Cain put a hand to his neck, almost protectively, when He looked into the Mirror, Covering the scar on His throat. That's where thr girl with the red hood aimed when she Attacked me, he thought. Straight to the throat. Like a wolf sensing an easy meal. With proper Training she would have killed him.
He dropped his hand, letting it rest on the edge of the basin. The scars on his throat were only the newest additions to a collection that mapped his body. His torso bore reminders of battles past, faded lines etched into his skin where flesh had been torn, burned, or sliced; there, on his right side, was the jagged line from the ambush on the Eastern plains, when a blade had nearly severed his ribs. The faint burn mark on his shoulder had come from a botched mission, where a grenade had gone off too close, bathing his skin in heat. Each mark was a testament to survival, a history carved into him, and yet, the newest one on his neck felt… different. It felt unfinished, like a wound left open.
The artificial limb attached at his shoulder reflected coldly in the mirror, metal and circuitry gleaming under the low light. The arm felt heavier today, or maybe it was the weight of knowing he’d nearly lost to someone as undisciplined as her.
His gaze fully shifted to his left shoulder, to the metallic gleam of his prosthetic arm. The joints and circuitry glistened under the dim light, a cold reminder of a price he hadn’t chosen to pay but had to. He felt a phantom ache in the stump where his real arm used to be, as if his body still remembered the night he’d lost it.
The memory stirred, dragging him back. It had been an ambush, swift and brutal, his unit caught off guard. He’d turned, catching a glimpse of a raised weapon, a flash of metal, and then—pain, blinding and hot, tearing through his shoulder. The memory was fragmented, but he remembered the feel of blood, slick and warm, streaming down his side. He remembered the disorienting drop as he fell to his knees, watching his arm—his own arm—lying in the dirt, severed, lifeless. That was the night he’d left a part of himself behind and taken on the weight of steel in its place.
Cain shook his head aggressively and turned away from the mirror.
He moved to the wall panel by his bathroom door, tapping his fingers against the touch-sensitive screen. In response, a compartment slid open, revealing an array of meticulously arranged clothing. Each piece was crafted with precision, tailored from advanced synthetic fibers that were both lightweight and nearly indestructible. The fabric, dark and understated, was lined with a subtle iridescent sheen that shifted in the light, a hallmark of high-ranking officers among the Ascended
He reached for a black, fitted shirt with panels woven from nano-fiber mesh. The material adapted to his body heat and movements, regulating temperature, and was strong enough to resist most blades or stray energy blasts. As he pulled the shirt over his head, he felt the cool embrace of the fabric mold to his skin, engineered to move with him in every subtle shift. This wasn’t just attire; it was armor disguised as clothing, a luxury reserved for those at the top.
Next, he selected a coat with embedded tactical tech—a sleek, high-collared piece that bore the insignia of the Ascended, faintly visible under certain light. With a quick touch to his wrist, a holographic HUD projected from the jacket’s embedded sensors, flickering to life in front of him. Diagnostics ran through, displaying everything from his vitals to environmental metrics, all streamed in real time. It was a commander's jacket, outfitted for someone accustomed to being at the heart of operations and needing the kind of tactical awareness only those in his position would have.
Next He was reaching for a pair of pants crafted with the same high-quality precision as the rest of his gear. The material, a matte black weave reinforced with kinetic-absorbing fibers, offered both flexibility and resilience. The pants had a sleek, militaristic design with reinforced knee guards and small, concealed pockets lined with magnetic closures, perfectly suited for carrying secure equipment without detection.
Lastly, he picked up his gauntlet—a sleek, custom piece designed to seamlessly fit over his prosthetic. It locked into place with a quiet hum, scanning his biometrics before syncing with the rest of his gear. With it, he could control most tech within his vicinity, from doors to combat drones, with a mere thought. It was a subtle but constant reminder of the power he wielded, a tool of authority crafted for someone who didn’t just lead by presence but by sheer command over the technology at his disposal.
Cain took a steady breath as he stepped back, feeling the familiar weight of his armor and gear settle around him, turning from an ordinary man into a figure of command.
