The third night in Backlund brought a cold that felt like a physical weight. Victor huddled in the hollow of a collapsed brick wall, somewhere on the border of East Borough and the docklands. His Intis coat, once a masterpiece of tailoring, was now a stiff, blackened husk. He had spent the day wandering the muddy streets, his mind a battlefield between the primal instincts of the Hunter potion and the fading dignity of Victor Sauron.
His stomach wasn't just empty; it was a vacuum. The potion was demanding fuel to finalize the repairs on his body, and without it, he felt his very muscles being repurposed as kindling for his life-fire.
I am a scavenger, Victor thought, his blue eyes—shining with an unnatural, cold intensity through the grime—watching the entrance of a third-rate soup kitchen. But even a scavenger needs a strategy.
The line for the soup kitchen was a hundred men deep, a collection of broken spirits waiting for a bowl of gray water. Victor knew he couldn't wait. He didn't have the stamina to stand for two hours in the freezing rain, and more importantly, he didn't want to be caught in the middle of the inevitable brawl that broke out every time the soup ran dry.
He stood up, his joints popping like dry twigs. He didn't head for the line. Instead, he moved toward a small, grease-slicked alleyway behind a nearby tavern called The Iron Anchor.
His Hunter senses, still raw and unrefined, caught the scent of rancid fat and cheap ale. He saw two men in green caps—members of a local street gang—leaning against a crate, smoking pipes. They were guarding the tavern's back entrance, where the "waste" was disposed of.
Victor didn't hide. He walked directly toward them, adopting the gait of a man who was exhausted but still held a remnant of authority. He didn't look like a beggar; he looked like a man who was lost, but dangerous.
"Move along, dandy," one of the thugs grunted, his hand resting on a heavy wooden club. "This isn't a ballroom."
Victor didn't flinch. He channeled the cold, analytical part of his mind—the part that looked for the "opening" in a conversation rather than a fight.
"You're missing a crate," Victor said, his voice a low, steady baritone that carried the ghost of an Intis accent.
The two thugs blinked, looking at each other. "What are you talking about?"
"The delivery from the distillery. Ten minutes ago," Victor lied smoothly, his eyes scanning the alley for any detail he could exploit. He noticed a few broken glass bottles near the door. "The delivery boy didn't bring in twelve crates. He brought eleven and a half. He left the other half-crate of gin bottles in the mud three blocks down, covered by a tarp. He's planning to come back for it after his shift."
It was a complete fabrication, but it was built on the fundamental truth of East Borough: everyone was stealing from everyone.
The thugs' eyes widened. A half-crate of gin was worth more than their week's "protection" money.
"If I'm wrong, I'm just a starving man who lost his mind," Victor continued, leaning slightly against the wall for support. "But if I'm right, your boss will wonder why you let a delivery boy play you for fools. Check the alley near the pumping station. The one with the red door."
The two men shared a greedy glance. One of them pointed a finger at Victor. "Stay here. If we find nothing, I'll use your ribs for firewood."
They ran off into the fog.
Victor didn't stay. The moment they turned the corner, he slipped into the tavern's back door. He didn't go for the till; he went for the kitchen. He found a bucket of "rejections"—the scraps of bread, gristle, and bruised vegetables meant for the pigs.
He didn't eat it there. He grabbed a handful, stuffed it into his newspaper-wrapped bundle, and vanished back into the fog.
Ten minutes later, Victor was back in his hollow wall, chewing on a piece of hard crust that tasted of salt and old grease. It was the most satisfying meal of his life.
The Hunter isn't the strongest beast in the forest, Victor mused, his breathing finally leveling out as the calories hit his system. He is the one who understands how the other beasts think. He is the one who finds the gap between greed and caution.
He had avoided a fight. He had avoided the line. He had used his tongue to "hunt" his dinner.
As he lay back, he felt the bronze medal in his pocket. It remained cold, silent, and heavy. There was no vibration. No call. Just the weight of a relic that he wasn't yet ready to understand.
He was still a homeless man in a ruined coat. He was still sleeping in a pile of bricks. But for the first time, he felt a spark of genuine confidence. He wasn't just surviving; he was learning the mechanics of the sludge.
I am not just Victor Sauron anymore, he thought as sleep began to pull at him. I am the Scavenger. And the hunt has only just begun.