Deep Forest Territory
John's hands clenched, the right hand sending immediate protest through nerve pathways that were still healing. The Vitalis leaves had done their work over the past week—infection arrested, torn tissue beginning to knit back together, swelling reduced enough that his fingers showed some mobility. But the damage was permanent. Two fingers would never fully function again, hanging at angles that indicated bone hadn't healed properly, probably never would without surgical intervention he had no access to.
But functional limitation was irrelevant compared to what Kiran had just revealed.
"It's not possible," John said, his voice tight with barely controlled fury. "Van Hellsin is dead. Or imprisoned. Or—" He stopped himself, realizing he was about to reveal information a blind slave boy shouldn't possess. He forced his breathing to steady, forced his conscious mind to override the emotional response his body was generating. "The gods killed him. That's what everyone says."
"The gods say they killed him," Kiran corrected. "But if they actually did, why do they still maintain the Divine Prohibitions? Why do they investigate every reported sighting? Why does The Order dedicate resources to hunting something that's supposedly dead?" He was sitting cross-legged near the shelter's entrance, his tone carrying the logic of someone who'd thought through these questions before. "Dead things don't require active suppression. Living threats do."
John's mind was working through implications he didn't want to accept. The most logical explanation: the Supreme Eight had taken his original body—the god-candidate form that had challenged them at Zenith Thronos—and given it to someone else. Or perhaps they'd sealed his consciousness but left the body alive, animated by different will. Either way, there was a Van Hellsin operating in the world who wasn't him, who was using his identity, his reputation, his accumulated power.
They'd stolen everything. Not just his throne, not just his life, but his very existence. They'd taken his name, his body, his legacy, and repurposed it for someone else while shoving his consciousness into a blind child's broken frame.
"Is he a god?" John asked, forcing the question through clenched jaw. "This Van Hellsin. Did he achieve deity status?"
Kiran shrugged. "I don't know. The books and stories don't say specifically. Some claim he's as powerful as the Supreme Eight, others say he's still ascending toward that level. Nobody seems to have definitive information—just rumors, sightings, second-hand accounts from people who claim to have encountered him or his forces."
John needed more information. Needed to understand who was using his name, what their capabilities were, whether they represented obstacle or opportunity. But gathering that intelligence required mobility, required access to populated areas where information flowed, required resources he didn't currently possess.
First priority remained healing enough to travel. His hand was improving but still compromised. Another week, maybe two, and he'd be mobile enough for sustained movement. Then he could—
"I'm coming with you," Kiran said suddenly. His tone carried determination that hadn't been there before. "When you leave. When your hand heals and you go looking for answers about Van Hellsin or whatever else you're planning. I'm coming."
"No." John's response was immediate and absolute. "You're not."
"I have nowhere else to go," Kiran pressed. "The people who kept me are dead. I have no family, no connections, no place that wants a child with predator Beast Uncos. And you need help—your hand is damaged, you can't see, you're alone in territory you don't know. I know the forest, I know which settlements are safe, I know how to avoid Order patrols. I'm useful."
"You're a liability," John countered. "A child who slows me down and requires protection. I've already done you the service of killing your captors. You're free now. Go live your life."
Kiran's expression shifted, became calculating in a way that looked wrong on a ten-year-old's face. "You killed them. That makes you responsible for what happens to me next. If I die in the forest because I can't survive alone, that's on you. If Order soldiers find me and make me a slave again, that's on you. You freed me—that means you're obligated to ensure I stay free."
The logic was manipulative, designed to leverage guilt John didn't actually feel. Kami Van Hellsin had spent six centuries operating without emotional attachment to people who weren't useful to his goals. A child's attempt at guilt manipulation would have been laughable if it wasn't so transparent.
But tactical assessment was separate from emotional response. Kiran did possess useful knowledge. The boy could navigate terrain John couldn't perceive accurately, could interact with settlements in ways a blind adult couldn't, could serve as additional sensory awareness when John's ki perception had limitations.
And more pragmatically: refusing Kiran meant the boy would probably follow anyway, just at distance where John couldn't monitor his actions. Better to accept his presence explicitly, establish clear hierarchical structure, use him as resource while managing the protection burden.
"Fine," John said. His tone made clear this wasn't warm acceptance but tactical concession. "You follow. You obey instructions without argument. You don't slow me down. The moment you become more burden than benefit, I leave you wherever we happen to be. Understand?"
