The rain on the surface had nothing in common with the controlled precipitation cycles in the Sectors. There, it was a blessing—a filter flush, a way to maintain equilibrium. Here, it was chaos. Cold torrents mixed road dust with manure, turning everything into a sticky gray muck that seeped into the seams of our boots and dragged us down with every step.
The mill emerged from the fog.
Not long ago, this place had been covered in snow. Now, it was as if it had never existed.
Had we really spent several months underground? No. That didn't match either my memories or my calculations.
Then why had the weather changed so quickly?
The mill stood in a hollow where the river had turned into a stagnant slough after the bridge supports collapsed. A massive waterwheel hung at an angle, overgrown with slick green moss and long strands of algae. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of spoiled grain and damp timber.
"Just a little further, Zeno... just a few more damn meters," I croaked, pressing my shoulder against his cold chassis.
Zeno’s systems had entered deep hibernation to preserve what little charge he had left.
When we finally stumbled inside the mill, I collapsed onto a pile of rotting straw, caring nothing for lice or mold. The Skill refused to let me slip into unconsciousness. Instead of a merciful blackout, my brain kept pelting me with endless readouts.
[OBJECT STATUS]
Body temperature: 39.4°C (Critical)
Focus of infection: Right forearm
Spread rate: 12 mm/hour
Sensory load: 88% — Brain overheat
Recommendation: Immediate disinfection and thermal treatment
"Kid... how are you?" Ephraim leaned against the doorframe.
"What a stupid question, 'how are you?'" I thought.
"We barely made it here. If they corner us right now, we won't even be able to lift our hands," Ephraim said.
"They won't," I forced myself to sit up. "Ephraim. Listen closely. Find the old sacks. The grain inside should have fermented. Smell anything sour?"
The old man sniffed suspiciously, scanning the dark mill.
"Everything smells sour in here, Iron."
"Look for the bloated ones. And bring me something copper. A pipe, a kettle—anything. Move."
I dropped to the floor, gathering fragments of wooden gears. My fingers shook. The Skill highlighted the materials: Oak. Medium density. Moisture: 40%. Calorific value: sufficient.
While Ephraim rummaged through the junk, I started on the worst part. I pulled out the knife we’d grabbed from the pod. The blade was dull, but reliable. I built a small fire in the center of the room using dry splinters from the interior partitions. The smoke stung my eyes, but the mill's ventilation still worked well enough to draw it upward.
"Found something!" Ephraim pulled out a dented copper coil—part of an old still—and a small pot. "What are you planning?"
"We're making ethanol. We'll distill the sour mash so I can pour it on the wound."
We sealed the joints with wet clay. I told Ephraim when to throw wood on the fire and when to cool the coil with water. "Will to Live" turned the process into pure torture. Instead of fire, I saw a spectral analysis and a boiling point calculated down to fractions of a degree.
"It's dripping..." Ephraim whispered, holding a cracked mug under the coil.
The liquid was cloudy, with a sharp stench of fusel oils and alcohol. Not ideal. But enough to kill most of the bacteria.
"Now go to Zeno," I said. "Don't look."
I took the mug. Clamping a leather strap between my teeth, I splashed the raw distillate straight onto the stump where the metal had fused with my flesh.
The Skill converted the shock into graphs—red lines spiking way off the scale. Every nerve screamed: DEATH.
My throat seized in a spasm. I watched the alcohol react, the proteins denature, the tissues break down.
After an endless five minutes, I opened my eyes. My face was drenched in cold sweat. The bandages—hurriedly made from scraps of cloth—were soaked in the burning mixture.
"You good?" Ephraim’s voice drifted in from somewhere far away.
"Yeah," I exhaled. "The infection is localized. My temperature is dropping."
I closed my eyes, trying to shut off the calculations. But the mill wouldn't let me. The Skill kept analyzing the sounds. The rain. The water outside. The creak of the weather vane.
And then... the rhythm changed.
Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.
Distance: 40 meters. Approach speed: 0.5 m/s.
"Ephraim. Put out the fire. Now."
"What is it?"
"Faster!"
I rolled behind a massive millstone. My good hand found a steel lever—the broken shaft fragment I'd noticed earlier.
The mill door creaked open. The figure in the doorway looked thin. He paused, sniffing the air.
"Smells like burnt organics... and alcohol," his voice rasped. "Come out. I've been tracking you since the village. Master Waldo gave a very convincing description."
He stepped inside. "Will to Live" spun up the calculations.
Target: Tracker
Weapon: Crossbow (1 bolt loaded), dagger
Vulnerability: Left knee (old injury), throat
Environment: Rotting beam overhead. Angle — 45 degrees
I hurled a stone into the opposite corner. The tracker instantly snapped his crossbow toward the sound—and in that split second, I lunged.
I slammed the lever with everything I had into the support beam, which was already half-rotten. The vibration traveled up, and the ceiling gave way. The massive, termite-eaten beam crashed down. The tracker ducked, but his shot went wild, embedding itself in the ceiling.
I was already on him. Momentum plus leverage. I delivered a horizontal strike. He crashed into the wall, dropping his crossbow. He reached for his knife—I crushed his wrist with a heavy boot.
I pressed the sharp end of the lever against his throat.
"Who else is coming?" I asked.
"The Light is already coming. You can't hide on the surface... we are everywhere."
I glanced at his belt. A flare.
"Ephraim. Take his bag. And the flare."
The old man obeyed, his hands shaking.
"Iron... we need to finish him. If he lives..."
Without listening to the rest, I quickly drove my knife into his throat a couple of times.
"Let's go," I said. "We need to boot up Zeno. I need more power."
We stepped out into the night. The rain kept pouring, washing away our tracks and the blood.
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