open.
Inadvertently, you jump in surprise. In Talia, the presence of company has always spelled malicious intentions, and you’re far too drained to engage in confrontation, much less a potential fight. Besides your injured side—an obvious handicap worsened by your own carelessness—your hands could never dare draw blood. Not yours. Not others.
Yes. You may be brave enough to study the Stellaron, but blood remains forbidden territory you shan’t dare cross. Even you yourself find it utterly ridiculous.
Blood—a worldly stain. Hence, the vessel of man is duty-bound to safeguard it. Such is the superior reverence afforded to a Blessing of Abundance.
The teachings of your home planet may be drivel spouted by spurious clergymen, but they’ve succeeded in leaving a permanent mark. That’s how it is for long-life species like yourself, for the cursed men and women touched by Yaoshi’s so-called benevolence. Beneath THEIR divine gaze, the body must never forget the gift of salvation.
Let the soul snap, splinter, and shatter—as long as the body reigns supreme until the end of time.
Your gaze lifts, eyes straying toward the figure in the mirror.
It’s just you. The mirror never lies. Your stern eyes. Your raw-bitten lips. Your waxen complexion. You’re wearing your favorite laboratory coat—once pristine, now sullied in crimson. It’s a shame you’ll have to replace it. There’s only one person in this bathroom—
And the mangled, bloodied beast that looms behind you.
The mirror never lies.
A strangled gasp escapes your lips as you swivel around, searing fiery pain across your lesion. White-knuckled, your fingers grip the counter like a lifeline, your sole tether between life and death. But what good would it do? The exit is blocked, and these cold, tiled walls are but reminders of how you’re completely cornered. The moment you stepped into this bathroom, the Aeons opened your coffin—and mere stitches can’t save a dead man walking.
Enveloped in blood and viscera, his disfigured form is far from human—more an abominable culmination of unspeakable nightmares. Tattered garments. Massacred flesh. Gored gristle. It’s as though he’s been shackled, forced to endure a punishment meant for hundreds of men. Slathered in slashes and strikes, his head bows under the weight of a cursed wreath of thorns. If not for atonement—for a sin larger than life itself—what other reason could the universe have to abandon a man to death’s gaping maw?
With a slight crane of his head, he tilts forward, trapping you in the cage of his stare. How petrifying, to receive the gaze of this forsaken existence.
His eyes—pools of dark, dark crimson —brim with depths of blood capable of filling entire oceans. They shine with the rawest of reds, magnetizing irises that draw you in like a jeweler enchanted by rare rubies. They lure you in, as though you belong among the men of Genesis, to partake in the sacrilegious act of harvesting the forbidden fruit. Tempting— and oh, how they terrify you.
Spellbound, ensnared in the sorcery of curiosity and trepidation, you almost miss the way his eyes flicker—the faintest narrowing, calculating. Despite his mauled, barbaric exterior, those crimson depths gleam with intelligence. He’s sizing you up. Like a predator circling its prey, contemplating the best way to savor your carcass.
Before you, is no mindless beast.
A terrible mistake—for he is someone far, far worse.
The way he leans back against the wall, posture easing into a cavalier disposition, gives you your answer. In the enduring minutes since this unexpected encounter, not a single word has been exchanged, yet it’s clear he considers you no threat. How could he not? To him, you are nothing more than an ant beneath his boot. Now that you’ve recognized him, it’s undeniable: the two of you belong to different leagues, different factions, and different worlds—a pair stationed parallel across the infinite tracks of the Silver Rail.
It shouldn’t have been possible, in this lifetime or the next. No amount of meticulous calculation could ever prepare you for this disaster.
For in a vast cosmos, stretching light-years of time and distance, the odds of being cornered alone, injured, and face-to-face with your greatest adversary are nigh null.
(But never zero.)
What are arithmetic estimates in the face of Destruction—its very quintessence? Its golden glimmer is but a paltry display of smoke and mirrors, enticing fools with promises of wealth worth worlds. Though caged and confined, nothing can silence its thirst for chaos. The Stellaron, capable of annihilating planets and galaxies, ultimately derailing the star-studded paths of Destiny —it’s only fitting that it would deliver you into the hands of a Stellaron Hunter.
That one percent chance—a risk, still—woven into reality as if predestined. Crossing off all possibilities, all the could-bes and would-bes, leaving nothing but irrefutable inevitability.
Finality.