Kiran's face lit up with genuine happiness that looked painfully young. "Understood! Thank you! I promise I'll be useful, I'll help however I can, I won't—"
"Stop talking," John interrupted. "We leave when my hand heals sufficiently. Until then, continue the Vitalis treatments and teach me everything you know about local territory."
Six days later, John's hand had healed enough. Not fully—it would never be fully functional again—but sufficiently that he could grip objects, could use the hand for support, could manage basic tasks without the constant pain that had characterized the first week. The two ruined fingers remained useless, but the other three worked adequately.
They moved through the forest at first light, Kiran leading because his visual navigation was superior for dense terrain, John following close enough that his ki perception could map Kiran's position continuously. The boy had provided detailed description of the route—three days northwest to the nearest settlement, a town called Westhaven that was large enough to have information networks but not so large that Order presence was overwhelming.
The forest canopy blocked most direct sunlight, creating perpetual twilight at ground level that made temperature regulation easier but also created navigation challenges for those relying on sun positioning. Kiran moved with confidence that came from extensive time in this environment, his footsteps finding paths through undergrowth that minimized noise and avoided obvious obstacles.
John's perception mapped their surroundings in thirty-meter radius—trees, rocks, elevation changes, the small stream they were paralleling as navigation reference. His enhanced hearing tracked wind patterns, bird calls that indicated no major disturbances nearby, the distant sounds of forest creatures going about their routines.
They were approximately four hours into the day's travel when John's perception detected something ahead. Large animal, quadrupedal, moving perpendicular to their path about forty meters distant. The gait pattern suggested predator rather than prey—purposeful movement, head raised for sensory scanning, body language indicating this was its territory and they were intruders.
"Stop," John said quietly. Kiran froze immediately, his training under abusive captors having taught him to obey commands without questioning.
John's perception focused on the approaching animal. It was large—maybe two hundred kilograms based on how its footfalls impacted the ground, height approximately one meter at the shoulder. The breathing pattern suggested exertion, possibly from recent activity. It hadn't detected them yet but was moving in direction that would bring it into visual range within thirty seconds.
"Your relative?" John asked, injecting dark humor into tactical assessment.
Kiran's head turned toward where John was perceiving the animal, his better eyesight providing visual confirmation John's ki couldn't achieve. "That's an actual predator. Forest bear, probably. They're territorial during late summer when they're preparing for hibernation season." His voice was steady despite the fear that had to be present. "We should back away slowly. They usually don't attack unless they feel threatened or we're near their food cache."
The animal's trajectory shifted. It had detected them—whether through scent or sound or some other sensory mechanism, it was now moving directly toward their position with increased speed.
"It's charging," Kiran said, his voice rising with panic. "It's going to attack!"
John's mind calculated vectors and timeframes. The animal would reach them in approximately fifteen seconds. Running was pointless—they couldn't outpace a charging bear through dense forest. Climbing was possible but time-consuming, and Kiran would need assistance John couldn't provide quickly enough. Fighting was the only viable option.
"Transform," John ordered. "Wolf form. Attack from the left flank while I engage from the front. Aim for hamstrings to reduce mobility."
Kiran didn't argue. His body began shifting, bones restructuring with sounds that were disturbingly organic, muscles redistributing mass, skin sprouting fur. The transformation took approximately four seconds—longer than combat-optimal but acceptable given the circumstances. Kiran's wolf form was smaller than John had expected, maybe forty kilograms, but the teeth and claws were genuine weapons.
The bear emerged from vegetation twenty meters ahead. John's perception mapped its form—broad shoulders, massive head, claws that were visible even without sight through how they impacted the ground. It roared, the sound designed to intimidate prey into submission or flight.
John activated his Uncos.
Light erupted from his left palm, concentrated beam aimed directly at where his perception indicated the bear's face was positioned. The intensity was lower than what he'd managed against Soren—conscious control rather than desperate panic—but sufficient for the purpose. The bear's roar transformed into sound of pain and confusion, its charge faltering as its visual system was overwhelmed.
John moved forward rather than retreating. He'd grabbed a sturdy branch during the morning's travel, approximately one point two meters long and thick enough to serve as improvised club. Not elegant weapon, but functional. He closed the distance to the disoriented bear, using the three seconds of blindness his Uncos had provided to position himself at optimal attack angle.
