The silence after the reveal felt almost crushing, like the weight of the entire rock ceiling pressing down on them.
Vance lay flat on his back, the metal beneath him icy cold. His breathing was quick and uneven. Every breath sent agony through his body, sharp and brutal, radiating from his shattered foot.
About fifty yards away, the twisted remains of Commander Arthur Prescott slammed a rusted, fused greatsword against the vault door. Each blow shook the floor, rattling Vance's teeth. The vault's violet runes flared with every hit, fighting against the strange, corrupted light leaking from Prescott's chest.
Even so, Vance couldn't take his eyes off the old, oxidized writing stamped on the monster's armor. Founder ID: 001.
The Vanguard Syndicate—the shining military force that supposedly kept order in the Fracture—had been built on a lie. Their founder hadn't died heroically in Sector 1. He was sent down here, modified with forbidden Cartel biotech, to crack open some god's tomb, and he failed so badly that the timeline itself left him to rot.
If Vanguard finds out I saw this, Vance thought, reality punching through his panic, they won't just kill me. They'll wipe out my entire sector—erase every trace.
A gross, wet noise jerked Vance back to his senses.
Axiom crept from the shadow of a broken pillar. The mutated Lynx's jet-black fur clung tight to its muscles. It ignored the fossilized Commander—its gaze locked on Vance.
Or, more accurately, on Vance's mangled foot.
Through their Parasitic Tether, Vance felt the shift inside the beast's mind. No fear now. Just a cold, brutal calculation.
Axiom stepped over Vance's healthy leg, looming above him. The beast lowered its head, jaws splitting open just inches from Vance's face. The smell of ozone and wild heat wrapped around him. The Lynx's shining eyes stared straight into his.
You are broken, the thought slid across their bond—not words, just raw emotion. A broken host can't run. A broken host dies here.
Vance clenched his jaw, fingers twitching towards the knife at his belt, though he knew it was useless. "I know," he whispered, barely audible.
I can fix your bone, Axiom projected, the beast's intent pressing into Vance's mind. But the Engine is starving. The price will be total.
This was their unsettling connection. Axiom wasn't offering out of kindness. It was a parasite taking stock of its vessel. The tendrils that stitched Vance's arm together were patch jobs. Fixing broken bone meant diving deep—he'd have to let Axiom access his marrow, his nervous system.
"Do it," Vance said, eyes locked with Axiom's. "Take what you need. Get me up."
Axiom's lip curled, revealing black, sparking fangs. It didn't bite. Instead, the beast pressed its chest against Vance's.
The golden gear buried in Vance scraped against the matching gear in Axiom's heart.
[Warning: Parasitic Override Initiated.]
[Target: Skeletal trauma – Right Metatarsals.]
[Cost: 10 Years of Host's Natural Lifespan.]
Vance's eyes shot wide. But before he could protest, Axiom unleashed the fix.
Black electricity poured from the Lynx, bypassing Vance's skin and flooding his veins. This wasn't a shock—it was fire moving through him.
His body arched off the metal floor. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, barely stopping himself from screaming—any noise might have drawn the monster's attention.
The dark voltage blitzed down his leg, hunting for his broken foot. Through the Tether, Vance didn't just feel the pain. He felt Axiom sampling his DNA, slithering through his nerves, expanding his vessels, knitting broken bone together—an unnatural, violent repair.
It was invasive. It was agony. And it hammered home a cold truth: he wasn't entirely human anymore.
Ten endless seconds passed. Then Axiom broke the link.
The beast staggered back, chest heaving, smoke trailing from its fangs. Its eyes looked weaker, drained.
Vance dropped flat, gasping, sweat freezing on his skin. He checked his interface.
[Lifespan penalty extracted. Host integrity stabilized.]
Fifteen years, gone in less than a day. At this rate, he'd be old before he saw the Citadel again.
Still, when he flexed his right boot, the pain was gone. Just numbness. His foot held. He could walk.
BOOM.
The sword smashed the door again.
Vance rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to a crouch. He peered past broken pillars at the ghostly Commander.
Prescott hammered away, driven by centuries-old madness. But as Vance watched, his parasite-enhanced vision caught something important.
Prescott wasn't just swinging randomly. He was hitting specific points in the sprawling runes.
"The Vanguard… demands…" the ghost echoed, slamming the sword against a circular rune on the left side.
Violet energy resisted, but a hairline crack crept across the metal. The door was weakening. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually the monster would break through.
Whatever was trapped in that vault had been valuable enough for both the Cartel and Vanguard to team up, secretly, centuries ago, just to get their hands on it.
We can't stay, Vance sent to Axiom, mind sharpening once more. Is there an exit? A breeze?
Axiom's ears pricked, head turned from the vault to the dark city beyond. It let out a low huff—there was an updraft.
A way out, but they'd have to cross open ground, totally exposed, hoping Prescott didn't turn around.
Vance gripped his knife. It couldn't do squat against a Tier-5, but the steel was reflective.
He didn't pause. "Go. Now."
Vance moved low, almost sliding across the cold floor, his repaired foot steady. Axiom kept pace, a shadow beside him, both darting between shattered pillars.
Thirty yards from the vault. Then forty.
BOOM. Another hit.
Vance watched the ghost's back—fifty yards. The ruins faded, cavern walls sloped upward.
They were going to make it.
CRACK.
That wasn't the sword hitting the door.
That was the vault door splitting open.
Vance stopped cold, boots gripping the metal edge. Axiom froze too, fur bristling.
At the cavern's far end, Prescott lowered his weapon. Gravity seemed to shift around him.
A jagged fissure ran down the vault door.
Violet energy poured out, smothering the golden light from Prescott—filling the entire cavern.
Then, deep within the vault, a voice called out.
Not telepathy, but a real sound—soft, musical, terrifyingly feminine. It spoke in a dead language, older than humanity.
But as the violet glow spread, the voice shifted, tuning itself to whoever was present.
"Ah," it whispered, brushing the back of Vance's neck. "The little clockmaker's toys are bleeding everywhere."
Prescott stepped back, raising his sword defensively.
But the voice wasn't for him.
"Don't run, little thief," it murmured, violet light pulsing to Vance's heartbeat. "You smell like the future. Come closer."