Descending a pass is always harder than climbing it. Gravity shoves you from behind, trips you up on the scree, and makes your knees tremble with every step.
I had been descending for six hours. The air was growing thicker. But my thoughts were still up on the heights.
"The Dragon's Teeth." From a geological standpoint, the name was absurd. Limestone, granite, basalt veins—a standard stratification of rock. But standing in the shadow of one of the peaks, whose shape eerily resembled a curved fang, I couldn't help but recall the words of the old man from the shelter.
"Why exactly 'Dragon's Teeth'?" I had asked back then, tightening the straps of my rucksack.
"Because mountains don't just stand there for nothing," the old man had replied, patting Mare on the muzzle. "They protect. A Great Guardian sleeps within these ridges. These peaks are his bared teeth, snarling at the sky. As long as the mountains remain whole, he sleeps. But woe to him who disturbs his peace with the noise of his own pride."
At the time, I wrote it off as local folklore. But now, watching the fog lick the gray crags, I wondered: what if the "dragon" isn't a biological species, but a metaphor for some fundamental force? A variable I hadn't factored into my equations.
The trail finally leveled out, bringing me to the base. The trees stood stunted and twisted. In the Midlands, there was no sound of birdsong, no rustle of healthy foliage.
Right at the base where the trail ended, the ruins of an old customs post loomed. A collapsed roof, hollow window sockets, and a persistent stench of burning.
"It had to be them," I whispered.
"Cleaners." In the Midlands, that’s what they call the scum who have sunk even lower than ordinary scavengers. They lie in wait for those who are stronger or luckier, ambushing them when they emerge from the mountains exhausted, picking them clean to the bone. Scum. Nothing more. Clad in scraps of leather and rusted chainmail, their faces hidden by filthy bandages.
"Going far, gray-coat?" The voice of the man who was presumably the leader sounded like metal scraping against stone. He stepped forward, casually twirling a heavy hook on a long chain.
I stopped. My hood shadowed my eyes, but I could clearly see every single one of them. Three to the left, two to the right, two behind the leader.
"I need to pass," I said calmly. "I have no desire to waste my time on you."
"Time? What kind of bullshit is that. Hand over the bag, the sword, and whatever iron is clanking under your cloak."
The leader took a step forward, spinning the hook on its chain.
"Well? Are you going to kick and scream, or die quietly?"
I sighed and pulled my right arm out from under my cloak. The matte metal of the Centurion gleamed dully in the gray light of the Midlands. The Cleaners froze for a fraction of a second, mesmerized by the complexity of the mechanism.
"Do you know what a vector sum is?" I asked.
Instead of answering, they all charged at me at once.
I activated the Skill. Not at full power, but narrowing it to the absolute limit, focusing exclusively on gravity and inertia within a three-meter radius around me.
The first Cleaner who leaped at me with a knife was instantly slammed into the mud, the bones in his legs snapping under the crushing mass of his own body.
I touched the second with my metal fingers just as he swung an axe. At the exact millisecond of contact, I zeroed out the friction vector in his joints while simultaneously applying a rotational impulse. The man spun wildly, hurtling toward the crags.
The leader hurled his hook. The chain flew straight for my neck. I raised my palm. Barely four inches from my skin, the chain entered a zone of "negative gravity." It coiled tightly into itself, forming a neat knot, and dropped to my boots.
The rest froze dead in their tracks. The world around me vibrated. The air grew thick as jelly, and the dust at my boots hovered in mid-air, forming a perfect geometric pattern.
"Physics," I said, looking right at the leader. "You should have studied it."
I took a single step and was instantly right in front of the leader. My metal hand came down on his shoulder. And for a fraction of a second, I increased the molecular density of his collarbone.
A sound like a gunshot rang out.
I deactivated the effect.
The world snapped back to normal instantly. The dust settled, gravity became familiar again. And it was exactly at that moment that I remembered why I avoided using this magic of mine.
My temples throbbed. My inner ear responded with a sharp wave of dizziness, and I felt a thin line of blood run from my nose down my chin.
The Cleaners—those who could still stand—backed away, pure horror in their eyes.
"Get out," I rasped, wiping the blood with the back of my living hand. "Or you all die here."
Abandoning their wounded and their leader, they dissolved into the mist of the Midlands.
I sank heavily onto a fragment of a stone column, muttering, "Thank God they left. Another minute, and I would have been a corpse."
I sat like that for about twenty minutes, recovering. The leader was still screaming in the mud.
"Where is the nearest settlement?" I asked.
He looked up at me, his eyes clouded with pain.
"A... a day's travel north. 'The Rusty Pool.' But you won't be welcome there... demon..."
I forced myself to my feet. The weakness was slowly receding. I tossed him a piece of dried meat.
By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, I was already far from the ruins. I adjusted my gray cloak. The Midlands stretched out before me—vast, gray, and deadly.
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