Alfred placed a thick manila folder on the table, "This contains all of our intelligence on Gorgon Silas. Lord Moria expects results."
He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Rebecca hopped off the bed and walked over to the chair where Luthra was sitting. She pointed at his left wrist, which was now wrapped in a crude splint he had made himself from a piece of wood and torn cloth.
"Hey, your arm is all fat and purple. What happened to it?"
He did not look up from the folder, "It’s fine. It’ll heal."
’Wait...’ The image of his swollen wrist suddenly triggered a memory. It was fuzzy, like a bad dream, but the feeling was real. Her own hand, small but impossibly strong, wrapped around that same wrist. The sound of bone cracking. The feeling of pure, uncontrolled rage. ’I... I did that. That was me.’
She took a step back from him.
"I... I’m sorry," she whispered, her voice losing all its previous energy.
He finally looked up from the folder, his gaze settling on her. He reached out with his good hand and patted her on the head.
"It wasn’t your fault. Your power went out of control. It happens."
’She uses that happy-go-lucky attitude like armor. A wall to keep the memories out. But it won’t last forever.’
She shook her head, her hands twisting the hem of her shirt, "No, it is my fault. It’s always my fault. My dad said I was a monster, he was right."
He looked her directly in the eye, "Your dad was a piece of shit who got what he deserved. You’re not a monster. You’re a kid who was put in an impossible situation."
For a moment, she just stared at him. The cheerful mask, the tough-kid act, the bubbly adventurer persona, it all just crumbled away. Her face crumpled, and a sound she had not made in a very long time, a raw, painful sob, escaped her.
Tears streamed down her face. She did not try to wipe them away, the wall was fully down.
Luthra just sat there, his broken wrist throbbing in his lap.
’Fuck sake. Now she’s crying. What am I supposed to do with a crying kid?’
He had faced monsters, corrupt nobles, and a fox demon. This was, by far, the most difficult situation he had ever been in. He let out a quiet sigh, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of dried meat.
He held it out to her, "Here. Eat this."
She did not take it. Her small body was wracked with sobs.
’Fuck sake. I’m not equipped for this.’
He put the meat down on the table next to the bed, "Crying doesn’t fill your stomach. Eat."
She shook her head, pulling her knees up to her chest and burying her face in them, "I can’t."
He let out a sigh, not of pity, but of pure, unadulterated annoyance. He walked over to the window and looked out at the lights of Outpost K.
"So that’s your plan? You’re just going to cry forever? Let me know how that works out for you."
Her sobbing hitched, replaced by a wet, hiccuping sound. She looked up at him, her face a mess of tears.
"It’s not a plan! It just... hurts!"
"I know," he stated, turning from the window to face her. "Everything hurts. That’s the default setting. The world is a machine that grinds people up. It doesn’t care if you’re a kid, or if you’re sad, or if your dad was a piece of shit. It just grinds. You either stand up and find a way to break the gears, or you let it turn you into dust."
He walked back to the chair and sat down, picking up the thick folder Alfred had left.
"You’re with me now. That means you don’t have to carry all this crap by yourself. Stop trying to act tough all the time, it’s exhausting to watch." He did not look at her, his attention focused on opening the folder. "Be a kid. Be an annoying, loud-mouthed brat. Be a pint-sized psychopath with an axe. I don’t care. Just stop pretending to be okay when you’re not."
She was quiet for a long moment. He heard a sniffle, then the sound of her picking up the dried meat from the table. She took a small, shaky bite.
He opened the folder. The first page was a dossier on Gorgon Silas.
It was a simple, direct summary. Silas was a B-Rank hunter, formerly of the Association, who was dishonorably discharged for illegal human experimentation. His Path was centered on Earth-type magic, with a specific focus on petrification. The file noted his primary weakness, his petrification magic required direct, unbroken eye contact to take full effect. His primary strength was his paranoia, the mines were a fortress, defended by over three hundred branded slaves and Syndicate hunters, all under constant surveillance.
’Direct eye contact, huh? Annoying, but manageable.’
He flipped to the next page, which was a crude, hand-drawn map of the mine’s layout, showing guard posts, patrol routes, and the location of Silas’s personal quarters. It was a deathtrap. A direct assault was, as he suspected, a stupid plan.
While he studied the map, Rebecca spoke, her voice small and muffled by the food in her mouth.
He did not reply. He just turned the page. Tucked in the back of the folder, separate from the main report, was a second, smaller file. It was sealed with a simple wax stamp bearing Moria’s personal crest.
He broke the seal and opened it. Inside was not a report, but a single, high-quality photograph. It showed a man in his forties with slicked-back black hair and a cruel smile, one hand resting possessively on the shoulder of a petrified statue of a terrified woman.
’Great. Another asshole with a god complex.’
Rebecca climbed onto the arm of his chair, peering at the picture, "Is that him? The slave guy? He has a really punchable face."
He tossed the photo onto the table, "Yeah. That’s him."
He was about to close the folder when he saw it. On the inside of the folder, almost invisible against the cardstock, was an embossed symbol. He tilted it toward the light. It was a serpent coiled around a dagger.
’The Viper’s Fang. I read they were wiped out years ago.’
The Viper’s Fang was a myth among most hunters. They were an S-Rank assassination guild that the Association and the top ten guilds had supposedly hunted down and eradicated after they were linked to the death of a high-ranking political figure. They were ghosts, killers for hire who specialized in taking out powerful hunters.
’So Silas isn’t just a slaver. He’s backed by assassins. This just keeps getting harder and harder.’