“So, kid, ya got a name?” The tall red-haired woman asked. Zeirdin sat around the fire with seven other people. The atmosphere was cheerful for a trek through The Tower. They seemed to be pretty experienced.

“Zeirdin. Sorry, It’s been quite a while since I’ve talked to… well… actual people.” Zeirdin stared at the sky.

“What’s your story? Haven’t seen someone dressed like you in The Tower before. Oh, I’m Lral by the way,” She said. The others turned to Zeirdin, eager to hear the backstory of the strange youth.

Not wanting to have to explain, but not wanting to be rude, Zeirdin decided to be vague, “Aah, it’s a long story that doesn’t make a lot of sense. I was trapped in the pit for a while, and now I’m out. That’s the gist of it.” He also knew it was better if no one knew about Shura or his strange gift.

“Well, I guess that explains the mystery of the feral adolescent,” said a bald man before he broke out into laughter, a few others chuckling.

“Where’r you headed?” Lral asked in her characteristically smoky voice.

“Just Tennia for now. Reintegrate, rest and get used to everything.”

“Hey, that’s where we’re going,” The bald man said.

Lral nodded and pointed to the gray mag crate among the tents, “Yeah, we’re merchants. Gonna transport our cargo to Tennia and sell it.”

Zeirdin talked with the merchants for over an hour. There were eight of them with Lral being the boss and the brain of the operation. They sold various food items that could only be procured on Floors 1 and 2. Primarily meat. Each of the six men chipped in to lend Zeirdin an article of clothing, as well as a sleeping bag. Zeirdin was immensely grateful for their hospitality and would join them on the trek to Floor 5. The camp was set up right next to the gate to Floor 4, so they would leave at 8 AM instead of dawn. Zeirdin took his sleeping bag to the edge of camp and laid it across the dry ground. John, the watchman had offered Zeirdin a spot on the floor of his tent, but Zeirdin declined. He crawled into the green sleeping bag. It was scratchy, but in comparison to what he’d been sleeping on in the jungle, it was luxurious. The stars twinkled overhead like small white gems. Zeirdin still had no idea how the stars could exist so perfectly within The Tower.

“I’ve finally left the jungle.” Zriga’s troubling words weighed on Zeirdin’s mind as he slowly drifted off.

Zeirdin gradually gained consciousness. Life in the jungle molded Zeirdin into a fighting machine that could smell danger from a mile away. The heavy lead tendrils of fatigue pulled at him as he awoke. Something was amiss. A foul odor hung in the air. It was a mix of the heavy metallic smell of blood and the grime of sewage. The eastern sky was only starting to grow light. Zeirdin guessed it was an hour or so before dawn. Quietly, he got out of his sleeping bag and stood up. The chill air of early morning pricked at his skin. The desert was quiet and serene, but Zeirdin didn’t allow himself to relax. The atmosphere was off. He heard rustling and metal hinges squeaking.

I’m sure everything has an explanation. I’m just paranoid from the jungle trying to kill me for the last three months. Zeirdin thought to himself as he silently made his way toward the gray metal storage crate. He heard snoring from most of the tents as he wove around them. The stench grew stronger as he got closer to the storage crate. Zeirdin circled the crate to see that the door was open. Faint groaning grew louder. Zeirdin’s breath caught in his throat and he nearly gagged at the stench. Something was definitely not right.

Zeirdin stood frozen around the corner of the storage container on the side the door opened to. He knew that if he turned the corner he might see something he wished he never saw. The metal of the storage container creaked as someone walked inside it. The container was large. Probably three meters wide, two and a half tall, and nearly 10 long. Popular among merchants, mag crates hovered, making transportation of goods much more cost-effective with little manpower.

Zeirdin stood in vacillation for another few seconds before clutching the amber that hung his neck. Pushing aside thoughts of weakness Zeirdin looked into the crate. A primal revulsion welled up from deep within his being. His mind convulsed, his heart speed up, and his stomach tried to jump up his throat.

Black blood mixed with human excrement caked the floor of the crate like mud. On either wall were metal shelves with limbless gray figures strapped to them. Nutrient tubes ran down the sides of the shelves and into the gray figures. The crate was filled with quiet groaning. Blood and excrement ran down the shelves. Zeirdin realized the gray figures were all amputees and their stumps were the source of the blood. Lral stood at the very back of the crate with her back to Zeirdin. He gagged loudly and spat bile. She immediately flicked around to face Zeirdin. What? Why? Zeirdin was at a loss for words as he stared into the bottom of the pit of human suffering. He didn’t want to believe it. These people had treated him with hospitality.

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“Ah. Well, this is unexpected. You found the meat batteries,” Lral said coldly.

“What is this? W-why?”

“People will pay a hefty price for a decent meat battery in The Tower,” she responded nonchalantly. “Pretend you never saw this and everything will be fine.”

“Who’s involved with this?” Zeirdin asked, his gaze hardening.

Lral snickered and raised an eyebrow, “Haha, kid, all eight of us are. It’s a business. John, Dolu, and Fil procure the meat, Tar primes it, Gar gets us the necessary drugs, and Canya and Frel make sure no one is alive to ask questions. And I make sure everything runs smoothly.” She looked to the side with her thumb on her chin, “Shit, I think I just told you too much. You’ve gotta go. CANYA, FREL!”

