Blake moved silently across the catwalk, matching his footsteps to the surging rumble of explosions outside the compound. His HUD highlighted weak spots in metal railings worn thin by years of oxidation and exposure. At least a dozen guards rushed around below, their voices tangling into a cloud of barked orders and status reports.

"Your ten o'clock," Kitt whispered. "Patrol coming up the maintenance ladder."

Blake pressed himself against a support column, letting shadows mask his presence. Two guards clambered onto the catwalk, their augmented legs whining with the effort. Neither looked in his direction as they charged past, responding to some crisis elsewhere in the compound. Once their footsteps faded, Blake continued forward.

Blake made it as close as he could via the catwalk before it ended. Sixteen feet separated him from the ground floor—an awkward height that would make a direct drop risky. Too high to land safely without making noise, too low to justify finding an alternate route. Blake studied the architecture with his abilities, mapping possible paths down.

"That support strut could work," Kitt suggested, highlighting a diagonal beam that connected to a series of exposed pipes. "Though you'd need perfect timing with the patrol patterns."

Blake watched the guards below, noting how their movements created predictable gaps in coverage. Most were facing outward, attending to external threats. The few watching the atrium's interior stayed close to the walls, leaving the central space relatively unobserved.

A particularly violent explosion rocked the compound, drawing everyone's attention toward the north wall. Blake seized the moment, swinging his legs over the railing. [Unfettered Stride] pulsed warmly through his limbs and the beam Kitt had indicated suddenly felt as stable as solid ground.

Blake lowered himself onto the strut, muscles coiling as he prepared to move. Another explosion prompted a fresh wave of shouted orders. Three guards broke away from their positions, creating a momentary blind spot. Blake took a controlled breath, then pushed off.

The descent felt like a dance. Each handhold and foothold appeared in his awareness moments before he needed them, Warden's Insight and Unfettered Stride working in perfect harmony. He flowed from beam to pipe to conduit, every movement precise and deliberate. The abilities didn't make gravity optional, but they gave him options for managing its effects.

Halfway down, a guard's augmented eyes swept toward Blake's position. He froze, hanging by his fingertips from a thick power cable. The purple glow of the guard's optical enhancements reflected off exposed metal, casting strange shadows. Blake's arms began to burn as he maintained his grip.

"Clear," Kitt murmured after several agonizing seconds. "He's looking at something else."

Blake resumed his descent, hyperaware of every sound his boots made against the metal surfaces. The final eight feet required a diagonal traverse across a series of junction boxes. The path would leave him exposed for crucial seconds, but the alternative routes all ended in spots currently occupied by guards.

Another explosion rattled the compound. Blake moved. His fingers found purchase on tiny ledges as he spider-crawled sideways, letting Unfettered Stride guide his movements. A guard passed directly below, close enough that Blake could smell the ozone discharge from his augmentations.

Five feet from the ground, Blake ran out of handholds. He watched the patrol patterns, waiting for his window. When it came, he dropped into a controlled fall, channeling mana into his legs to cushion the impact. His boots touched down with barely a whisper.

"Two guards approaching from your three," Kitt warned. "Get to cover."

Blake slid behind a support column, pressing his back against cool metal as heavy footsteps passed nearby. The guards were discussing ammunition supplies, their attention focused on logistics rather than security. Blake waited until they rounded the corner before moving.

The hallway that led to the server room's entrance lay twenty yards ahead. The space between bristled with potential disasters—exposed sight lines, motion sensors, and patrolling guards. Blake gathered his focus, letting Warden's Insight paint him a path through the chaos.

He moved like water through cracks, flowing from shadow to shadow. Each step landed precisely where it needed to, every movement timed to exploit gaps in patrol patterns. When a guard turned unexpectedly, Blake simply wasn't there to be seen.

Fifteen yards. A pair of technicians emerged from a side corridor, arguing about power distribution. Blake pressed himself into an alcove, becoming part of the architecture until they passed. Their conversation covered the sound of his boots as he resumed his advance.

Ten yards. An alarm blared from somewhere deep in the compound. Guards rushed to investigate, their augmentations casting purple reflections across metal walls. Blake used their wake as cover, letting their urgency mask his careful progress.

Three yards. A guard rounded the corner ahead, plasma rifle held ready. Blake dropped into a crouch behind a storage crate, timing his breaths to the thrumb of distant combat. The guard paused, head tilting as if sensing something amiss. After an eternal moment, he continued his patrol.

One yard. Blake pressed himself against the wall beside the server room's entrance, listening. One heartbeat inside, steady and calm. The guard was likely focused on security feeds, monitoring the chaos outside rather than watching his own back.

Blake slipped through the door like a ghost, each step measured and precise. The guard sat hunched over a bank of monitors, muttering into his radio as he tracked the battle's progress. Purple light from his augmentations cast an eerie glow across the screens.

A single glance told Blake everything he needed to know. The guard's weight was forward, his attention fixed on the displays. His rifle leaned against the console, just out of easy reach. His right hand rested on his radio, and his left hand on the keyboard controls. The position of his shoulders suggested tension but not immediate alertness.

Blake closed the distance in three silent steps, years of training guiding his movements. His left arm snaked around the guard's throat, right hand locking to secure the hold. The guard's hands flew up instinctively, but Blake had already established a dominant position.

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"Shhh," Blake whispered, maintaining steady pressure on the carotid arteries. The guard's struggles weakened as blood flow to his brain diminished. Ten seconds later, he went limp.

