They had been walking in silence for a while, the ruins stretching out like broken teeth against the stone ceiling. They'd left the scavenger behind; he wasn't a threat anymore, just a broken shell of a man wailing in the dirt, clutching the portable version of his "sister" to his chest.
Tuka felt a twinge of guilt for calling her a bitch. Just a small one. He'd never been the type to insult the dead, even the ones who tried to gut him.
He stole a glance at the old man. He'd known he was strong, but he didn't expect that grandfatherly face to hide a streak of pure, unadulterated sadism. Yet, strangely, the bone-deep terror he expected to feel wasn't there. The man was a monster, sure, but he was his monster for now.
"Something on your mind, kid? Stop staring. I don't swing that way, no matter how pretty your face is," the old man remarked without looking back. He was busy with a new hobby: picking up stones and sniping the remaining roof tiles off the ruined buildings they passed.
"I don't swing that way either, Mister," Tuka replied, injecting a sudden, sharp layer of formal politeness into his voice. The old man's face crinkled in immediate disgust.
"Ugh, what's with the 'Mister' crap? I thought we were friends. We even shared a lady back there!"
Tuka nearly tripped over a stray brick. "You perverted old ghoul! Watch how you word things!"
The old man doubled over, a wheezing, barking laugh erupting from his chest as he clutched his stomach.
"That expression! Ha! This is why I like having you around, Tuka," he gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. "Haaah… man, it must be rough being a virgin. Everything's so serious, eh?"
The word hit Tuka like a physical blow to the gut. His face went hot, and he gripped his iron pole so hard his knuckles popped—
Krak.
Something shifted nearby, skulking in the darkness. The old man grinned, he picked a stone the size of his fist and threw it to a shattered wall several meters across them .
Crash.
"Kkuaghh!"
A pained yelp erupted from the darkness. Two figures scrambled out from the rubble, hands raised. It was the scrawny guys from the carriage—the ones who'd bolted at the gate.
"W-wait! We aren't enemies!" one shouted.
"We just wanted to talk!" the other added, backing away as the old man picked up an even larger stone.
"Hey, Tuka. It's your friend," the old man said happily, bouncing the rock in his palm.
"Yeah yeah," Tuka muttered lazily.
He squinted, his eyes couldn't see well in this darkness. The braziers lit the path in fragments, but it's like trying to light a cave with matchsticks. He saw their face was bloodied and bruised, either from the crash or getting beaten from the guard before.
"So, what do you want to talk about?"
The old man asked them. His tone felt different from how he talked with Tuka.
"We were thinking of cooperating with you sir"
"We are scout from Qasratar, we will be useful in exploring this place"
The scouts raised their hands, showing a sigil with a shape of a twin dagger.
The Free City—Qasratar. A city in the desert with scorching sun throughout the year, headquarters of many Asura Guilds.
The scouts explained that they had been finding a place to rest and stumbled upon them coincidentally. Honestly Tuka felt pity seeing their battered body but his mind tells him these guys might bring trouble. Well, all Asura always bring trouble to be honest.
"What do you want in return then?"
"Just keep each other back for a while, at least until we found out what kind of place this was"
The old man scrutinize their appearance briefly then he look at Tuka and asked:
"What do you think, Tuka?"
Tuka was caught off guard. He wasn't a leader; he was a follower. But he looked at the scouts, then at his own golden sword sigil.
The more the better right? He thought. And in case they turn out to be a problem, I will leave it to the old man.
"If you're okay with it, I'm okay with it," Tuka said, shifting the responsibility back.
The scouts beamed. The old man dropped the stones and said:
"Very well. Let's cooperate for a while."
The scouts smiled so wide as if Christmas had come. They approached them, offering a handshake. It might be just Tuka's imagination but he felt like their gaze lingered on the old man sigil for a bit too long.
"Let's check around that area," the old man said, releasing a hand.
The scouts nodded and took the lead. They moved with an eerie silence, leaping over debris like mountain cats. Tuka followed, his hand tightening on the rusty iron pole. He'd lived his life herding sheep, but as he watched the scouts' quiet movements, he realized the roles had flipped. He needed to be careful of being led somewhere dangerous.
The group drifted deeper into the ruins. A hundred meters ahead, they turned into a narrow path between two large tents, the scouts slowed, one of them raised his hand and proceeded stealthily.
Tuka followed, matching their pace. His heart was racing in his chest.
Whoosh.
A towering bonfire erupted into view, painting the stone in violent oranges and deep, dancing blacks. It wasn't just a campsite. It was a war-room.
Faces began to emerge from the flickering light—pale and watchful. Some sized them up with lazy curiosity. Others with the hollow calculation of predators touching the hilt of their weapons. The scouts kept walking, raising their hands slowly stating their purposes.
Tuka froze. A restless chattering drifted through the camp, like the sound of rats in a wall.
"New arrivals, huh?"
"An old man and a kid now, what a sick world."
Tuka's stomach did a slow, sick flip. What is it this time? He looked them over, eyes narrowed. They looked too "proper," too polished for this filth. But Tuka knew better—the ones who looked the cleanest usually had the sharpest knives.
He found solace in his iron pole, his palms were sweaty, but his grip was iron. He'd already bled enough for one lifetime; if they wanted more, they'd have to come take it through his teeth.
