The sun bled out across the horizon, painting the obsidian landscape in hues of bruised purple and dying orange. The oppressive heat of the day gave way to the biting cold of the Expanse night. A heavy solemnity had fallen over the scavenger camp. The central fire, usually a place of gruff camaraderie, was now a silent vigil.
Fenn lay in his tent, his breaths shallow, wheezing things. He was no longer delirious; a final, lucid calm had settled over him as his body began its shutdown. Elara had done all she could. Now, she sat by the fire with the other women, her face a mask of grim acceptance.
Borin stood before the tent's flap, his massive frame silhouetted against the firelight. He turned to Kaelen, who stood waiting patiently in the shadows.
"It's time," Borin said, his voice low. He handed Kaelen a small, flickering oil lamp. "Go on. The rest of us will wait here. No one should have to die alone, but no one needs an audience, neither."
Kaelen took the lamp. Its light cast long, dancing shadows across his impassive face. He gave a single, respectful nod to Borin and slipped through the hide flap into the tent.
The air inside was thick with the smell of sickness and sweat. Fenn lay on a pile of furs, his eyes open and fixed on the tent's ceiling. He turned his head slowly as Kaelen entered, a flicker of recognition in his fever-bright gaze.
"The whelp…" Fenn rasped, a faint, rattling laugh escaping his lips. "They send a boy to do a man's work."
Kaelen placed the lamp on a small crate beside the furs. He knelt down, his movements unhurried. He did not look at Fenn as a person. He looked at him as a task. The Index was a cool whisper in his mind: Designation: Human. Name: Fenn. Threat Assessment: Negligible (Compromised). Essence Yield: Cracked. A low-grade component, but a necessary one.
"Borin thought it should be someone who respects the hunt," Kaelen said, his voice a soft, even tone. It was a lie, but it was the kind of lie the dying wanted to hear.
Fenn's eyes seemed to clear a little. "A good death… better than the fever dreams…" He coughed, a wet, ragged sound that shook his frail body. "Make it quick, boy. Straight through the heart. Don't hesitate."
"I won't," Kaelen promised.
He drew his skinning knife. The blade was dull, its edge worn from use, but it would be sufficient. He leaned over Fenn, one hand resting gently on the man's shoulder in a feigned gesture of comfort. He positioned the tip of the knife over the man's chest.
He paused. This was a critical moment, a new form of data acquisition. He had never harvested a human shard before, other than his mother's, which had been an unconscious catalyst. He wanted to observe the entire process. He needed to understand the quality of the essence, the feel of the psychic feedback.
Fenn, misinterpreting the pause as youthful hesitation, gave a weak, encouraging nod. "It's alright, boy. Do it."
Kaelen plunged the knife down. He didn't aim for the heart. That was a messy, inefficient target, prone to being blocked by the sternum. He drove the blade deep into the soft tissue just below the ribcage, angling it sharply upward. It was a butcher's cut, designed to sever major arteries and induce rapid, massive internal bleeding.
Fenn's eyes flew wide with a final, shocking burst of agony. A strangled gasp was the only sound he made. His body convulsed once, a violent, arching spasm, and then fell limp. The light in his eyes vanished, replaced by the flat, glassy stare of the dead.
Kaelen watched, his focus absolute.
A spectral shard bloomed from Fenn's chest. It was, as the Index predicted, Cracked. It was a dull, grey thing, larger than his mother's but equally lackluster, filled with flaws and shaped like a jagged piece of broken flint. It pulsed with a faint, sorrowful light, tinged with the psychic residue of a life cut short by weakness and despair.
He felt no remorse. He felt no thrill. This was not a hunt; it was an errand. He focused his will and pulled.
The Cracked shard dissolved and flowed into him. The energy was weak, a mere trickle compared to the fiery rush of the Crawlers' Impure shards. It carried with it a wash of Fenn's final emotions: not rage or defiance, but a profound weariness, a deep-seated regret, and an overwhelming sense of failure. Kaelen's mind, the cold, empty void, received these emotions as a stone receives rain. It observed them, categorized them, and remained utterly untouched by them.
The most important thing was the notification that followed.
Sapient Essence harvested. Void Corpus stability timer has been reset.
The 26-day clock vanished. The immediate threat to his own vitality was gone.
He withdrew his knife, wiped it clean on a spare piece of hide, and stood. The task was complete. He took a moment to compose his features, letting the mask of a grim, resolved youth settle back into place. He would need to look shaken, but not broken. He would need to look like a boy who had been forced to carry a heavy burden.
He exited the tent. The scavengers around the fire looked up, their faces etched with a somber curiosity. Borin stepped forward, his expression unreadable in the flickering light.
"It is done," Kaelen said, his voice deliberately low and heavy. "He did not suffer."
Borin placed a massive hand on Kaelen's shoulder and squeezed, a rare gesture of approval. "You did well, boy. You have a strong stomach. Stronger than most."
Kaelen simply nodded, playing his part. The camp fell into a deeper silence, the air thick with mourning. It was the perfect cover. No one paid him any mind as he retreated to the edge of the camp, finding his usual spot in the shadows. No one noticed the cold, calculating look that replaced his feigned grief.
His gaze drifted to Borin's tent. The larger, more valuable target.
The hunt was not over. This was merely the appetizer. The main course would be served later tonight, when the camp was asleep, lost in their misplaced sorrow. He would allow a few hours to pass for the sake of appearances. In the meantime, he analyzed the new data. Killing a human was functionally no different from killing a beast, merely a different quality of shard and psychic feedback. The reset of the timer was the critical reward. It bought him freedom. It bought him time to plan more ambitious hunts.
His gaze swept over the entire camp, no longer as a temporary refuge, but as a pool of resources. A collection of potential shards, each with a threat level and a yield. Elara. Loric. The other women and children. They were all entries in a ledger, waiting for their names to be called. His psychopathy, fueled by the fresh essence, did not feel like a curse or a disease. It felt like clarity. It was a lens that allowed him to see the world for what it truly was: a hierarchy of predators and prey. And he had no intention of ever being prey again.
[STATUS UPDATE]
Current Realm: 1st - Crucible Foundation (Phase 1)
Void Corpus Stability Timer: Reset (27 Days Remaining)