Chapter 174: Cold Logistics

The commercial district of Zenith Academy was usually a place of leisurely spending where high-ranking students bought imported teas and custom mana-weaves. Today it was a riot.

The announcement of the Duo-Intervention Protocol had turned the orderly avenues into a panic-stricken bazaar. Students from every track were scrambling to liquidate their credits for survival gear. The alchemy shops were stripped bare of healing potions. The armory queues stretched around the block.

Vane walked through the chaos with a list in his head.

He did not look for high-grade mana crystals or flashy enchantments. He looked for the boring things. The things that kept you alive when the magic failed.

He entered a small, dusty supply shop near the edge of the district. It was called The Iron Satchel. It catered to the Vanguard logistics corps, not the students.

“I need twenty filters,” Vane told the clerk. “Grade 4. Rated for necrotic particulates.”

The clerk, a bored man with a mechanical eye, blinked. “We only sell those in bulk to the sanitation crews. Are you planning to clean a sewer?”

“I am planning to walk through one,” Vane replied. “And I need purification salts. The industrial kind. Not the bath salts the nobles buy.”

He bought three kilos of salt, a box of silver-nitrate flares, and two heavy-duty rebreather masks. He paid in cash.

As he walked out, he nearly collided with a towering stack of thermal blankets.

Behind the blankets was Isaac Glacium.

“I cannot carry this,” Isaac wheezed. His pale face was flushed with exertion. “Ashe, this is physically impossible. My mass-to-load ratio is critical.”

“Stop complaining,” Ashe’s voice came from behind a crate of explosive charges. “If we freeze in the trench, I am going to be very annoyed. And when I am annoyed, I explode.”

“You explode when you are happy too,” Isaac muttered. He saw Vane and stopped. He looked at the modest bag of filters in Vane’s hand. “Vane. Please tell her that we do not need a portable heater. I am a portable heater.”

“You are an ice cube,” Ashe argued, appearing from behind the crate. She looked frantic. Her hair was a mess of static. “Vane, tell him that the Frost-Bite Trench is negative forty degrees. If he passes out, I have to carry him.”

“If he passes out,” Vane said, stepping around them, “you can use him as a sled. He has low friction.”

“That is not helpful,” Isaac groaned.

Vane left them to their bickering. He moved through the crowd. He saw other pairs arguing. He saw fear in the eyes of the students who had spent the last semester coasting on the squad dynamic.

He saw Garret, the Second Year tank, buying a heavy reinforced shield. Garret saw him too. The older student didn’t sneer. He didn’t posture. He just nodded once, a sharp jerk of the chin, and turned away.

The hierarchy had shifted. The panic was the great equalizer.

Vane returned to Villa 1 as the sun began to set.

The house was quiet. The fire in the living room was already lit.

He laid his purchases out on the dining table. He checked the seals on the filters. He packed the salts into waterproof pouches. He checked his spear. He sharpened the edge of the [Silver Fang] with a whetstone, the rhythmic shhhk-shhhk sound filling the silence.

There was a knock at the door.

It was Valerica.

She wasn’t wearing her armor. She was wearing a heavy wool coat over a simple tunic. She looked tired. The golden light in her eyes was dim.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“It is your house too,” Vane said. “Technically.”

She stepped inside. She didn’t take off her coat. She walked to the table and looked at the pile of survival gear.

“Necrotic zones,” she noted. “Nasty business. My father says the air there tastes like copper and old blood.”

“It is just air,” Vane said. He packed a flare into his belt. “You filter it. You breathe. You move.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple,” Vane said. “It is just ugly.”

Valerica leaned against the table. She picked up one of the heavy masks. She turned it over in her hands.

“Anastasia wants to lead,” Valerica said quietly. “She thinks because her family funded the Crystal Spire’s construction, she owns the terrain. She has the blueprints. She has the codes.”

“Then let her lead,” Vane said.

Valerica looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

“You are fighting a turf war before you even get on the ship,” Vane said. He stopped sharpening the spear. He looked at her. “If she knows the terrain, use her. Let her walk in front. Let her trip the traps. Leading isn’t about being first, Valerica. It is about being the one who decides when to stop.”

Valerica stared at him. She processed the logic. She let out a short, dry laugh.

“You are a terrible influence,” she said. “You want me to use the Princess as a mine sweeper.”

“I want you to come back,” Vane said.

The room went quiet.

Valerica put the mask down. She reached into her coat pocket. She pulled out a small, leather-bound book. She placed it on the table next to the salt.