Zeirdin came to the conclusion that there was no way to solve this peacefully. Not that he was planning to let any of them live after what he heard. The tents rustled outside as everyone woke up. Lral yanked out a pistol from the holster at her hip, but Zeirdin was already a step ahead. He shot forward towards her like a beast, mana circulating within him like a river. His feet splashed on the excrement-covered floor.

Preparing for bullets, he quickly thickened his aura around him. Zeirdin closed the gap as her finger touched the trigger. She was focused on her gun so he went for her legs. Twisting, he wormed out of the line of fire the moment before she pulled the trigger. A bang rang out, echoing off the walls, but Zeirdin was unscathed. Diverting mana to his lower body, Zeirdin twisted again delivering a devastating low kick right above her knee. Her body lacking any lovac training stood no chance. His shin shattered her femur like a brittle stick. Lral’s face contorted in pain as she prepared to fire again. Zeirdin knew she only had a few minutes left as he was 100% sure he ruptured her femoral artery. She was still dangerous in the meantime, though. He was rather surprised at the damage he was able to cause with one kick. Her body was less durable than a yemlin’s. Lral fired another shot, this time lining it up correctly, however, Zeirdin’s half-baked aura shield absorbed all the energy of the bullet before it hit his skin and fell to the ground harmlessly.

Zeirdin diverted mana to his left arm and split it into two streams before spinning both of them internally. He stepped forward and pushed up with his legs as he threw a powered uppercut to her chin. Blue energy pulsed up his arm, burns appeared on his skin and a blue light flashed around his fist for a brief moment. It was a perfect hit. Zeirdin’s ears popped as the shockwave from the strike rapidly changed the air pressure within the crate. Blood, bone, and brain matter exploded outwards in all directions in a gory bouquet, completely covering Zeirdin. Lral’s headless corpse collapsed to the ground with a squelch, adding to the human excrement.

His entire exchange with Lral lasted 15 seconds. He pried the pistol out of her hands before quickly whipping around, sensing two new hostile presences. At the entrance of the crate stood Canya and Frel, armed with humming vibroblades. Zeirdin channeled his hate and bloodlust before rapidly expanding his aura to encompass the two assailants in a thin bubble. They immediately became petrified in terror. Untrained in galma or lovac, they held no resistance to mana attacks. Covered in red gore, Zeirdin slowly squelched towards them in concentration as he flicked the blood off his brow. Both were shaking and soiled their pants on the spot.

“D-ddd-demon,” Canya managed to stutter.

“Fuck you trash,” Zeirdin said angrily. With two effortless squeezes of the trigger, both Canya and Frel lay dead on the ground, each with a hole in their forehead. Zeirdin snatched a vibroblade off the ground and rolled to the side as a hail of bullets rained where he was just standing. The piercing cracks of gunfire filled the air as two armed men opened fire on him. One was John. A bullet tagged his torso but didn’t pierce far. Zeirdin returned two shots as he thickened his aura again. One connected with John’s neck and the man sputtered and fell to the ground clutching his neck.

“SHIT! John!” The other man yelled.

Zeirdin focused his mana on his lower body and dashed towards the other man, keeping his body low to the ground to make a smaller target. Zeirdin’s protective aura removed the lethality of the bullet hail that faced him. Each only stung against his skin instead of piercing. Bewilderment was plastered all over the man’s face. It was too late for the man. The vibroblade in Zeirdin’s hand slid diagonally upwards through the man’s entire torso in an effortless bisection. Blood briefly sprayed in all directions, covering Zeirdin further. The man fell backward in two halves in a heap with lifeless eyes staring skyward.

Zeirdin picked up the man’s automatic anti-personnel rifle. Three left. Where are they? No one came after him. Zeirdin looked around. All the tents were empty except one. He could hear the three of them huddled together inside. Cowards. Zeirdin walked up to the tent. They were not sinless. Not bothering to open the tent, Zeirdin squeezed the trigger of the rifle and thoroughly sprayed the tent with bullets until he heard no breathing. All the meat traffickers were dead.

The stench of blood saturated everything like an invisible blanket. Zeirdin opened a nearby tent and wiped the blood off himself with a blanket he found. The clothes he received the night before were now completely ruined with blood. He tore off his shirt. Soaked with blood, his shirt was absorbing his warmth now that he wasn’t moving. Zeirdin looked back to the crate and scowled.

“I need to finish what I started,” Zeirdin muttered to himself as he walked toward the crate. He held his breath and listened as he stood in the doorway of the crate. Each of the groans was actually human speech. Each of the 16 faceless, legless amputees hooked up to drug tubes quietly groaned the same exact three words.

“Kill me please.”

Zeirdin shivered. It was eerie and nightmarish. There was only one last thing he could do for these people who suffered many lifetimes worth of suffering than their share.

Zeirdin stood with his back to the sunrise at the gate to Floor 4 as it slowly hummed to life. He wore bloody pants and no shirt. Zeirdin wanted no more belongings of those terrible people. A tear in reality formed in its characteristic anticlimactic fashion. Zeirdin walked through holding his middle finger up without looking back as the gate thrummed quietly.