The bear's head was lowered, shaking side to side trying to clear its vision. John swung the branch in horizontal arc, targeting the side of the bear's skull with all the force his malnourished body could generate. The impact was solid—he felt the vibration through the wood, heard the dull sound of branch hitting bone.
The bear stumbled but didn't fall. Its head swung toward John, vision still compromised but spatial awareness functional enough to track the attack's origin. One massive paw swept horizontal, claws extended, moving with speed that exceeded what something that size should have managed.
John dropped flat, the paw passing through the space his torso had occupied one second earlier. He rolled left, creating distance, his perception tracking the bear's positioning for next attack opportunity.
Kiran attacked from the bear's left rear flank, wolf form darting in with speed that four legs provided. His jaws clamped onto the bear's rear leg just above the ankle, teeth penetrating fur and finding muscle beneath. He pulled, trying to destabilize the bear's stance.
The bear roared again, this time with rage rather than pain. It pivoted on its front legs, the targeted rear leg coming up despite Kiran's grip, then slamming down with force designed to crush whatever was attached. Kiran released and darted away, avoiding the stomp by maybe half a meter.
But the attack had served its purpose—the bear's attention was divided now, tracking threats from two directions simultaneously. John pressed the advantage, moving in from the bear's right side while it was focused on Kiran. He swung the branch again, this time targeting the bear's right front leg at the joint.
The impact wasn't as solid as the first—the branch was already compromised from the skull strike, and hitting the leg's bone structure wrong caused it to crack rather than delivering full force. But the strike landed, and the bear's front leg buckled slightly, its weight distribution disrupted.
Kiran attacked again, going for the same rear leg he'd targeted initially. This time his approach was from a different angle, making him harder to predict. His teeth found the hamstring, the specific muscle group that controlled rear leg extension. He bit down and pulled, attempting to sever or at least damage the tissue enough to limit the bear's mobility.
The bear's response was immediate and brutal. It dropped its rear end, sitting down with all its weight on the leg Kiran was attached to. Kiran yelped—the sound emerging as canine vocalization rather than human speech—and released, scrambling away from underneath the bear's mass. The maneuver had crushed his left front paw, and he was limping as he repositioned.
John moved in for another strike, but the bear was learning. It tracked his approach despite its vision still being partially compromised, and when John swung the branch toward its skull again, the bear's head moved. Not enough to completely avoid the strike, but enough that the branch caught its shoulder instead of its head. The impact was insufficient to cause serious damage, and the already-weakened branch finally broke, leaving John holding a piece of wood maybe forty centimeters long.
The bear rose to its full height on rear legs, a intimidation display that made it appear even larger than its actual mass suggested. It roared directly at John from maybe three meters away, the sound loud enough that even without enhanced hearing it would have been overwhelming.
John's right hand—his damaged hand—dropped the useless branch piece and pulled the metal shard from his waistband. The four-centimeter piece of sharp metal was inadequate weapon against a two-hundred-kilogram bear, but it was what he had available. He held it in reverse grip, blade extending down from his fist, positioning that allowed stabbing attacks rather than slashing.
The bear dropped back to four legs and charged. Not the distance-closing charge from its initial approach, but a short explosive burst designed to close the three-meter gap before John could evade. John sidestepped at the last possible moment, the bear's momentum carrying it past his position. As it passed, John drove the metal shard down into the bear's back, aiming for where his anatomical knowledge suggested the spine should be.
The shard penetrated fur and skin but struck bone rather than finding the gap between vertebrae he'd been targeting. Not deep enough to cause structural damage, but deep enough to cause pain. The bear twisted, trying to reach the injury, its movements becoming more erratic.
Kiran attacked again, this time going for the previously undamaged rear leg. His teeth found muscle, and this time when he pulled, something in the bear's leg gave way—tendon or ligament tearing under the combined force of his bite and the bear's own movements. The rear leg collapsed, the bear's weight distribution failing, and it went down on its right side.
John moved immediately. The metal shard was still in his hand, still slick with the bear's blood. He closed the distance to the downed bear, his perception mapping where its head was positioned, where its throat was exposed. He drove the shard into the throat, angling upward, seeking the major blood vessels that would end this quickly.