For your arrogance in thinking you could restrain something of its scale, punishment will be delivered—an example set by the Will of Destruction.
The Stellaron has sent its soldier.
(Blade, male human. Core member of the Stellaron Hunters.
Responsible for the following infractions: The Pier Point Incursion; The Pier Point Heist; The Trovys Disappearance; The Stellaron events of Shilla-39C, 7-Midville, Loar-51, Dro’a, Sich-Lala, and Inupeis; Extermination attacks Planet Screwllum and The Jepella Palace.
Suspected to be related to the following infractions: The Stellaron events of Jemorse, Lidovia, and Buhayama.
8.13 billion credits.
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.)
In an effort to quell your quivering, your hands tighten against the counter. If you didn’t know better, your iron grip might leave finger-shaped indents on the ceramic tiles. Property defacement—a new addition to your list of offenses, alongside the irresponsible use of water resources.
Aeons, the tap is still running.
You raise your chin, furrowing your brows in a display of false austerity. “State your business.”
It’s a hasty attempt to stall for time as your mind scrambles to form an escape plan. How silly! What other business could a Stellaron Hunter have with you, if not to reclaim their faction’s prized trinket?
By any means necessary.
The man known as Blade remains silent, dignifying your command with no verbal reply. Alarm prickles at your senses as he takes a deliberate step forward, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Dripping. Dripping. Dripping! Crimson rivers streak across torn planes of skin. Iron reek prevailing over the odor of gasoline. And red—across his wounds, within his eyes—you find red everywhere.
Your hand flies toward the forceps on the sink counter, raising it as a barrier between you and him. The edge gleams under the artificial lights, a fragile shield against the danger before you. He doesn’t stop you. You know he could. Instead, his fingers extend outward, and a longsword materializes in his grasp. Wielded by this harbinger of death, the sword makes your pitiful forceps look like a child’s toy—feeble, absurd, laughable.
For all your intellect, he has reduced you into a helpless lamb within mere moments—dying a cheap death in a forgotten corner of the universe.
A sob bubbles up in your throat and, desperately, you plead, “Stay back!”
“Quiet,” Blade murmurs. “There’s no point in yelling.”
For a monster like him, how strange, off-putting, to hear him speak in a language made for mankind. A garbled mess would be more befitting to complement his disheveledness. How dare he speak in the tongue that allows him to understand the masses he’s exterminated, coating his hands—his eyes—in oceans of blood.
You raise your forceps at him, uncaring of the evident tremors wracking through your arms (your legs, your entire body —oh, you could barely stand). He gives it a momentary glance, lifting his brow in a mix of condescension and slight interest, and meets your terrified gaze. With one, singular question, his attack hits and your meager, sand-like defenses crumble:
“Are you going to kill me?” he rasps.
“Yes.”
The lie is uttered through gritted teeth. You can’t even bear the sight of blood, much less drawing it from another. Tears of frustration line the rims of your eyes as your intellect fails you, betraying you at the most crucial point of your life. There’s no other choice but to play it by ear. No contingencies. No strategies. No resets. Tonight, you will either die in vain, just another nameless face among Talia’s piles of corpses. Or, you’ll live—perhaps missing a few limbs, but nothing matters as long as your mind is intact.
“I will, if you take another step. State your business. ”
A beat passes. “I came to find you.”
Horrified, your stomach drops. Your nerves shoot up, instincts aflame in overdrive. His eyes lock onto yours, but no golden revelation dawns upon you. Find you, he said. Certainly, that means his presence here does not signify an executioner. Right? Rather, he intends to keep you alive—coerce you into fulfilling an obscure purpose.
That must be it.
If he wanted you dead, he could have unsheathed his sword anytime, let your head fall down to the floor before you could even register what happened. Silver linings—these semantics—but you’ll let your hands turn a swelling, red blister in the effort to hold onto this miniscule hope.
You take a sharp inhale of air, keeping your gaze far away from the weapon dangling in his hand. “T-the Stellaron—I only wish to study it! It’ll be quick, I swear, then it’s all yours once I’m do—”
Blade cuts you off, an edge of impatience slicing through his words. “I do not care for the Stellaron.”
“Then, what—!”
Suddenly, he moves, closing in your form with large, confident strides. His body—a wounded, battered mess—envelops you against the bathroom sink. Blocking off any exits. Trapping you in his embrace. His hand is strategically placed on the counter edge, inches away from your injured side. The other strikes his sword against the floor, echoing a loud, din-like clang through the walls. Strong, sculpted legs push you back, grazing your own and staining you in his bloodshed.
