— When do we leave, Father? — asked Quinn, sparks of impatience and excitement dancing in her scarlet eyes. The idea that they wouldn't run from this threat but study it, perhaps even tame it, ignited a fire in her that she hadn't felt since her first training sessions.
Solomon watched her flaring enthusiasm with a slight, almost imperceptible smile. It was this passion, this readiness to challenge the unknown, that he wanted to see in his heir.
— Tomorrow morning, — he replied, his voice regaining its businesslike, commanding firmness. — It's too late now, and acting in the heat of the moment is a sure path to failure. I'll speak with Michael and Ragnar. We'll discuss everything in detail.
He turned to the door but stopped on the threshold.
— Rest, Quinn. You'll need your strength. And... think about what *you* would say to him if the meeting were to happen tomorrow. What offer could interest someone who seems to need nothing.
With these words, he left, leaving her alone with her raging thoughts.
***
The Crimson Clan's operations room resembled more the den of an alchemist-scientist crossed with a command center. Glowing holographic maps hung in the air, ancient folios and modern tablets lay on the tables, and servers hummed quietly in the corner, processing terabytes of data.
It was here that Solomon found his father, Michael, and his brother, Ragnar. Michael, with a furrowed brow, was studying a map of the dead lands, while Ragnar was doing push-ups with almost animalistic fury, venting his pent-up tension.
— Father. Brother. A moment, — Solomon's voice sounded clear, making both turn around.
— Found something? — Michael asked immediately, stepping away from the map. His gaze was heavy, tired.
— No. Not a single mention of anything similar in the archives. No matches. He is a pure anomaly, — Solomon answered. — But that doesn't mean we should wait for him to show himself again, this time possibly against us.
Ragnar got to his feet, stretching with pleasure until his bones cracked.
— So what do you propose? Track down and eliminate him before he becomes a problem? I'm ready to lead a team.
— No, — Solomon shook his head. — Quinn suggested a different path. Recruitment.
A stunned silence hung in the air.
— Are you out of your mind? — Ragnar exploded first. — Recruit *that*? It's like trying to tame a hurricane! He'll cut down anyone who approaches him!
— Perhaps, — Solomon countered coldly. — Or perhaps not. We saw he didn't attack first. He reacted. And he has something he protects—that fox. It speaks of... if not attachments, then at least interests.
Michael listened silently, his penetrating gaze fixed on his son. He saw not madness, but calculation.
— This is a huge risk, Solomon, — he finally said. — One wrong step...
— ...and we'll have a war with an unpredictable enemy, yes, — Solomon finished for him. — But imagine the reward. A force capable of single-handedly cutting down a horde of SP-series. A force that doesn't use Will, meaning it's immune to ordinary methods of control and detection. If we can direct it... we'll become invincible.
He looked at both of them.
— I'm not suggesting bringing him into the heart of the estate tomorrow. I suggest moving out at dawn with a small group. Find him. Observe. Assess. And only then, if an opportunity presents itself, make contact. Carefully. With intelligence.
Ragnar snorted, but without his previous fury. The idea of confronting such an opponent, even within the framework of recruitment, appealed to his warrior's instincts.
— Who's going?
— Me, — Solomon said immediately. — Quinn—it was her idea, and her intuition might be useful. And... you, Ragnar. Your fury could be a trump card if something goes wrong. Father, — he turned to Michael, — I ask you to stay here and coordinate our actions from afar.
Michael slowly nodded. The logic was ironclad.
— Alright. But you move by *my* rules. No rash actions. No direct contact without my permission. Understood?
Solomon and Ragnar exchanged glances and nodded.
The plan was approved. The hunt for the most dangerous beast in the dead lands would begin at dawn.
***
The blizzard hadn't subsided for several days, turning the cabin into a snowbound ark adrift in a white void. Azrael trained, repaired his gear, and studied the System, while the Kitsune seemed to do nothing but sleep by the stove, curled into a fiery ball. But her sleep was strange—restless, fitful. She whimpered, her paws twitched, and her fur occasionally flared with a dull silvery light, as if a moonbeam were breaking through her skin.
Azrael attributed it to accumulated fatigue and the aftermath of the battle. His own "Youthful Body" worked flawlessly, healing the slightest muscle microtraumas after training. He couldn't have imagined that the energy of the skill, his will to live, and the very magic of this place, concentrated in the blizzard, were creating a quiet revolution inside his little companion.
The turning point came on the night the wind finally died down. In the ensuing silence, her whimpers became loud, almost human moans. Azrael jumped out of bed, his hand on his sword's hilt.
Something unimaginable was happening by the stove. The Kitsune lay on her side, her body convulsing, enveloped in a thick, cold radiance. Her fur seemed to melt, flowing onto the floor in a silvery haze, revealing pale, almost porcelain skin underneath. Bones crunched, changing shape; her skeleton restructured itself, becoming taller, more fragile.
— What the hell? — Azrael whispered, mesmerized and stunned.
The light vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. On the floor, on a pile of her former fur, lay a girl. About thirteen or fourteen years old. Thin, almost emaciated. Long hair the color of a raven's wing, shimmering with a blue tint in the dim glow of the coals, fanned out around her head like a dark halo. She was unconscious, her chest rising almost imperceptibly.
Azrael slowly, very slowly, moved closer, not believing his eyes. It was her. The same intelligent, slightly sly shape of her closed eyes, the same sharp chin. Even a few freckles on the bridge of her nose remained, like spots on a fox's muzzle.
He bent down, took the blanket from his bed, and covered her. His hand accidentally touched her shoulder—the skin was icy, but beneath it, he felt the tremor of nascent life.
He retreated to the wall, silently observing. His brain feverishly tried to find logic in what had happened. A shapeshifter? A spirit? A consequence of some unknown System skill? But the System was silent, offering no answers.
Maybe an hour passed. The girl stirred, groaned weakly, and opened her eyes. They were the same piercing, clear blue as the fox's. A familiar fire flickered in them—a mixture of curiosity, fear, and wild, animal wisdom.
She saw him, sat up, wrapping herself in the blanket. She tried to say something, but only a hoarse, broken sound escaped her throat. She winced, touched her throat with her fingers, then her long hair, her human hands. Her gaze held pure, unfiltered horror.
— Quiet, — Azrael said softly, not knowing how else to calm her. — It's... alright.
She looked at him again, and the horror gradually gave way to recognition. She nodded, swallowing. Then she pointed a finger at him, at her mouth, and made a swallowing motion.
— Hungry? — he clarified.
She nodded again, more confidently this time.
As he reheated the leftover stew on the stove, he felt her intense gaze on him. The gaze of the Kitsune, now looking at him from a human face. Everything had changed. Absolutely everything.
He handed her the bowl. She devoured the food greedily, holding the bowl with both hands, pressing it to herself in a very animal-like way.
— And what do I call you now? — Azrael asked thoughtfully, looking at his incredible companion. — Kitsune doesn't fit anymore.
The girl looked up at him with her blue, bottomless eyes, pausing from her meal for a moment. She poked a finger at her chest and croaked, forcing out her first conscious sound with difficulty:
— Yu... Yuki.