CHAPTER 1050: THE CRAFTING PROCESS (2).

The city was stirring awake. Not with birdsong or morning bells, but with the groan of shutters dragged open and the cough of furnaces rekindled. Cain watched it all from a rooftop’s ledge, his hands resting on his knees, still as stone.

Below, the avenues of City Z sprawled wide—market stalls waiting for coin, barracks garrisons yawning into routine, merchants moving with ledgers hugged to their chests like armor. From up here, the sprawl seemed harmless, mundane. But Cain knew better. Beneath the cobblestones, in the air vents and forgotten passages, the phantom still threaded its presence. Its scouts had retreated, but retreat was never surrender.

Susan crouched beside him, her cloak drawn close, hair damp with dew. She said nothing for a long while, only scanning the city with her hawk’s patience. When she did speak, it was with the faintest rasp. "They’ve adapted. You saw it."

Cain inclined his head. "Each hesitation last night was a measure. Each feint, a probe. They’ll return with correction."

Hunter leaned against a rusted pipe behind them, arms folded, eyes narrow. "Then we should escalate first. Strike before they test again."

Steve’s voice rose through the clatter of his portable rig, fingers tapping nervously on steel. "Escalate how? You collapse more alleys, the grid will scream. You silence more scouts, their networks will rewrite pathways. We’re already skating on the margin of exposure."

Cain said nothing. He let the argument spool itself, words scattering like loose powder. The answer wasn’t in debate—it was in the rhythm of the hunt, in watching how the city itself bent around intrusion.

He stood, rising slow, deliberate. The wind pulled at his coat, tugged against the scars etched into its lining. "Exposure isn’t our enemy. Timing is." His gaze swept across the rooftops, toward the inland quarter where stone towers pressed against one another like teeth in a clenched jaw. "They’ll be drawn there. Too many choke points to ignore. That’s where we will wait."

Susan frowned. "And if they don’t?"

"Then the city will bleed without them knowing why."

Hunter pushed off the pipe, silent acceptance settling on his features. Susan, though skeptical, followed as Cain moved. Steve trailed last, muttering to himself as he reassembled his equipment mid-step, antennae bristling like an insect’s spines.

They cut across the rooftops, shadows slipping into the rising sun, until they reached the quarter Cain had chosen. The inland block was older—buildings blackened by soot, windows covered with iron grates, alleys too narrow for wagons. It was a labyrinth not drawn on any civic plan, a place the city tolerated but never claimed.

Perfect.

Cain traced the lines in his mind: four entry points, six hidden traversals, at least two concealed vantage spots where the phantom would set observers. He felt the hum of tension underfoot, as though the stones themselves were holding breath.

He knelt and pressed his palm against the ground. Cold seeped into his skin, but beneath it, faint vibration—machines shifting, something stirring where no human hand worked. He pulled back, gaze darkening. "They’re already here."

Susan’s hand tightened on her blade. Hunter’s crossbow angled toward the nearest street. Steve swore under his breath, dragging his devices into a tighter cluster.

From the far end of the alley, a figure emerged. Cloaked, faceless, gait deliberately human—but Cain caught the misstep instantly, the half-second lag between heel and toe. Not flesh. Not entirely.

The phantom sent its first envoy.

Cain didn’t move. He only watched as the figure drew closer, its hood tilted just enough to suggest curiosity. The street around them grew oddly quiet—no merchants, no guards, no stray drunkards left from the night before. The phantom had cleared the stage for this meeting.

At twenty paces, the envoy stopped. Its voice was layered, like two tongues speaking from one throat. "Hunter. Witness. Interference. Why?"

Cain stepped forward once. His shadow stretched long across the stones. "Because this city belongs to the living. Not to echoes."

The envoy tilted its head, mechanical creak betraying the hinge beneath the skin-mask. "Claim is irrelevant. Time unravels. You slow it."

"Slowing isn’t stopping," Cain replied. His hand lowered to his blade’s hilt, though he did not draw. "But you already know that. You’re not here to speak—you’re here to measure again."

The envoy stilled. For a heartbeat, the silence was total. Then its body split—not in gore, but in fracture. Plates peeled back, limbs lengthened, and the cloak fell to the stones like shed skin. Where a man had stood, a construct now rose—tall as two men, body threaded with veins of black glass and iron.

Susan inhaled sharply. Hunter raised his weapon. Steve’s machines chattered in alarm.

Cain’s grip tightened on his sword. "So be it."

The envoy lunged, too fast for its size, claws raking against the stones. Cain moved to meet it, steel shrieking as it carved into plated arm. Sparks cascaded, the air hot with friction. The force drove him back half a step, boots gouging against the cobblestones, but his stance held.

Susan was there in the next instant, blade flashing upward in a precise arc, striking where the plating thinned at the joint. The envoy howled—a sound less scream than rupture, like metal shearing apart.

Hunter’s bolt slammed into its chest, detonating in a burst of compressed light. Steve’s rig spat arcs of interference, disrupting the envoy’s balance, making its movements stagger for the first time.

But even staggered, it struck like a collapsing wall, sweeping its arm wide and sending Susan crashing into a wall. Hunter ducked beneath the blow, but the air rippled from its force, hurling debris into the alley.

Cain’s mind narrowed, cold and absolute. No more testing. No more hesitation. He moved low, blade trailing sparks against the stones, and cut deep across the envoy’s knee. The leg buckled, metal shrieking.

"Down it," he ordered.

Susan, bleeding but unbroken, surged forward again. Hunter’s next shot drove through its fractured joint. Steve’s rig overloaded, sparking wild, and the envoy staggered once more—then Cain brought his blade down in a brutal arc, splitting its headplate wide.

The envoy collapsed, twitching, its body collapsing inward until only shards of black glass remained.

Silence reclaimed the alley.

Steve let out a shaky laugh, rubbing sweat from his brow. "You know... they’re not even sending their best yet."