He’s driven you into a corner—and the sole thing that separates the both of you is the forceps you’re digging into his heart. It’s not enough to break skin, but the warning resounds a threat to push no further.
How naive of you to think that a criminal like him would heed caution.
It’s too much. It’s all too much for you to handle. Frozen. Terrified. Shell-shocked. You stand there, dumbstruck, as if the Grim Reaper himself isn’t here with his scythe poised against your neck. Aeons, why won’t you move?
Blade leans in, so close, his breath raising goosebumps to litter your skin. You swallow a nervous gulp, shying away. “Don’t you have something for me?”
You don’t. Since his untimely entrance, you’ve wracked your head as to the reason why his cursed presence made its unwanted appearance in your life. The Stellaron—naturally, he’s come to retrieve it in accordance with the notorious activities of the criminal group he’s part of. Why waste time playing with you? He could have long since absconded with the item—a feeble scholar such as yourself cannot stop a man like him.
So, why?
Why, why does he push himself against the sharp tip of your forceps, demanding something you don’t even know how to provide?
“Harder.” Blade whispers. He’s never looked away, you realize. His crimson, crimson eyes have always been fixated on you. “Can you do it?”
No.
( May your lifeblood remain—
—untainted within the vessel of man.
Free from ruin.
Free from rot.)
A lone, scarlet bead drips down to your cheek.
It’s as if he means to ensnare you within the same forsaken destiny, dirtying you with his needless carnage. Then, the tears fall. Hysterical—the absolute waterworks. Eyes blurring, your lips part to release a shuddering gasp, and you shake your head—no, no, no! You cannot. You simply cannot—it’s inconceivable, impossible, and utterly beyond you.
Again, you shake your head, dropping the forceps to the floor. The sound echoes loudly. It clatters in the sound of your complete, utter defeat. Would he stab you? Behead you? You’d hate for your blood to drench that splintered, jagged thing—that wretched longsword of his. But surely, your defiance will only meet one, unavoidable fate: the fury of this absolute madman.
You think of the Stellaron, of your grand plans for universal salvation. You think of potential, of the limitless possibilities an erudite is capable of traversing. You think of the questions you will leave unanswered, of the planets and people you have yet to see. All your efforts—spanning entire Amber Eras—will be for naught at the face of an executioner awaiting his turn.
Oh, how you wish to live long enough to save the stars.
Perhaps, you could have saved him too.
(Go to Planet Talia.
On Thursday, 01:12 AM, proceed to the deserted gas station at coordinates 816:7263662, 199:2882921.
Find the researcher with the Stellaron.)
Log Entry 002
Planet Talia. 816:7263662, 199:2882921.
It’s a double-edged sword, Kafka thinks, when one is playing with fear.
Like mara, fear is an affliction that consumes the mind, veering its way down, and down, and down —until it reaches for your very core: the spirit.
A delicate, fragile thing, is the spirit. Only gentle whispers can lure it to sleep inside the confines of the body. Nestled safe and snug, the spirit is to be handled with utmost care. A bit of poking and prodding does no harm, but if she pushes too hard, something might just break.
They’re rather extraordinary, the things fear does to one’s spirit. It turns malleable, pliant and supple under one’s iron grip. Works of witchcraft, as the Interastral Peace Corporation often described it. In Pteruges-V, however, it’s an art—the Spirit Whisper. Whatever it’s called, Kafka couldn’t care less as long as it obediently bends to her whims. The fear-stricken spirit is always full of surprises, and that’s enough to fill this void, a casual amusement to pass the time.
She merely hopes that the fun lasts long enough before it inevitably shatters. No one likes a broken toy.
Unfortunately, not everyone is as meticulous as her, nor does everyone understand the significance of her care. Kafka could only dream of a reality where her companions exert some level of restraint in the destruction they leave at their wake. Sam, whose counts of arson puts every pyromaniac across the cosmos to shame. Silver Wolf, whose cyber attacks tear data rifts through reality. Blade, whose penchant for blood is likened to the onset of worldly catastrophes—cruelty turned man.
Skilled as she is in the intricacies of the mind, even Kafka can’t repair the most damaged psyches, torn apart in the brutality brought upon by the Stellaron Hunters.