The shard found artery. Blood erupted, not the steady flow of capillary damage but the pulsing spray that indicated critical injury. The bear thrashed, its remaining functional legs scrambling for purchase, but the damage was done. John pulled the shard free and scrambled backward, avoiding the dying animal's reflexive attacks.
Thirty seconds later, the bear's movements stopped. The blood loss had been catastrophic, the damage to its circulatory system incompatible with continued consciousness. It died there in the forest undergrowth, its body already being processed by insects that emerged to claim their portion of the biomass.
John stood for a moment, breathing hard, his body trembling from adrenaline and exertion. His right hand was covered in blood—the bear's, not his own—and the damaged fingers were sending pain signals that his conscious mind was suppressing through practiced discipline.
Kiran transformed back to human form, the process taking longer than the initial transformation, probably due to injury and exhaustion. His left arm showed significant bruising where the bear had crushed his wolf form's paw, and he was favoring his right leg where the initial stomp had caught him partially.
"That was—" Kiran started, his voice showing genuine admiration, "—you fought so well! Even blind, you could read what it was going to do, where it was positioned. How did you know where to strike?"
"Enhanced hearing and spatial perception," John said curtly. He was already moving away from the corpse, aware that the blood smell would attract scavengers. "We need distance from this location. Other predators will come."
"But you were amazing!" Kiran limped after him, apparently unwilling to let the topic drop. "The way you used your light to blind it, the way you positioned yourself for optimal striking angles, the way you coordinated with my attacks—"
"Stop talking," John interrupted. He didn't want praise, didn't want analysis of his combat performance. What he wanted was distance from the kill site and time to address the injuries both of them had sustained. "We move. Now."
They moved. Kiran's injuries were limiting his pace, and John's enhanced perception detected the boy's limp was worsening rather than improving. They'd need to stop soon, would need to address the damage before it became incapacitating.
But they'd survived. Against a predator that outweighed them combined by a significant margin, they'd survived. John's tactical analysis, Kiran's Beast Uncos, their coordinated attacks—all of it had been sufficient.
Barely sufficient. But sufficient nonetheless.
Southeastern Territories - Military Depot
The facility's perimeter fence was chain-link construction, three meters high and topped with angled barbed wire designed to prevent climbing. Guard towers occupied three corners—the fourth corner abutted against a rock face that provided natural barrier. Floodlights mounted on the towers provided overlapping coverage of the external approaches, creating illuminated zones where movement would be immediately visible.
But floodlights created shadows. And in those shadows, four figures moved with professional precision.
Amari's perception of the environment was different from how he'd experienced Sanctuary's training grounds. The mission's reality—the possibility of genuine death, the presence of enemy combatants who would kill him without hesitation—created psychological weight that abstract practice exercises couldn't replicate. His heart rate was elevated, his breathing controlled but requiring conscious management, his hands slightly damp with perspiration inside the leather gloves Zara had insisted he wear.
But underneath the nervous system's autonomic response, his mind was operating with crystalline clarity. The depot's layout matched the intelligence briefings exactly—administrative building positioned fifty meters inside the perimeter, underground storage access through interior stairwell, guard patrol routes creating predictable gaps in coverage. Everything was as described, which meant the planning remained valid.
Zara signaled from her position three meters to Amari's left—three fingers extended, pointing toward the fence section where shadows from the eastern tower created blind spot in the floodlight coverage. Entry point confirmed, exactly as Amari had identified during his preliminary observation.
They moved. Not running—running created noise and disturbed ground in ways that trained observers would notice. They moved in controlled advance, bodies low, weight distributed to minimize footfall impact. Erik was slowest, his larger frame requiring more careful movement. Thane moved like predator despite his size, each step placed with consideration for what lay beneath.
Amari reached the fence first. The chain-link was industrial grade, metal thickness designed to prevent casual cutting with standard tools. But the Forgers had provided specialized equipment—compound cutters with hardened steel jaws that could sever links with sustained pressure. Amari positioned the cutters at the fence's base, squeezed the handles with both hands, and felt the metal give way with quiet sound that was barely audible over the ambient noise of night insects.
He cut upward, creating vertical incision approximately one meter tall. Zara was beside him immediately, pulling the cut section aside to create opening, holding it while Amari slipped through. The fence's cut edges caught his clothing briefly, then released as he angled his body properly. He was inside the perimeter, thirty meters from the administrative building, positioned in shadow that floodlights couldn't reach.