“Tactical Considerations for Asymmetrical Warfare,” Vane read the title.

“It is from the Sol library,” Valerica said. “My grandfather wrote it. He fought in the Deep-Grave campaigns. There is a Chapter on necrotic suppression.”

She hesitated. She looked at him. For a second, the mask of the noble daughter slipped. She looked like a girl who was terrified of losing the only person who didn’t care about her last name.

“Isole is fragile, Vane,” Valerica whispered. “She sees too much. If she breaks in the dark, you are the only one who can pull her out.”

“I know,” Vane said.

“Don’t die,” she said.

“I don’t plan to.”

She nodded. She turned and walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the latch.

“See you on the other side,” she said.

Then she was gone.

Vane locked the door.

He picked up the book. He didn’t open it. He placed it on the mantle next to the empty wine bottle from the dinner party.

“Mara,” Vane called out.

The girl walked into the room. She was wearing her pajamas. She held her charcoal stick like a weapon.

“Is the lady gone?” Mara asked.

“She is gone,” Vane said.

He sat down in the armchair. Mara climbed up onto the rug. She opened her sketchbook.

“I drew the curves,” Mara said. She showed him the page.

The letter ’B’ was repeated fifty times. The first few were lopsided. The bottom loops were too big. But as the lines went down the page, they tightened. They became uniform.

“Good,” Vane said. “They are straight.”

“The bottom part is hard,” Mara admitted. “My hand wants to shake.”

“Let it shake,” Vane said. “Then hold it still. That is the trick.”

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, iron key. He placed it on the sketchbook.

“This is the key to the study,” Vane said. “There is a map on the wall. It shows where I am going. If you get scared, you can go look at it. You can see that it is just a place on a piece of paper. It is not a monster.”

Mara picked up the key. She held it tight.

“Are there monsters there?” she asked.

“Yes,” Vane said. “But I am bringing a spear.”

“Okay,” she said.

She went back to drawing. Vane watched her. He watched the fire die down. He listened to the wind howling outside the heavy stone walls.

This was the anchor. The straight lines. The warm room. The child who trusted him to come back.

He closed his eyes. He memorized the moment. He packed it away in the back of his mind, behind the [Silver Fang], behind the cold logic of the [Usurper]. He would need it when the grey rot started to scream.

The morning of the third day was brutal.

The sky was the color of a bruise. The wind whipped across the launch pad, stinging any exposed skin.

Vane walked to Docking Bay 4. He wore his tactical gear. The grey tunic. The black trousers. The heavy boots. The spear was strapped to his back.

He met Isole at the gate.

She looked small. She wore a heavy grey cloak that swallowed her frame. Her staff was clutched in her hands. She was trembling, but she wasn’t hiding.

“I read the dossier,” Isole said. Her voice was thin. “The soil there… it is hungry.”

“We brought salt,” Vane said. “We will feed it that.”

They walked into the hangar.

The three dropships sat on the pad like birds of prey. Steam hissed from their landing struts.

The squad was there.

But they weren’t a squad anymore.

Valerica stood by the first ship. Anastasia was already on the ramp, checking her gauntlets. Valerica looked at Vane across the hangar. She didn’t wave. She just adjusted her gloves and walked up the ramp.

The hatch closed.

Ashe was by the second ship. She was bouncing on her heels, trying to burn off the nervous energy. Isaac looked like he was walking to his execution.

“Don’t freeze, Ice Cube!” Ashe shouted. She slapped Isaac on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

They boarded. The hatch closed.

Vane stood alone with Isole.

The hangar felt massive. The noise of the engines was deafening.

“Team Charlie,” the deck officer shouted over the roar. “Boarding in two minutes!”

Vane looked at Isole.

“Stay behind me,” Vane said. “Until I tell you to move.”

“I won’t freeze,” Isole promised. She gripped her staff. “I won’t be a liability.”

“You are my eyes,” Vane said. “Eyes don’t fight. They see.”

He turned and walked up the ramp.

The interior of the ship was dark. Red combat lights bathed the metal benches in the color of blood.

Vane sat down. He strapped in.

Isole sat across from him. She buckled her harness. She looked at him. Her mismatched eyes were wide in the red light.

The ramp hissed. It lifted. The daylight vanished.

There was a heavy, metallic thud as the locks engaged.

Vane felt the vibration of the thrusters in his teeth. He felt the lift.

They were airborne.

He looked at the empty seats next to him. Where Ashe should have been complaining. Where Valerica should have been planning.

There was nothing but empty space and the hum of the engine.

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