The old man flicked a hand behind him. stay still.
Tuka scanned the crowd. Dozens of them. They were dressed in various clothes and armor, some with robes, some with light leather armor, some heavier ones with chainmail or plate armor.
The scout with short hair came back running to them and said:
"I talked with the leader," the short-haired scout whispered, returning with a frantic energy. "He says they're fine with us passing through... or staying. He didn't seem to care."
The scout paused, his eyes darting to the old man. "If you're worried, sir... maybe you should talk to him yourself?"
The old man waved his hand and said:
"No," the old man waved a hand, his smile never wavering. "Let's just go together."
They walked slowly. The people sitting encircling the bonfire paid them no attention as they passed.
They approached the center of the circle. Sitting there was a man who made the guard captain look like a recruit. He wore a dark tunic that strained against slab-like muscles, his hair cropped roguishly short—military-stiff.
The scout with shoulder-length hair seemed to be talking with him until he noticed us. He stood up and introduced them.
"You can call me Boss."
The man said lazily–clearly looking down on them. He didn't even bother to stand as they introduced themselves. Tuka glanced at his iron pole. He was good at spitting face earlier, maybe he could level it up to beating a head now.
"I am Tuka."
"Well, you can call me Old Man then"
The old man added his own piece of sarcasm. The scouts turned pale. The air in the camp grew heavy, the fire's crackle sounding like breaking bone. The boss stood up slowly, looming over the old man.
Silence.
HAHAHA! The Boss roared with laughter, slamming a heavy hand onto the old man's shoulder.
"I think I like you!"
"I think we'll get along just fine," the old man chuckled back.
Tuka let out a breath he didn't know he was holding; can't expect the bomb to fuse like that.
The Boss's men brought chairs, encircling the fire. They sat. The conversation turned to the world outside, the date—March 13th—and the grim reality of the pit they were in.
"It's March 13th, year 151 of the Aetherian calendar."
"So, I was just missing the 4 days calculation."
The boss talks to himself while stroking his chin.
Tuka had many things to ask but he decided to just listen as they continued, he could gain more by listening than talking right now. The scout was probing softly as to not offend the boss, it takes time but finally they continued the conversation to larger topics.
The boss and his group—as he called it—were resting here after an exploration.
He explained that Angkara was made on top of a dungeon labyrinth with dozens of tunnels leading to an open land like here. They are currently on the First layer, the only layer uninfested with monsters. The inmates cooperate with each other, creating a group of their own exploring the dungeon for food, equipment and—Sura.
It's a dog-eat-dog world, Tuka realized. But here, the dogs carry daggers.
The boss said there was no fixed settlement or something like that, the people here were too busy killing each other for resources, the only time they would unite was when a monster horde invaded. The scouts and the old man nodded as they listened.
So, killing each other was normal for you guys huh? Tuka leveled a flat, emotionless stare at them. Fucking violent Asura world. And cursing feels natural to him now, nice.
"Why don't you help us for the next exploration?" The boss asked them. "In return, I will give you food, water and protection."
"Can't you just give me Sura instead?."
The old man asked with a smile on his face.
"Woaa—take it easy old guy, help us for a while and I will consider it in a positive way."
The boss said, he glanced at the old man's sigil and continued:
"They stripped you bare, I know the feeling, I was once too but—
"Rest assured, the place was infested with monsters, slain a hundred or so, and if you're lucky you might reawaken sooner than you thought."
The scouts seemed thrilled at the prospect of banding together and regaining their sura, their bruised face plastered with a smile; Christmas truly had come earlier for them. The old man, still smiling, asked when the next exploration was.
Hm? For the first time since Tuka met him, the old man's smile came a fraction too late. It might just be his imagination but Tuka felt he seemed to be in a rush after the conversation about sura emerged.
"We will move in 3 hours—and since you've decided to help, let's have a meal first!"
Tuka pushed aside his suspicion.
He was elated hearing about having a meal, he hadn't eaten for two days. But the thought of having to fight a monster was making him anxious, they must be thinking that he was a full fledged Asura because of the sigil on his hand.
Should he explain that he absorbed it coincidentally?
Also there was something that kept bugging his mind: What is it with being stripped of power? First the captain and now the boss also said the same thing.
He wanted to ask them but was still wary of everyone, especially the scouts and there was no way he could ask the newly acquainted boss too. Tuka glanced at the old man; maybe he can ask him later.
The boss ordered his men to prepare the food. The camp exploded into motion. Men carved meat from a massive, unrecognizable carcass. A woman hauled a cauldron over the flames. The smell of cooking fat began to mask the scent of rot.
The scouts offered to help but The boss refused.
"You guys just stay here and rest, the food should be done soon. I need to discuss something with my men."
The boss stood up and left. His steel greaves clinked as he moved to one of the larger tents.
"I need to take a piss," the short-haired scout muttered, excusing himself.
"I'll check the perimeter," the other added, vanishing into the shadows.
Suddenly, it was just Tuka and the old man sitting by the roaring fire. They had been talking normally before, but the old man's expression had changed drastically after the sura's conversation. And somehow he finds it hard to approach him now. The silence between them felt heavier than the stone ceiling above.
Damn, Tuka thought, staring into the flames. This is awkward.