The others followed—Zara, then Erik, then Thane last. Each of them moved with economy that suggested extensive experience with exactly this type of infiltration. Within twenty seconds, all four were inside, the fence section returned to approximate original position, the cuts barely visible unless someone specifically examined that location.
Amari's weapon hung from his belt—a three-meter chain with weighted blades attached to both ends. The chain itself was thin steel links, flexible and silent when properly managed. The blades were forty centimeters each, single-edged, balanced for throwing but also functional as close-range cutting implements. The weapon had been stored in coiled configuration during the approach, wrapped around his waist like belt, but now he unwound it, letting the chain extend while he held both blade grips.
The training with this weapon had been abbreviated—only five days since he'd selected it. But the fundamentals had come naturally: chain weapons required spatial awareness and trajectory prediction, understanding how the chain's flexibility affected striking angles, learning to control both blades simultaneously while managing the connecting links. Skills that aligned precisely with Amari's existing capabilities.
Guard position ahead. Single individual, visible in the administrative building's external lighting, standing near the western entrance. The guard was armed—rifle slung over shoulder, hand resting on sidearm holster—and alert, his posture suggesting professional training rather than civilian conscript service.
Zara signaled: I'll handle him. You three maintain position.
She moved, and Amari's respect for her capabilities increased significantly. She covered twenty meters in approximately twelve seconds, using building shadow and parked vehicles as visual obstruction, her approach vector calculated to keep her outside the guard's peripheral vision. When she reached striking range, her movement was economical—one hand covering the guard's mouth, the other hand's blade entering between his ribs at an upward angle that suggested she knew exactly where the heart was positioned.
The guard's struggle lasted maybe five seconds. Then his body went limp, and Zara lowered him to the ground with control that prevented noise. She checked his pulse—confirming death rather than unconsciousness—then signaled: Clear. Advance.
They reached the western entrance. Locked, but Zara produced picks that suggested this wasn't her first building penetration. Thirty seconds of manipulation, and the lock mechanism disengaged with quiet click. The door opened inward, revealing corridor lit by overhead fixtures that created harsh illumination and sharp shadows.
Amari's assigned role was point position. He entered first, his chain weapon held ready but coiled to prevent accidental noise. His spatial awareness mapped the corridor—fifteen meters straight, two doors on the left wall, one door on right, stairwell at the far end that descended to underground storage.
Sound detection ahead. Footsteps, two individuals, coming from the corridor's opposite end. Guard patrol, right on schedule according to the intelligence timeline.
Amari signaled back to Zara: Two contacts, approaching. She responded: Engage. We're backup if needed.
Amari moved into position at the corridor's midpoint, placing himself behind partial cover provided by doorframe alcove. He unwound the chain completely, letting it hang in both hands, blades positioned for immediate attack. His breathing remained controlled, his mind processing combat geometry: distance to targets, ceiling height that limited overhead attacks, wall spacing that constrained lateral movement.
The guards rounded the corner. Both male, both armed with rifles, both wearing the uniform that indicated Order military rather than private security. Their attention was divided—one was speaking to the other, some conversation about shift rotation, neither of them focused on the corridor ahead.
Amari attacked. His right hand released its blade, arm extending in throwing motion that sent the weighted blade forward in arc trajectory. The chain followed, extending to its full three-meter length. The blade's flight path terminated at the speaking guard's throat, the sharp edge finding flesh before the guard registered threat presence.
The guard's speech cut off mid-word, transforming into gurgling sound as his airway was compromised. He stumbled backward, hands going to his throat, rifle forgotten.
The second guard's reflexes were better. His rifle was already coming up, angling toward Amari's position, finger moving toward trigger. But Amari's left hand was already in motion. He pulled the right blade back while simultaneously throwing the left blade, the chain's flexibility allowing both attacks in sequence. The left blade's trajectory was higher, aimed for the guard's face rather than throat.
The blade struck. Not killing blow—it caught the guard's temple at wrong angle, cutting but not penetrating deeply enough for immediate incapacitation. But the impact disrupted his aim, the rifle discharging toward the ceiling rather than Amari's position. The sound was loud, overwhelming in the enclosed corridor, the kind of noise that would attract every guard in the facility.