Now fully dressed, every piece of clothing serving a dual purpose, Cain straightened, feeling once again the weight of his status and role. He adjusted the high collar of his jacket, his mind already turning toward the mission ahead, and left the bathroom with a steady, unbreakable focus.
—-------
Cain walked down the dimly lit corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing off the metal walls in rhythm with the muffled sounds ahead. The quiet hum of machinery filled the space between, but he barely registered it, his focus fixed on the approaching door and the grunts of pain filtering through. The sounds were sharp, punctuated, like the beat of a war drum—one he was far too familiar with.
As he walked, his bionic eye flickered to life, displaying a message from Elohan that had arrived mere minutes ago:
‹Interrogate the captured Godhunter. Find out their hideout. No excuses.›
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Cain suppressed a smirk. Elohan never minced words. The directive was clear, and Cain would execute it with precision, just as he always had. But the fact that this particular “Godhunter” was someone he had seen weeks before—a ragged, gray-haired beggar loitering at the edge of the district—left him unsettled.
He remembered the first time he’d noticed the man, draped in tattered clothing, blending into the shadows with a practiced ease. His hair, though unkempt and streaked with gray, had retained an odd elegance, like it had once been neatly styled, a remnant of a life now buried beneath layers of grime and deception. But it was the beggar’s eyes that lingered most in Cain’s mind—sharp and calculating, the kind of eyes that had once commanded respect. The deep scar slashing across the man’s face, from brow to mouth, hinted at a violent past, a mark of battles fought long before he had faded into the gutter.
Cain had suspected the man of being more than he appeared, but not once had he considered him capable of being tied to the Godhunters. Yet here they were. The beggar had slipped up, revealed himself, and now Cain was left to peel back the layers, to expose whatever secrets the man still clung to.
Cain stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over the sparse interior, immediately landing on the hunched figure of the beggar. The man was bound to a metal chair, head slumped forward, blood trickling from a cut above his brow. His graying hair was matted and tangled, sticking to his forehead as he gasped for breath.
Standing over him, fists bloodied and stance taut, was Garran—a heavyset guard with a reputation for enjoying his work a little too much. He looked up as Cain entered, a faint glimmer of anticipation flashing in his eyes.
Cain raised a hand, signaling for Garran to pause. «That’ll do for now, Lorik,» he said, his tone measured and calm. Lorik took a step back, breathing heavily, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve but not straying too far from the captive.
Cain took a few steps closer to the bound man, crossing his arms. «You’re a hard man to keep track of,» he began, voice low and steady. “
«All those nights spent in the alleys, watching, listening… You didn’t think anyone would notice? I did. But I misjudged, didn’t I? Thought you were just another vagrant.»
The Godhunter looked up, one eye swollen nearly shut, the other fixed on Cain with a glint of defiance that, despite his condition, hadn’t faded.
Cain studied the man in silence for a moment, taking in the details. The bruises, the blood on his lip, the slow, shallow breaths. And yet, beneath the damage, there was a dignity that refused to bow, an unbroken resilience that almost—almost—earned a measure of respect from Cain.
«Let’s not waste time,» Cain said, folding his arms, his gaze piercing. «I’m sure you know why you’re here. You can tell us the location of your hideout now, or…» he glanced briefly at Lorik, then back at the beggar, «we can continue this in the unpleasant way my associate here is all too eager for.»
The Godhunters’ uninjured eye narrowed, a flicker of hate passing over his battered face. «You must be Cain,» he said, voice hoarse from the interrogation. «Elohan’s lapdog.»
Cain’s expression remained impassive, though the insult made something stir within him. «Lapdog, perhaps,» he replied smoothly. «But I’m a lapdog who can decide whether you walk out of here, or whether you’re carried out in pieces.»
He took a step closer, leaning in just enough to make his presence loom over the man. «Tell me what I need to know. You don’t strike me as someone who values unnecessary suffering.»
The man huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. «Do your worst, boy,» he muttered. «I’ve faced men twice your size and ten times as cruel. I’ll tell you nothing.»
«You’re not gaining anything by resisting,» Cain murmured, voice low, steady. «I’ve been through enough battles to know when someone has reached their limit. You’ve got a choice here—walk away with some dignity, or make this uglier than it needs to be. No one here will respect your silence.»