Kafka sighs, running her handkerchief across her damp cheeks, wet from the rain. When she brings it back, the fabric is smeared in her ruined mascara. Whatever happened to Kiss the Rain, Keep the Glam ? Once she gets back, Kafka shall write this brand the most discrediting, one-star review.
Alas, duty calls. There are far more important things to take care of.
When her fingers clasped around the bathroom doorknob, turning it clockwise, Kafka wonders if Bladie left you in a similar state as herself: a shivering, sullied mess, with mascara streaking down your face. Did his appearance send shivers down your spine? Did he draw his sword and give you a fright? When she opens this door, will she find your rotting corpse decorating the bathroom tiles?
Quietly, Kafka enters.
The bathroom is, unsurprisingly, silent—save for the faint trickle of leaky faucets. Not that Kafka expected much noise, the dead do not talk, after all. She closes the door behind her, striding in with small steps. It’s a tiny, cramped space, devoid of anything noteworthy. Three bathroom stalls, two tiled sinks, and one rectangular mirror—how ordinary. A putrid stench of antiseptic wafts through the air, as if the premises were recently disinfected. What’s the point of cleaning a gas station bathroom that looks like it hasn’t seen a bucket and mop in Amber Eras?
Kafka huffs. That’s it? What a drag, to let herself get drenched for something like this. She removes her coat, wringing it dry, and finally—addresses the glaring elephant in the room.
“Did you have a nice nap, Bladie?”
At her right, the man in question is seated on the floor, slumped against the wall with his head hung low. If he were anyone else, she might have assumed him dead—shot in the forehead at point-blank range. But Blade isn’t simply anyone. Kafka knows he’s alive and well. His body may lie motionless, breathing slow and soft breaths the eyes cannot easily discern. Still, the heart betrays none, and it will continue to pound that steady, damning thrum.
Blade cannot die.
It’s a constant that follows her ever since their paths crossed. It’s a fact that is etched deeply into her bones. It’s a truth that relentlessly proves itself with every fatal strike he welcomes with open arms. Although he ceaselessly pursues it, Death always finds ways to elude his desperate grasp.
Above all, it’s a pitiful existence.
Blade doesn’t respond, persisting in this absurd game of play-pretend. Why rehearse for a role he can never obtain? Kafka doesn’t mind. Let him stew in his misery, while she uses the ample time to fix her ruined makeup. Her soaked boots cast dirty footprints on the floor as she moves toward the mirror, surveying her reflection.
Yikes. She ought to clean that up.
When the faucet twists, the metallic whirr rouses Blade from his reverie. Kafka hears him shuffle from behind but pays him no mind. She knows he heard her earlier; Blade will reply when he’s ready.
“Dead,” a gravelly voice rasps. “I was dead for five hours.”
“Oh?” Kafka turns, lifting an elegant brow. Five hours—he must be ecstatic. “Who knew researchers could be so dangerous?”
“Where is she?”
A hum leaves her lips, and she takes a moment to consider an adequate response. There’s still traces of mara, mara in him—and she’s in no mood to provoke the sleeping bear. Dabbing a wet napkin beneath her lashes, she attempts to remove the inky stains. It is, sadly, not enough to peel off the burning stare trained on her person. Piercing. Drilling. Stabbing. A red-hued gaze capable of feats no steel weapon could replicate. Where swords and spears can merely slice through skin, his eyes alone are capable of sending one into a cold sweat, paralyzing the limbs, and turning blood ice cold.
The corners of her lips quirk up into a smile. Well, it’s absolutely terrifying from what she’s heard. Kafka can never confirm it herself.
“Who knows?” Her shoulders shrug lightly. Truly, she has no clue of where the runaway researcher is—Elio hadn’t bothered adding it to the Script. “That mean face of yours must have scared her off.”
Her cavalier response is far from appreciated, as made clear by the sharp click of his tongue. Still, even in his mara-stricken state, Blade knows he isn’t getting anything better from her. That’s what Kafka likes about him. Good dogs know when to back off.
It’s a retreat—yet Blade is nothing but persistent. The kind of self-destructive perseverance that comes with the privilege of freely cycling through infinite lives. In the years of banded companionship, Kafka has witnessed the limits he’ll push and the boundaries he’ll cross, all for the self-imposed goal of attaining his idea of justice. How ironic, for a man of honor to land himself a spot among the universally infamous Stellaron Hunters. Has he ever considered joining the Galaxy Rangers?
