Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 51: Substraction

The six thugs fan out, stepping over the cracked, yellowing tiles of the subway platform. They move with the synchronized, predatory loose-limbed swagger of scavengers who are used to easy prey.

One of them takes the point—a twitchy, emaciated man wielding a rusted, jagged machete. He licks his chapped lips, his sunken eyes darting past my torn leather jacket to lock hungrily onto the girls behind me.

He doesn’t look at me like a threat. He looks at me like a meal ticket blocking his path.

I don’t draw my weapon. I just wait, my mind running cold, calculating the geometry of the platform.

Lola is curled in on herself, her hands clamped tightly over her bear ears, rocking slightly. Rhayne stands in front of her, but her storm-cloud eyes are wide with panic.

The three generic cadets cowering against the wall are whimpering, utterly useless.

I can’t rely on them. They are unpredictable variables in a confined space.

I have to do this alone. And I have to do it flawlessly.

The point man crosses the invisible threshold of my kill zone.

I don’t hesitate.

I don’t shift my stance to broadcast my intent or even look at the other five. My eyes are locked dead on the center of his chest.

I explode forward.

I thumb the ignition ring, drawing Eventide in one fluid motion. The hilt screams to life—a hollow, haunting roar like a vengeful ghost tearing its way out of a sealed urn.

I cross the distance in a single, blurring heartbeat. Six against one means there is no luxury for disabling strikes. I can’t afford to just injure. I need subtraction.

I drive the shadow-blade in a vicious, ascending arc. It shears through the point man’s scavenged chest plate like wet paper, opening him wide from gut to collarbone.

He freezes mid-step. His rusted machete clatters to the dirty tiles. He brings a trembling hand to the gaping void in his chest, staring at the blood coating his fingers, and then looks up at me with absolute disbelief.

The desperate hunger leaves his eyes, replaced by nothing at all. He slumps to his knees, collapsing face-first onto the concrete.

Five...

The remaining thugs freeze, their arrogant swagger shattering into pure, paralyzed shock.

I don’t pause to admire my work. I spin the hilt of Eventide between my fingers, using the momentum of my first strike to pivot toward the second target—a heavy-set man in dented brass armor.

I bring the blade down in a brutal, descending chop aimed straight at his right collarbone.

But the element of surprise is already fading.

The heavy-set guy reacts with panicked, pure reflex, throwing his arms up to guard his head. The shadow-blade glances off his heavy, reinforced metal gauntlets. It bites into his shoulder, but the angle is shallow.

The sheer kinetic force of my strike forces him down to one knee, but he isn’t out.

The air around his gauntlets shimmers with dense, localized gravity.

A Pressomancer.

He slams his armored fist directly into the cracked tiles. A violent seismic wave ripples through the concrete platform. The ground heaves violently under my boots, completely shattering my balance for a split second.

Seeing me stumble, the other four thugs snap out of their stupor. They raise their weapons, preparing to swarm me while I’m vulnerable.

I grit my teeth, using the momentum of my stumble to pivot hard on my heel, forcefully re-centering my gravity. I drop my stance and lunge forward, thrusting the howling tip of Eventide straight toward the kneeling Pressomancer’s exposed face.

"WAIT!"

The leader roars, his voice cracking with sheer desperation.

I freeze. The vibrating shadow-blade stops exactly two inches from the Pressomancer’s nose. The man goes cross-eyed looking at the condensed darkness threatening to vaporize his skull, terrified to even breathe.

"Give me a clear reason not to kill him," I say, my voice dead and cold. "You have three seconds."

"Three..." I count.

"Drop your weapons!" the leader screams at his men, panic bleeding into his tone. Iron clatters against the tiles as they comply.

"Two..."

"We aren’t doing this because we have a choice!" the leader pleads, holding his empty hands up in surrender.

"One..."

"We’ve been trapped down here for a year!"

I pause. The countdown stops.

Trapped for a year.

That single piece of information changes the entire tactical landscape of this station.

I thumb the ignition ring, deactivating Eventide. The blade vanishes, leaving only the cold hilt in my hand.

[Reward: +6% to Rank Advancement.]

Umm... not bad for a thug...

A secondary chime, almost lost beneath the first.

[Attribute Adaptation: Strength → D (2★)]

I don’t read the condition text. I don’t need to. The answer is in my sword hand—the tremor that’s haunted every activation of Eventide since the Battle Royale is gone.

My grip on the hilt feels deliberate for the first time.

Later, I think, dismissing the window.

[OXI: 960/1,200]

The drain was excessive without Rhayne’s buffer, and I don’t have the luxury of burning more fuel on mindless slaughter if there’s valuable intel to be gained.

"Tell me more about that," I say flatly, my eyes scanning the group for any sudden movements. "Or this platform turns into a bloodbath right now."

The leader swallows hard, gesturing frantically for his men to back off and stay calm.

"Nobody move. No sudden movements," he orders, his chest heaving. He looks at me, exhaustion warring with fear in his sunken eyes.

"We got lost down here over a year ago. We stopped counting the days. We’ve tried every tunnel, every maintenance shaft. There is no way out."

"Go on," I prompt.

"The only exit leading to the surface is guarded," the leader admits, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "It’s a monster. A real nightmare. We couldn’t even scratch it when we had a full party. We’ve lost almost everyone to it, or to the starvation."

He looks at the bisected corpse on the floor, then back at me, a desperate spark of hope igniting in his eyes.

"That’s why we attack travelers. Just to strip their OXI and survive the ambient drain. But... seeing how you move. How you hit. If we work together, I think we can actually defeat the beast and get out of here."

I stare at him, my expression an unreadable mask of stone.

Trusting a desperate scavenger who just shattered a cadet’s jaw is tactical suicide. But a stranded veteran knows the local ecology and the dungeon layout better than anyone else.

If he’s telling the truth, this monster is the lock on the only door out of here.

"Take me to it," I say.

The leader’s face goes white. "Now? You want to go now?"

"Did I stutter?"