The Godhunter gave him a grim, bloodied smile. «Respect from you and yours means nothing to me,» he rasped. «You’re just puppets, and when your master has no more use for you, he’ll leave you as broken as the rest.»
Cain’s jaw tightened, though he kept his expression even. It was an insult, yes, but one he’d heard in various forms before. He knew the loyalty he had to Elohan was questioned, that he was seen as a willing tool; even by some of the other Ascended. But in this moment, he had little patience for lectures on the morality of loyalty. He had a job to do, and a man to break.
He gave the Godhunter a hard look, his gaze like sharpened steel. «I don’t think you understand what’s happening here,» he said softly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. «I’m not here to debate loyalty. I’m here to make you talk.»
The man’s eyes flashed with a hatred that ran deeper than pain. Then she spit bloody saliva in Cain's face. «You can beat me, kill me, make your threats—doesn’t change the fact that you’re nothing more than Elohan’s dog.»
Lorik took a heavy step Forward, but Cain held up a hand, signaling him to step back. The guard growled and halted mid-motion, his knuckles still bloodied from the last strike. He exchanged a glance with Cain, waiting, as if itching for the order to continue.
Cain’s gaze returned to the Godhunter. «You’re defiant now,» he murmured, his tone almost conversational. «But you won’t be when this room has done its work.»
The Godhunter lifted his bruised face, managing a half-smirk despite the cuts splitting his lip. «Spoken like a man who’s never known true conviction.»
Cain’s kept his expression even. «Conviction only has value if it doesn’t lead to a painful, pointless death. You’re throwing yourself onto a pyre for people who’ll be forgotten soon enough.» He leaned in, voice a low, steady whisper. «And once you’re gone, your friends will follow.»
The Godhunter’s one uninjured eye glinted with an emotion that seemed somewhere between scorn and pity. «And what do you stand for, Cain? Orders from a coward who hides in his tower?» He spat, the defiance in his tone louder than the rattling breaths escaping him. «You follow a god who fears his own shadow, a tyrant who’s running scared.»
Cain’s mouth twisted in a near-smile, though he could feel irritation bubbling up beneath the surface. «Your bravado won’t mean much when your hideout is turned to rubble,» he replied, his tone sharp. «Tell us where it is, and maybe you’ll save a few of those lives you claim to value.»
The Godhunter just laughed—a rough, painful sound that echoed off the bare walls. «Do you even hear yourself? You’re no different from the men who come before. Only difference is, you’re too blind to know it.»
Cain narrowed his gaze, feeling the frustration build. This wasn’t going anywhere. He stepped back, letting his posture relax as he nodded to Lorik. «Continue.»
With a grunt, Lorik wasted no time. He landed a harsh blow to the Godhunter’s stomach, the impact strong enough to shake the chair. The man gasped, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gulps, but he kept his eyes on Cain, refusing to let the pain break his stare.
Cain felt the faintest flicker of admiration for the man’s resilience, but it was buried beneath a cold sense of duty. He couldn’t afford to respect an enemy who’d already given up his life for a futile cause.
A subtle vibration from the device on his wrist pulled Cain’s attention, and he glanced down, frowning as he read the message flashing across the screen: ‹Report to the tower immediately. Elohan expects you.›
Cain exhaled with irritation. This wasn’t ideal timing, but when Elohan called him again, there were no options. He threw one last glance at the Godhunter, his voice devoid of any remaining patience.
«Consider this your last chance. Tell me the location of your hideout, and your suffering ends here. Or refuse, and when I return, you’ll wish you’d made a different choice.»
The Godhunter's laugh was hoarse but defiant. «Go to your tower, lapdog. I’m not afraid to die.»
Cain’s expression remained cold, unreadable, but he felt the weight of that insult linger as he turned on his heel. «Keep working on him, Lorik. I expect some pro
gress by the time I’m back.»
With that, Cain left the room, the Godhunter’s laughter, followed by painful grunts trailing after him like a haunting refrain as he Walked down the corridor, preparing himself for whatever Elohan had in store….again.