"You are the villains!"
When those words left his mouth, it felt like a clap of thunder in Talulah's ears. She couldn't fathom why this man would trust the people who harmed him while spitting venom at those trying to save him.
"There's no point in trying to communicate with him right now," Jeanne sighed, looking at the Stockholm Syndrome victim with pity. "Let's wait for the other guys to spill it first."
"You think they'll leak secrets that easily?" Talulah asked, her skepticism clear. "They're Ursus soldiers. Even if the Patrols are universally hated, they're still military men on paper."
"Trust me, these guys have no backbone. People who do what they do aren't the type to embrace death for a cause. If I hadn't shut that door earlier, they probably would have started talking then."
Jeanne was right. The moment she opened the door fifteen minutes later, the Patrols scrambled to prove their willingness to cooperate, begging only to be let back inside. Their lips were frozen shut; in their desperation to speak, they ripped them open, blood flowing freely down their chins, yet they didn't even seem to feel the pain.
Once dragged back to the warmth of the fire, the soldiers began to thaw. They looked at the flames with longing, some even glancing at the remaining vodka to stave off the chill.
"Talk," Jeanne said, her voice wearing a pleasant but terrifying smile. "Tell us everything you know, or my friend here might decide to turn you into charcoal."
Beside her, Talulah played the part perfectly, her expression fierce as she summoned a swirl of flame that singed the air around the prisoners.
Terrified, the men began to stammer out the truth. The story began with a private mine owner whose output had been dwindling. After paying his workers, he was barely breaking even. Unlike the state-run mines, he didn't have a steady supply of "free" Infected labor provided by the government. So, he turned his sights on remote, defenseless villages.
He struck a deal with a Patrol Captain. The Captain had a specific asset: an Infected man with a unique Originium Art that made people relax their guard. Using his acting skills, this man would play the part of a refugee seeking help, easily gaining the sympathy of kind-hearted villagers.
This collaborator had been a runaway who ended up at the mine. They offered him a deal: if he cooperated, he wouldn't have to work in the pits and would receive "special treatment."
The plan was simple: he would hide in a village for a while. Then, a squad of twenty Patrols would arrive under the guise of an "Infected sweep." They would "find" him, declare the entire village complicit in hiding a criminal, and arrest everyone. The villagers were then sold to the private mine in exchange for cash, cigarettes, high-quality vodka, and meat—rare treasures on the tundra.
As for the official records? The Captain simply reported that the villagers had incited a riot during a search and had been "executed."
This "fishing" operation was a well-oiled machine. Four villages had already fallen. They were on their way to the fifth, Karlo Village, when the blizzard stopped them.
"What about the mine's defenses? How many guards? What's the weapon distribution? Speak!"
Talulah struggled to contain her fury. She wanted to incinerate them right then and there. She hadn't imagined people could be so depraved—to systematically destroy lives for a few bottles of vodka and some meat.
The collaborator, "152," showed her a side of the Infected she had never seen. The people she helped in the cities were struggling to survive, but they weren't predators using others' compassion as a weapon.
What has happened to Ursus? she thought. Why does it treat its own people this way? When even kindness is turned into a death sentence, how is anyone supposed to survive?
The priority now was saving the villagers. Talulah couldn't bear to think of how many were currently dying in those pits.
"There aren't many guards," the leader stammered. "The owner is a cheapskate. He won't buy proper weapons. There are only two heavy crossbows salvaged from an old camp, and they only have ten bolts between them. The bows are glitchy, too..."
"The management is mostly just local thugs from nearby towns. Their boss sent them to please our Captain. They're just bullies; there are very few elites. They wouldn't be a match for... for people like you."
Talulah listened intently, unaware that "152" had regained consciousness behind her. He had a key hidden on him—the Patrols had grown so used to his obedience that they let him keep it so he wouldn't have to wake them to use the latrine.
He quietly picked up a military knife dropped on the floor, intending to take Alina hostage to force the other two to let him go. But before he could strike, a whip-like kick slammed into his stomach. The force sent him collapsing to the floor, retching and unable to breathe.
Talulah spun around, seeing the man clutching the knife and the ground, and realized his intent. For the first time, she felt he was truly beyond saving. He had the chance for a new life, the chance to walk away, yet he chose to remain a dog for those who shackled him.
As Talulah raised her sword to strike him down, Jeanne's hand caught her wrist.
"What are you doing, Jeanne?!" Talulah's voice was sharp with controlled rage. "He tried to hurt Alina! Why are you stopping me?"
"Calm down, Talulah," Alina said, stepping forward and embracing her friend. "Don't let hatred take the wheel. Jeanne must have a reason. Just listen to her."
Alina knew Talulah was lashing out partly because she was angry at herself for not noticing the threat sooner. She looked at Jeanne, waiting for the Saint's explanation.