Part 15: Solon's Inquiry
The flickering holographic sign of "The Rusty Mug" cast a sickly green glow onto the grimy alleyway. Inside, the bar was a cacophony of scraping chairs, guttural laughter, and the clinking of salvaged glass. This was a typical haunt for the city's "scavengers"—hardened adventurers, petty pirates, and desperate bounty hunters, all scraping a living in the treacherous ruins of 2085.
The heavy, groaning door creaked open, silencing the room. Every head swiveled. A figure stepped into the dim light, and a ripple of unease spread through the bar. He was a blind boy, no older than Black, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. His eyes, though clear, were unfocused, staring into nothing. But it wasn't his blindness that commanded attention. It was the enormous, wickedly curved giant sword strapped to his back, its hilt wrapped in tattered, blood-stained cloth. His clothes, dark and patched, seemed to cling to a frame that was unnervingly slender, yet held an aura of coiled power. He looked, quite literally, like an assassin who had just walked out of hell itself.
He moved with an unnerving grace, his movements precise, almost supernatural, as if he saw everything despite his sightless eyes. The scavengers, usually quick to mock or threaten, watched him with a wary silence. This boy carried the weight of a hundred battles in his bearing.
He stopped before the bar, its surface sticky with spilled synth-ale. The bar-person, a burly woman with a scarred face and an air of weary cynicism, wiped down a mug with a stained rag.
"Excuse me," the boy's voice was a soft, almost melodic whisper, a stark contrast to his fearsome appearance. "I apologize for the intrusion. I merely seek information." He reached into a pouch at his waist and gently placed a small, intricately carved medallion onto the counter. It was made of dark, polished metal, etched with symbols that seemed to writhe and shift in the dim light. "Could you identify this trinket for me? Perhaps tell me of its… guardian?"
The bar-person glanced at the medallion. Her eyes, hardened by years of surviving the apocalypse, suddenly widened. The rag fell from her hand. A guttural gasp escaped her lips, quickly turning into a fearful shout.
"GET OUT! NOW!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the boy. "Get that… that THING out of my bar!"
The sudden outburst shattered the uneasy quiet. Every scavenger in the bar, their faces contorting from suspicion to outright hostility, rose from their seats. The clatter of chairs, the metallic whisper of drawn blades, the mechanical hum of powered weapons – it was a symphony of impending violence. These were hardened killers, and something about that medallion, or perhaps the boy himself, had struck a nerve.
"Easy, kid," growled a towering scavenger, his arm a crude hydraulic prosthetic ending in a wicked hook. "You just stumbled into the wrong damn place with that… that cursed thing."
The blind boy remained perfectly still, his head cocked slightly, as if listening to the subtle shifts in the air. "I beg of you," he pleaded, his soft voice tinged with genuine regret. "There is no need for violence. I seek only answers. I will compensate you handsomely." He took a small step back, his hand rising in a placating gesture. "Please, a peaceful retreat."
"Peaceful?" roared another scavenger, a woman with a cybernetic eye that glowed red. "You brought a damn death omen into our home! Kill him!"
The scavengers surged forward, a tidal wave of desperate fury. Their weapons glinted in the dim light – jagged blades, crude energy pistols, makeshift blunt instruments. They moved as one, aiming to overwhelm the slender, blind boy.
Then, he moved.
It was not a movement of flesh and bone, but of shadow and wind. He didn't just move; he unleashed. The giant sword, seemingly too heavy for his frame, became an extension of his will, a terrifying blur.
His speed was incredible, blurring the line between perception and reality. He was a phantom, weaving through the incoming attacks with impossible agility. Blades swished through empty air where he had been a millisecond before. He was a whisper of motion, an afterimage of death.
His brutality was absolute. He didn't parry; he dismembered. The giant sword, with a sickeningly wet thud, cleaved through the hydraulic arm of the first attacker, sending the hook clattering to the floor. A spray of coolant erupted. Before the scavenger could even scream, the blade spun, a flash of steel, and the man dropped, his throat slit with surgical precision.
His thirst for blood was palpable, a chilling aura that radiated from him. He moved with a cold, almost surgical efficiency. A scavenger lunged with a bladed pipe; Solon dipped, twisted, and the sword, with a guttural ripping sound, tore through the man's midsection, his organs spilling onto the grimy floor. He didn't waste a single movement. A woman with a pistol found herself disarmed in an instant, her fingers severed before she could even register the pain. Then, with a chillingly elegant turn, the giant sword found her neck.
The bar, moments ago a boisterous hub of life, became a slaughterhouse. Screams were cut short. The clang of metal against bone, the squelch of flesh, the wet thud of falling bodies – it was a macabre symphony. Within what felt like mere seconds, every scavenger lay dead, their bodies twisted into grotesque forms, a bloody testament to the blind boy's terrifying power. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the acrid smell of fear.
He stood amidst the carnage, utterly still, his breathing calm, his sword resting on the ground, its tip coated in a crimson sheen. Not a drop of blood marred his own clothes. He turned his sightless gaze back to the bar-person, who was now cowering behind the counter, her face ashen, trembling uncontrollably.
"My name is Solon," he stated, his voice still soft, but now infused with a chilling authority that made the very air vibrate. "Descendant of the Blind Sage. The Prince of the Old Hell. Killer of all, and none." He paused, letting the words hang in the blood-soaked silence. "I ask of you, one last time." His voice dropped to a near whisper, deadly calm. "Tell me the name of the guardian of the medallion."
The bar-person, tears streaming down her face, stammered, terrified. "The… the medallion… they call it the Guardian's Key! Rumors… rumors say its guardians were… a group of kids. They ran off with… with the Black Zombie! Into… into the Dead Land!" Her voice cracked with genuine fear. "They said no one ever comes back from there! They're gone! No one's heard from them… until now… until the recent deaths of the two elite bounty hunters who chased them!" Sheena and Ormazd. The implication hung heavy in the air.
Solon's head tilted. The Dead Land. The Black Zombie. Two elite bounty hunters. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. The trail, long cold, had just been reignited. And it led directly into the heart of the most dangerous place on earth.