It was soft. Warm.
For a moment, he thought he was back in the dump, buried under the piles of cloth and filth. The cushion beneath him felt strange, too gentle. He lay still, afraid it would vanish if he moved.
When his eyes blinked open, the world swam into focus. Dim yellow light. Cracked stone walls. The faint smell of iron and burnt herbs.
Then he saw it.
A figure loomed above him.
His breath caught in his throat.
The figure's head was something out of a nightmare. A large, rusted metallic bucket, battered and weathered, covered in dents and scratches. Its shape was crude, like a cylinder forged by an unsteady hand. There were no eyes, no nose, no mouth, just a hollow, expressionless shell that radiated a cold, mechanical presence.
The metal surface was uneven, two ridges running around the cylinder's body, with small indents at the top and bottom rims. Faint orange light flickered from within, leaking through the dents, and the entire head seemed to hum with faint, crackling energy, alive in some twisted, arcane way.
The sight was so unnatural that Seventeen's muscles moved before he could think. He swung.
The figure's hand snapped up and caught his wrist mid-air.
"Is this how you treat your savior, boy?" said a playful voice from within the metal, distorted and echoing like someone speaking through water.
Stunned by the tone, Seventeen froze. The man didn't squeeze his wrist or strike back. When he let go, the boy slowly lowered his arm, still tense.
"Where am I?" Seventeen asked, his voice cautious.
The man didn't answer right away. He turned toward a shelf beside him and reached out, but his fingers stopped short. "Gimme a second, boy," he muttered, distracted.
He flicked his hand. The cabinet door rattled, then creaked open on its own.
Seventeen's eyes widened as the man gestured in the air, as if plucking something from it. "Ahh, here it is," the man mumbled, making a slight fist before pulling his hand back. A small glass bottle floated out of the shelf, filled with a thick green liquid.
The cabinet door swung shut on its own with a sharp click. The bottle drifted into the man's waiting hand.
"Drink or die," the man said, voice turning somber.
Still stunned by what he had just seen, Seventeen hesitated. But with the massive bucket-head leaning close, he decided not to test fate. He opened his mouth and let the cold, thick liquid pour in.
It hit his tongue like spoiled syrup, oily, bitter, and heavy. It clung to his mouth, coating everything, refusing to go down. Instinctively, he started to chew to break it down, but the moment he did, it only grew stickier, thicker, like wet clay hardening in his throat.
"What the hell are you doing, boy?" the man suddenly yelled, his tone jumping from lazy to alarmed. "You trying to kill yourself? I said drink, not chew! Swallow it or you really will die!"
The sudden panic in his voice made Seventeen choke in surprise. His throat constricted as he tried to swallow the mass, but it only clogged tighter.
"By the gods, what kind of child did they bring me this time?" the man muttered.
He lunged forward, pressing his hand against Seventeen's neck. The boy thrashed, panicked. His fists slammed into the man's torso, but each hit thudded uselessly against the metal shell.
Then a strange, cool sensation spread from the man's hand. The mixture in Seventeen's throat suddenly melted, sliding down like real liquid. He gasped, coughing violently as it finally went down.
The man pulled his hand away and let out a long sigh. "Ungrateful brat," he muttered. "First I heal you and you attack me. Then I give you a potion you can't even drink. You don't even use mana to help it down. Then you start choking, and when I come to save you, you try to hit me again. What a violent child."
Seventeen caught his breath, feeling the lingering coolness fade from his throat. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I misunderstood your intentions."
The bucket-headed man waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it. I was just messing with you."
He turned away, grumbling, and started putting his things away. One gloved hand sorted through jars and bottles, while the other lazily waved in the air, floating tools, cloth, and bottles back into place.
Seventeen stared.
His curiosity fought his hesitation until he finally asked, "Excuse me, Mister Bucket-Head? What is it that you're doing?"
The man froze mid-motion, slowly turning toward him. "Putting my stuff away?"
Seventeen shook his head. "No, I mean... your hand. And the bottle. How are you doing that?"
The bucket tilted slightly, as if raising an eyebrow. "Mana control?"
Seventeen blinked. "Yeah. How are you doing that?"
There was silence. Then the faint clinking of glass as everything the man held dropped to the floor.