Amari was already moving. He closed the distance to the second guard in three strides, pulling both blades back as he ran, the chain retracting into coiled configuration. At two meters, he released control of the chain entirely, drawing the twin daggers from his thigh sheaths in one fluid motion. The daggers cleared leather as he reached striking range, right blade going for the guard's weapon hand while left blade targeted the exposed neck.
Both strikes connected. The right dagger severed tendons in the guard's wrist, his grip on the rifle failing immediately. The left dagger entered the side of the neck, finding the carotid artery with precision that suggested Amari understood human anatomy better than most twelve-year-olds should.
The guard dropped. Amari stepped back, scanning for additional threats. The first guard was on the ground, still alive but no longer combat-capable, his hands trying unsuccessfully to stem the bleeding from his throat. The second guard was dead or dying, blood pooling beneath his body.
Zara was at Amari's shoulder immediately. "Good engagement. Clean strikes. But the gunshot compromised our stealth timeline. We have maybe ninety seconds before response arrives." She moved to the stairwell, gesturing for the team to follow. "Erik, establish defensive barrier at top of stairs. Thane, you're with me in storage. Amari, rear guard—anyone comes through that corridor, you delay them long enough for us to extract with the equipment."
They descended. The underground storage was exactly as described—concrete construction, rows of metal shelving holding organized equipment, lighting provided by fixtures that created industrial ambiance. Zara and Thane began grabbing rifles, ammunition containers, anything portable that represented tactical value.
Amari remained at the stairwell's base, his attention focused upward toward where guards would arrive. His daggers were still drawn, both blades marked with blood that he hadn't bothered wiping clean. His chain weapon was rewrapped around his waist, available if needed but not optimal for close-quarters stairwell combat.
Sound above. Multiple footsteps, shouted orders, the acoustic signature of organized response rather than panicked reaction. These were professional soldiers, trained for exactly this scenario.
The first guard appeared at the stairwell's top. Amari's enhanced spatial awareness tracked his movement—rifle raised, proper tactical positioning, scanning for targets before committing to descent. Professional approach, which meant this wouldn't be easy.
Amari threw his left dagger. The blade tumbled through the air in two full rotations, covering the distance from base to top of stairs in approximately one second. It struck the guard's center mass—not precisely where Amari had aimed, but close enough. The guard stumbled backward, no longer blocking the stairwell, creating opening for second guard behind him.
Second guard was smarter. He didn't advance into the stairwell where he'd be exposed. He stayed at the top, used the doorframe as cover, and fired three rounds down the stairs in rapid succession.
Erik's barrier activated. Translucent force field materialized at the stairwell's midpoint, angled to deflect projectiles toward the walls rather than back toward the shooter. The three rounds hit the barrier and ricocheted harmlessly, their kinetic energy absorbed and redirected.
But the barrier wouldn't hold indefinitely. Erik's Uncos had power limitations, and sustained fire would eventually overwhelm his defensive capacity.
"Thirty seconds!" Zara called from behind Amari. "Almost done loading!"
Thirty seconds was too long. More guards would arrive, would bring heavier weapons or Uncos capabilities that could bypass Erik's barrier. Amari needed to buy time, needed to create hesitation in their response.
He retrieved the chain weapon from his waist, unwinding it completely. Three meters of flexible steel with bladed weights at both ends. Not optimal for stairwell engagement, but he could make it work.
Amari advanced up the stairs, moving with speed that suggested confidence he didn't entirely feel. When he reached Erik's barrier position, he signaled for a three-second gap in coverage. Erik's concentration wavered—maintaining barrier while processing complex instructions wasn't easy—but he managed it. The barrier dropped for exactly three seconds.
Amari's right hand released its blade in overhead throwing arc, the chain following in trajectory that carried it over the doorframe's cover and down toward where the guard was positioned. The guard saw it coming, tried to move, but the blade's weight and momentum were too great. It caught him across the shoulder, cutting deep, and his rifle clattered from nerveless fingers.
Three seconds elapsed. Erik's barrier reestablished, now positioned higher on the stairs, closer to the top. Amari pulled the chain back, rewinding it while scanning for next engagement opportunity.
More guards at the stairwell top. Four visible, probably more in the corridor beyond. They were organized now, had established proper defensive position, were coordinating their approach. This was going to get significantly worse.
"Done!" Zara's voice from behind. "Extraction now!"
