Hours earlier—
After parting from the group, Marco did not return to the workshop.
He wandered.
Not aimlessly.
Deliberately slow.
He walked through the sanctuary like a man memorizing exits.
His heavy boots echoed against reinforced steel walkways. Dim industrial lights flickered overhead. People moved around him carefully — not fearful, but instinctively aware of his presence.
He observed everything worth remembering.
Guard rotations.
Weapon stockpiles.
Children playing near barricaded corridors.
Leaders speaking in hushed tones.
Weak ones pretending to be strong.
Strong ones pretending to be weak.
Years in the wasteland had sharpened his instincts beyond guesswork. He could tell, almost immediately, who had commanded armies before the fall… and who had merely survived under someone else's shadow.
That was when he saw her.
Far across the central plaza.
A woman standing alone near a fractured fountain reclaimed by creeping metal vines.
She wore a black blindfold — not decorative, not dramatic — but precise. It sat cleanly across her eyes, tied with deliberate symmetry. Her clothes were simple but intentional: dark layered fabric fitted close to the body for movement, reinforced at the elbows and knees. Not clean enough to suggest comfort.
Not dirty enough to suggest carelessness.
Her boots were polished by use, not neglect.
Her posture was relaxed.
Too relaxed.
The kind of stillness that comes from knowing exactly where every threat is.
Even from a distance, Marco felt it.
Strength.
Measured.
Controlled.
Not quite at his level.
But at least Steven's.
Maybe higher.
The air around her didn't shift violently like warriors often did.
It sharpened.
Like a blade resting inside its sheath.
She wasn't decoration.
She was position.
Higher-up, most likely.
He studied her a few seconds longer.
Then looked away.
As long as she didn't interfere with him, he had no interest in interfering with her.
Politics bored him.
Hierarchy irritated him.
He preferred engines.
Metal made sense.
People did not.
After making his rounds, he headed toward the sanctuary gates.
He never liked prolonged interaction.
Steven handled diplomacy.
Brant handled people.
Marco handled problems.
When forced into conversation he considered "bothersome," irritation surfaced quickly — and irritation, in him, often escalated into violence.
The wasteland was simpler.
Out there, things either tried to kill you…
Or died.
He preferred that clarity.
Outside the sanctuary walls, polluted wind brushed against his skin. The horizon shimmered under toxic haze.
He walked for a while.
Then sighed.
Too slow.
With a slight twitch of thought, the mechanisms inside his boots responded. Panels beneath the soles unfolded and extended downward, assembling into tightly coiled, spring-like constructs made of reinforced alloy.
He crouched slightly.
Energy accumulated.
Then—
He launched.
The ground shattered beneath him as compressed force released, propelling him forward in a long, arcing trajectory across broken terrain.
He landed kilometers away.
Repeated.
Again.
Again.
Each jump carrying him farther into the wasteland's skeletal ruins.
Movement without conversation.
Peace.
He encountered a few weakened abominations along the way.
Malformed torsos dragging themselves across rubble.
Split-jawed crawlers hunting scraps.
He eliminated them without slowing down.
No wasted motion.
No emotion.
Metal crushed bone.
A short burst of kinetic discharge here.
A clean decapitation there.
Routine.
Then—
A distant explosion tore through the horizon.
Marco paused mid-step.
He turned his head slightly.
He wasn't curious.
He was bored.
So he changed direction.
When he arrived, the battle was already underway.
An armored figure clashed violently with a laser-wielding abomination.
He watched from a distant elevated ruin.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
That armor—
He had built it.
Two… maybe three years ago.
The memory was vague, but he remembered the reason.
A boy.
Mutation instability.
A body not suited for prolonged combat without reinforcement.
So he built something that would let him survive.
And gave it to him.
One.
Marco crossed his arms and observed quietly.
The fight was messy.
But improving.
Then—
He felt it.
A second presence.
Sharper.
Hidden.
He shifted his gaze subtly.
There.
Perched between fractured structures.
A stealth-type abomination.
Slim.
Coiled.
Watching.
Its movements weren't animalistic.
They were calculating.
There was intelligence behind its stillness.
Marco tried to recall if he'd seen one similar before.
Halfway through the thought, he stopped trying.
Polluted creatures evolved constantly.
Yesterday's apex predator became today's prey.
You could scour the wasteland for months and never see the same variant twice.
Worst case—
He would intervene if it later proved difficult for One to handle.
He leaned back slightly and continued watching.
He saw the kill.
He saw the exhaustion.
He saw the stealth creature close in.
He did not move.
He could have ended it instantly.
But he didn't.
Growth did not come from rescue.
It came from surviving the moment before rescue arrived.
Even if he acted indifferent…
Even if he avoided conversation…
Even if he let Steven handle emotional matters—
He had raised that boy in his own way.
Fed him.
Built for him.
Repaired him.
Silently.
Even though he acts indifferent… it would be a lie to say he doesn't feel anything.
He would not always be there.
Tomorrow was never guaranteed in the wasteland.
So One needed to learn.
The stealth creature lunged for the kill.
Marco shifted his weight—
Ready to move.
Then—
He paused.
Something changed.
The air.
The pressure.
He felt it before he saw it.
And he watched.
The transformation.
The stillness.
The spear.
The authority.
For the first time in a long while—
Marco felt something close to surprise.
Not fear.
Concern.
He felt no emotion coming from One.
No rage.
No panic.
No humanity.
Just—
Indifference.
Cold.
Sovereign.
And unconscious.
The body was reacting on instinct alone.
Marco's jaw tightened slightly.
How strong would he become…
If he learned to control this?
Or—
What would he become if he didn't?
The colossal ink spear drew attention far beyond the battlefield. Even Marco could feel distant presences stirring in response.
And that bothered him.
There were things in the deeper wastelands he had no interest in encountering.
Not today.
Before the spear could descend—
He moved.
His armor's energy saber launched, severing the frozen creature in a single precise strike.
Time resumed.
The corpse collapsed.
Marco stepped forward, catching the returning blade and collecting the severed head with his other hand.
He approached One.
The inkforce still coiled violently around him, refusing to disperse.
Marco stepped forward.
Measured.
Stable presence entering chaos.
"Enough."
He watched carefully.
Not as a mechanic.
Not as a fighter.
But as someone who had raised the boy through wasteland storms and silent nights.
Waiting to see—
If the sovereign would recognize him.
Or if the boy was gone.