The morning in the Drifter encampment held a deceptive calm, a stark contrast to the chaos of the outside world. Kael had spent the rest of the previous day performing the mundane duties expected of him: sorting scavenged materials, helping to reinforce a section of the perimeter against the always-present threat of mutated scavengers, and contributing his meager portion of filtered water to the communal cistern. He moved with practiced efficiency, his movements economical, but his mind was a storm. The bronze slate, nestled securely against his chest, hummed a low, almost imperceptible frequency, a constant, private counterpoint to the omnipresent whispers of the Lingering Corruption. He could still feel the phantom echo of the Mad God's triumphant smile, a vast, terrible contentment that had consumed him in Chapter 2. It clung to the edges of his consciousness, a persistent, chilling reminder of the world's true master.
He found himself constantly scanning the faces of his tribemates, a new, unsettling paranoia gnawing at him. Who among them was truly free of the deeper blight? Who was merely enduring, and who might already be subtly succumbing? The thought was a venomous whisper, one of the Mad God's more insidious gifts. He knew their methods, their rituals, their unyielding pragmatism. He had lived by them his entire life. But the knowledge the slate had given him, the glimpse into the architect's mind, had irrevocably altered his perspective. He saw their desperate struggle not as heroic resilience, but as a slow, inevitable march towards a fate they refused to acknowledge.
A low, guttural cough broke his internal reverie. It came from a makeshift shelter near the edge of the camp, one patched with salvaged canvas that rippled in the faint morning breeze. Kael turned, his gaze sharpening. It was Jin. The boy was no older than fifteen, thin and wiry, usually a quiet, almost shy presence within the boisterous, hardened tribe. Jin often helped with the children, sketching crude figures in the dust with a salvaged charcoal stick, a gentle soul in a brutal world. Kael had a soft spot for him, a rarity in his guarded existence.
Now, Jin sat cross-legged outside his shelter, his back to the pale sunlight, his eyes wide and vacant, staring up at the perpetually bruised hues of the Bleeding Sky. His lips moved soundlessly at first, then coalesced into a whisper, a strange, lilting melody that was not quite words, but certainly not natural sound. Kael felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. Jin had been grazed by a minor Tear during a prior scavenging run, weeks ago. The injury had been superficial, quickly healed. But the invisible taint, the insidious infection of the Lingering Corruption, had clearly taken root.
Jin's symptoms had been subtle at first: increased quietness, a tendency to wander near the edges of the camp, a curious fascination with the glowing crystalline growths that pockmarked the ruins. Now, it was undeniable. He began to speak in non-sequiturs, his voice a soft, almost blissful murmur. "The sky… it sings," he whispered, a beatific smile spreading across his face. "Such peace. The colors… they welcome us." He reached out a trembling hand, as if to grasp the fractured light of a distant Splinter impact.
Mara emerged from her own shelter, her face a mask of grim determination. Her eyes, usually scanning the horizon for external threats, were fixed on Jin with a chilling intensity. She watched him for a long moment, her jaw tight. Kael approached, a silent plea in his own gaze, but Mara's expression was unyielding. "He's succumbing," she stated, her voice devoid of emotion, hard as the shattered rock beneath their feet. There was no pity, only stark, brutal assessment. "The purification ritual. Tonight."
Kael's gut twisted into a knot of cold dread. He knew what purification meant. He had seen it before. It wasn't a cure. It was an abandonment, a forced exile into the most dangerous, Shard-Touched wastes, where the Madness would consume them completely, away from the collective. It was the Drifters' grim mercy, a desperate measure to prevent the contagion of madness from spreading through their ranks like a rampant plague. They couldn't afford to carry the afflicted, couldn't afford the risk. Jin's vacant, serene stare was a silent testament to the horror that awaited him.
Other Drifters, hearing Mara's pronouncement, began to move with a quiet, practiced efficiency. Two men, their faces etched with a familiar weariness, began gathering the tools for the ritual: thick ropes, lengths of scavenged canvas to bundle the boy, and a small, ceremonial knife, dulled with age, used not for cutting flesh but for severing ties. There was no argument, no dissent. This was the way. This was survival. The air grew heavy with unspoken grief and the chilling inevitability of the act. The rhythmic, low chanting of the tribe began to rise, a monotone lament, a final farewell to a soul already lost.
Kael's own internal anguish flared. He saw Jin not as a lost cause, but as a victim, utterly helpless against the insidious force that had stolen his mind. The Whispers in Kael's own mind intensified, fueled by his emotional distress, swirling with his own recent brush with the Mad God's triumph. They urged him to either join Jin in that blissful surrender, to find peace in oblivion, or to lash out in chaotic rage, to defy Mara and the tribe's brutal laws. He gripped the bronze slate instinctively, his hand shaking, feeling its faint counter-vibration against his palm, a tiny, defiant anchor in the raging storm of his emotions and the omnipresent, seductive madness. He looked at Jin, a fragile boy who deserved more than this cold, pragmatic end. A fierce, desperate resolve began to harden within Kael. There had to be another way. There had to be.