Well, Elio had always been fond of adopting unfortunate strays. Those with nothing to lose, but everything to gain —are Destiny’s most convenient pawns.
Blade stands, running his fingers into his hair in irritation. Unabashedly, Kafka eyes his movements in curiosity. Will he leave? Will he search the infinite cosmos to find you? Will he dare defy his role in this unfinished story? She’d like to see him try. Although his stance hints at renewed, revitalized strength, turmoil lingers in the tight curl of his fist, teetering on the edge of a steep precipice.
There it is—the slightest, smallest touch of uncertainty.
As every music sheet possesses established notes, rests, and beats, where the barest slivers of disharmony alters the entire hymn—so too does Destiny follow a measured cadence. Deviating from the preordained—to improvise, overcome, and adapt—unleashes but a number of uncontrollable variables that shackle your hands behind. Led blind under the guise of freedom, one would have never realized their freefall until the descent is done.
Ad libitum! Ad libitum! Ad libitum!
The Stellaron Hunters’ greatest weapon is not the arsenal of extraordinary skill sets within their grasp; it is their clairvoyant choices that lead them ever closer to the realization of Finality.
And yet, the Script never foretold today’s final act. To the audience’s bewilderment, it had an unexpected, premature ending. When most would chalk it up to directorial incompetence, only few are aware that it had been catalyzed by the main actor’s death.
Swiftly, her legs carry her forward, putting Kafka toe-to-toe with Blade. Each step is marked with eager determination, a stark contrast to her usual languidness. She reaches for his neck, gloved fingers tracing the lines of his jaw and turning it to the side. An incredulous laugh leaves her cherry lips.
Kafka couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Goodness, Bladie!” There’s something, something that isn’t supposed to be here. A glaring anomaly that the Script would never allow entering the narrative. “Did that researcher kill you?”
A large, unsightly bruise paints the side of his neck in rotten shades of blues of purples. How unsightly—this image of decay. Kafka has seen similar monstrosities, created through an array of cosmetics often used in gory, apocalyptic films. Bodies blotched with moldering, damaged tissue, spreading filth and contamination through the bloodstream. That’s exactly what most would imagine, when asked to describe the curse afflicting the undead.
Five hours, he said? Kafka leans in, scrutinizing the affected area. An injury this bad has been swelling for five hours, countering the Abundance of Shuhu’s Gift?
Upon closer inspection, at the center of it all, Kafka finds it: the pinprick of a needle. An injection must be the cause of this mess. Her finger moves to prod it, and Blade hisses. How remarkable! Color her impressed. You’ve managed to do the impossible, unfathomable for even the strongest Doomsday Beasts. Even Jingliu’s sword was unable to achieve this. Her fatal strikes, unrelenting from morning until night, could only accomplish a fraction of the miracle you’ve conceived.
Whatever it is you’ve injected into Blade, it managed to slow down his regeneration. You stretched momentary, minute-long incapacitations into five hours with a single dose. With morbid interest, Kafka watches the decaying fibers fight against the Abundance’s curse, voraciously eating away at the tendons and ligaments. She finds her smile widening upon the realization, canine teeth in full display. It’s a calculated attack, prompted by the knowledge of Blade’s self-healing ability. You’re well aware that a simple slash to his neck won’t do you any favor, so you struck with something that will last.
It seems like fear didn’t leave you completely shattered, huh? Or perhaps, your parts have been long since broken, yet flaunted around as if they were still in perfect condition. Whatever the case is, Kafka could only wonder why you have something this devious hidden inside your pockets. Now, that’s not very nice of you, to be conducting these little guinea pig experiments.
When her eyes flicker to meet Blade’s, she finds a faraway look. Gone. That must be why he hasn’t pulled away from her touches. Her companion has already departed, far from her reach. Lost in his silly, mara-riddled thoughts, she guesses. Kafka would pay a good amount of credit to know what plans he’s concocting inside that head. Oh, if only you knew what mess you got yourself into! Perhaps, you would’ve chosen the shorter, more merciful route.
It’s a pity. The pierce of that longsword would have hurt less, compared to what Blade has in store for you in the future.
“She gave me what I wanted.” Finally, the man of the hour speaks. Blade pauses, breath hitching with disbelieving awe. “A taste of it.”
Kafka laughs, sorely amused.
Starved dogs ought to stay starved, lest they sink their claws into you—demanding for more.