Blake lowered the unconscious guard to the floor, then settled into the vacant chair. He placed Verdict on the console, feeling Kitt's eagerness as she prepared to interface with the systems.

"Ready to work some magic?" Blake asked softly.

"Oh," Kitt's grin was audible in her tone. "You have no idea."

----------------------------------------

Blake didn't have to wait long, as it turned out, as the guard he had just dispatched was nice enough to have left his workstation unlocked.

"Well," Kitt's voice held a note of dark amusement, "somebody's been busy."

The first data streams painted a picture far beyond what Blake had expected. Resource allocation tables, trade agreements, and force deployment orders scrolled past his eyes in a blur of information. Each document revealed another piece of Rax's ambitions, and those ambitions stretched far beyond maintaining his current territory.

"He's not just holding ground," Blake muttered, scanning a particularly detailed manifest. "He's expanding. Systematically."

"More than that," Kitt responded. "Look at these quotas he's imposing on the smaller clans. They're functionally tributary states at this point. And based on the encrypted chatter I'm finding... they're not happy about it."

Blake's eyes narrowed as he studied the reports. The numbers didn't lie—Rax was bleeding the smaller clans dry, demanding resources far beyond sustainable levels. But why push so hard? The risk of rebellion seemed to outweigh any immediate gains.

A new set of files appeared on his HUD: detailed maps marked with patrol routes, defensive positions, and tactical assessments. Blake's cursory training in logistics kicked in as he analyzed the data, and a chill ran down his spine.

"These aren't raid plans," he said quietly. "This is systematic warfare. He's preparing for large-scale military operations."

"That's not all," Kitt's presence felt sharp, focused. "I'm finding lots of paperwork and communications with direct references to Kālī's Maw and the War Host of Ares. We knew he was getting quests, now we know who from."

Blake processed that information, pieces clicking into place. "It makes sense he'd be trying to please multiple patrons. It makes him politically harder to deal with in the future."

"Exactly. But there's more—I've found something... concerning."

New files appeared: personnel records, medical data, and what appeared to be research protocols. Blake's stomach turned as he read the details. The documents were linked to someone—or something—called "Malrik the Grafter."

"His own men," Blake's voice was tight with disgust. "He's offering them up as test subjects."

"For experimental augmentations," Kitt confirmed. "Highly unstable ones, based on these mortality rates. Definitely all the weird purple we're seeing. Malrik provides the grafts and prototype cybernetics, Rax provides the test subjects. In exchange, he gets resources, territorial rights, and the survivors become enhanced soldiers for his army."

Blake scrolled through the data, jaw clenching. "Numbers?"

"Sixty already transferred. Another hundred marked for processing." Kitt's tone was clinical, but Blake felt her revulsion through their bond. "The survival rate is... not good."

Blake counted the purple-lit augments he'd seen in the compound in just the last half hour. Eight fighters, maybe ten who were a bit too distant to confirm. With the mortality rates in those files, most wouldn't last a month. Even the survivors would burn out fast, their bodies rejecting the unstable tech.

"Uh-oh." Kitt's tone shifted. "We've got trouble."

Kitt highlighted one of the feeds on the screens in front of them, drawing Blake's attention to it. On the display, three guards stood over the bodies he'd left behind, weapons drawn. One spoke into a radio while the others checked the surroundings.

"They'll start a sweep," Blake said, fingers tightening on Verdict. "How long until they reach us?"

"It won't be long if they're smart."

Blake watched another guard join the search party. "Then we better work fast. The background data can wait, get me a floorplan and potential locations for Rax ASAP."

"Already got it. He's probably holed up here," she said, pulling up a rough floorplan and marking a location near the center of the compound. "It's a secure bunker, I'd put my money on him hiding out and giving orders from there."

"Okay, how much more time do you need for the rest of the plan?" he asked, already knowing the answer wouldn't make his job easier.

"Longer than you can afford to stay here babysitting the process."

Blake nodded, lips pressed into a grim line. Time to move. He reached for Verdict, pausing as hair-thin strands of silvery bio-mass stretched between the weapon and console like spider silk catching morning light. The strands snapped one by one as he lifted the gun, sinking into the metal surface of the computer.

"You good?" he whispered.

"Focus on staying alive. I'll handle the rest."

He tucked Verdict into its holster, the weight familiar against his hip. Different now though—heavier with purpose. When he'd first agreed to help take down Rax, it had been pure pragmatism. Keep Eland safe while he fixed the ship. Maybe score some spare parts from grateful scavengers. Clean. Simple. Transactional.

Mara's stories about his brutality had gone on to make the idea of killing Rax seem like Justice.

Blake's jaw tightened. The images from those files burned in his mind. Sixty dead. A hundred more marked for slaughter. All to feed some mad scientist's experiments and Rax's hunger for power.\

Now? Now the bastard's death was starting to feel like a goddamned moral imperative.

His hands curled into fists, a deep resonance building in his chest. The Roadwarden's mandate thrummed through his blood—protect those in need, preserve what civilization remained in this wasteland. Judge those who'd tear it down.

Purple light pulsed from augmented guards in the distance, projected through walls thanks to Kitt's modified [Warden's Insight], her knowledge of the compound's layout, and her access to the live security feeds.

Blake didn't even see enemies anymore—just more test subjects burning through borrowed time. More lives Rax had twisted and spent. Terminal patients that Rax was making him put down.

Behind him, screens flickered with Kitt's presence, still mining data. Ahead, purple light painted the walls as augmented guards drew closer.

The Roadwarden got to work.