Erik began controlled retreat down the stairs, his barrier holding position while he walked backward. Amari followed, maintaining visual contact with the stairwell top, both daggers now drawn because chain weapon was too difficult to manage while moving.
The guards advanced as the barrier retreated. They weren't rushing—they were professionals, maintaining spacing and cover discipline. When they reached the stairwell's midpoint, they opened fire. Not random shooting but coordinated volleys designed to overwhelm Erik's defensive capacity through sustained pressure.
Erik's barrier held for five volleys. Then it flickered, the translucent field losing coherence, gaps appearing where projectiles could penetrate.
"Barrier failing!" Erik called.
Amari moved in front of him, positioning his body between Erik and the incoming fire. One of the gaps in the barrier was directly in line with his center mass. He twisted, the round passing so close he felt air displacement. Another gap opened to his left. He couldn't dodge that one and maintain position protecting Erik.
Thane moved. The large man had been at the storage room's far end, securing the last equipment load, but now he was beside Amari, his own body interposing between the guards and the retreat position. A round hit him center mass. Thane grunted but didn't fall—his Uncos was apparently some form of physical enhancement that included damage resistance.
They reached the storage room's far exit, the secondary stairwell that provided extraction route away from the main entrance. Zara was already ascending with equipment, moving with impressive speed given the load she was carrying. Erik followed, then Thane, then Amari last.
Behind them, guards reached the storage room. Amari counted six visible, probably more arriving. They were establishing pursuit formation, would follow the extraction route, would maintain pressure until the Liberators either escaped or were cornered.
The secondary stairwell emerged into a different section of the administrative building, fifty meters from the primary entrance. Zara had memorized this layout during planning phase, navigated it without hesitation despite carrying equipment load. They burst through an emergency exit, the alarm sounding immediately—irrelevant now, stealth had been compromised minutes ago.
Outside, the transport cart was where support team had positioned it, one kilometer west through forest terrain. They ran. All of them carrying portions of the stolen equipment, moving as fast as the loads allowed, following the route Zara had planned.
Guards emerged from the facility behind them. Rifle fire from multiple positions, most of it inaccurate at this range but creating suppression effect that limited the Liberators' movement options. One round caught Erik in the leg—not serious penetration but enough to make him stumble. Thane grabbed him, hauled him upright, half-carried him while maintaining his own equipment load.
They reached the tree line. Guard fire became less effective as vegetation provided cover. The pursuit continued—Amari could hear them organizing, could track their movement through forest by the sounds of multiple bodies crashing through undergrowth.
But the Liberators knew this terrain. Had practiced extraction routes. Had contingencies for exactly this scenario. They reached the cart position, the support team helping load equipment while Zara made quick assessment of injuries. Erik's leg was bleeding but functional. Thane had taken multiple hits to his torso, his shirt showing dark stains, but he was still upright and coherent.
"Amari?" Zara asked, her eyes scanning for visible injuries.
"Uninjured," Amari confirmed. "Ready for continued movement if required."
Zara nodded, something like approval crossing her face briefly. Then she was back to command mode, organizing the retreat, ensuring everyone knew their roles, maintaining the tactical discipline that kept missions from becoming disasters.
They moved. Away from the depot, into terrain that Order forces wouldn't pursue without daylight and reinforcements. The mission was complete—equipment acquired, team extracted, casualties minimal. Successful operation by any reasonable metric.
As they moved through the forest, equipment secured and injuries being addressed through field medicine, Thane clapped Amari on the shoulder. "Good work in there. Especially for first deployment. You held the stairwell long enough for extraction, engaged multiple targets successfully, adapted when situation changed. You've got combat instinct most people take years to develop."
Amari felt something warm in his chest—pride, maybe, or satisfaction at being acknowledged by experienced operators. He was twelve years old, had just killed multiple guards in actual combat, had proven his capability in context where failure meant death.
He'd survived his first mission. More than survived—he'd excelled.
He smiled, the expression genuine despite the adrenaline still coursing through his system. "Happy to help," he said simply.
The return journey to Sanctuary would take two days. Two days to process what he'd just done, to understand what it meant to take human life, to integrate the experience into his developing worldview.
But for now, moving through the forest with successful operators who'd accepted him as legitimate teammate, Amari allowed himself to feel the satisfaction of mission accomplished.
He was a Liberator now. Not in training. Not provisional.
A real Liberator, with blood on his blades and missions completed.
It felt right.