He turned abruptly. "No. No, no, no, no."
He rushed toward Seventeen, prying his eyelids open despite the boy's struggle. "Hold still," he snapped.
Light sparked at his fingertips, casting a pale glow over the room. He studied Seventeen's eyes one by one with an intensity that made the boy's skin crawl.
Then the man went still. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Shit."
He pressed his palm flat against Seventeen's bare, scarred chest, right over his heart. A cool pulse spread from his hand, coursing through Seventeen's body. The boy flinched at first, but then felt the strange rhythm wash through him, like cold waves brushing against his insides.
After a few seconds, the man's hand began to tremble.
"He's... he's... manaless," he whispered. His tone cracked. "I'm dead. I'm so dead."
Seventeen watched the man tremble, his movements growing frantic. His stomach twisted. Was something wrong with him? Was he going to die? He didn't want to die. Not now. Not after he'd sworn to make the world remember his name, when he finally got one, at least.
So he spoke up, voice shaking. "Am... am I gonna die?"
The man didn't answer. He staggered back, whispering to himself. "No... no, no, no. This isn't right. This isn't." He pressed both hands against his helmet. The faint hum inside grew louder, stuttering like a broken heart.
"They'll see the readings," he muttered. "They'll ask why it dipped. They'll check the logs, the blood, the pulse. Then they'll come here."
"What are you talking about?"
He didn't respond. He started pacing in sharp, erratic steps. "They'll purify me. That's what they'll do. Burn the sin out. That's what they always say. Purify the unclean. Cleanse the touch. Idiot, idiot, idiot, I touched him."
He stopped mid-step. The air turned thick.
Then he turned to Seventeen.
For a long moment, he just stared.
Then, almost too quietly, he whispered, "If you weren't here, they'd never know."
Seventeen's pulse spiked. Something heavy pressed on his chest. The man's hand twitched toward his belt, then stopped.
He let out a long breath and slumped into a chair.
"No. Can't. Missing fighter. Missing body. Questions. Always questions." He let out a short, broken laugh. "They'd burn me anyway."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, muttering. "Maybe I can fake the readings. Maybe he's stable. Maybe... maybe it won't show."
His hand shook as he reached for a quill, then dropped it. "No. They'll know. They always know."
Feeling a mix of fear and frustration at seeing the man unravel, Seventeen finally spoke. "Wha—"
"QUIET!!" the man roared, the word cracking through the air like a whip.
The boy froze.
Only the sound of metal tapping wood followed, the rhythmic, hollow tap of the man's fingers drumming against his helmet.
Finally, he whispered, "Just sit still. Don't move. Don't talk. Don't breathe too loud."
He turned his back, voice low and frantic. "Maybe I can fix this before morning."
The man began pacing again, muttering under his breath as he moved from shelf to shelf. He yanked drawers open and scattered tools across the table, pulling out vials, glass tubes, and cracked rune stones. Each one pulsed faintly with dim light. He arranged them in hurried patterns, sketching symbols into the dust with trembling fingers.
Seventeen watched in silence. The man's words spilled out like a broken prayer. "If I can fake the trace... reroute the flow... suppress the reading... maybe the collectors won't notice. Maybe."
Sparks flickered over the table as the rune stones glowed. A low hum filled the room, the air growing heavy with a metallic scent.
Seventeen gripped the edge of the bed. The bucket-headed man was working desperately, but it didn't look like healing anymore. It looked like survival.
Then a sound cut through the hum.
A soft chime. Distant, hollow, almost delicate, like a bell underwater.
The man froze. The light from the runes wavered, trembling across the walls.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then the man whispered, "No... not now." His voice trembled. "The collectors. They're scanning early."
The bell rang again, closer this time. The hum of the runes faltered, then began to pulse in rhythm with the sound.
The man's hands hovered above the table, fingers twitching in panic as sparks flared between his palms.
The sound came again. Louder.
Then again.
Each chime crawled beneath the skin, shaking the air, rattling the bottles on the shelves.
The bucket-headed man looked toward the door, the glow inside his helmet flickering like a dying flame.
Outside, the ringing grew heavier, faster, a chorus of bells echoing through the streets.
The collectors were coming.