CHAPTER 1062: SEEKING ELYSIUM (2).

Cain’s boots pressed into the wet stone as he led them deeper into the undercity. The air grew denser the further they moved from the open alleys, heavy with damp rot and iron. City Z had always been a maze, but this was worse—a place carved into secrecy, forgotten by everyone except the desperate and the damned.

Roselle walked beside him, her twin blades catching light that wasn’t there. Hunter kept to the shadows behind, crossbow raised, breathing like a machine built for patience. Susan followed close, her steps quiet but deliberate, every movement marking her readiness to act. Steve trailed last, eyes locked to the shifting glow of his device, its dying screen stuttering out fragments of data.

They passed another stretch of wall marked by the spirals. These burned deeper than before, pulsing as though blood ran through stone. Cain slowed, studying them. They didn’t radiate heat anymore; instead, they whispered, subtle vibrations in the marrow of his bones.

Susan’s voice broke the silence. "How long before the city notices these? Before the crowds wander in?"

"Too late," Cain said flatly. "The infection spreads faster than rumor."

Steve swallowed, fingers dancing nervously across his screen. "Grid’s reading distortions stacked on distortions. It’s like the system can’t decide if this place exists. And that—" He stopped abruptly. His pupils dilated. "Something’s watching the watchers."

Cain moved to him in an instant, one hand on Steve’s shoulder, forcing his gaze away from the device. "Then stop staring. That’s how they burrow in."

Hunter’s voice cut from the dark. "We don’t need theory. We need targets."

Cain nodded once. "And we’ll have them."

They advanced another block before the first sound reached them. A scrape, high and shrill, like bone dragged against steel. It echoed down the passage, vibrating through their ribs. Susan drew her blade. Roselle’s stance shifted, predator-coiled.

The scraping grew louder. A shape detached itself from the spiraled walls, first a shadow, then substance. Its limbs were too long, bending wrong, its body etched with the same glowing spirals. Its face—or what passed for one—was flat, a smooth plate of bone marked only by slits leaking faint red light.

The creature exhaled, and the spirals around them flared in answer.

Steve gasped. "It’s syncing with the marks—like they’re all one body."

Cain stepped forward, blade low, eyes sharp. "Then sever the body."

The thing lunged, movement wrong and jagged, as if pulled on strings. Roselle met it head-on, her blades cutting arcs of silver. The clash rang like a bell, sparks scattering as bone met steel. Hunter loosed a bolt; it sank deep into the creature’s side, but instead of faltering, it twisted and pulled the shaft into itself, the wound knitting in spiraled patterns.

Susan darted in, carving across its limb. Black ichor spilled, thick and reeking, but the limb didn’t slow. The abomination struck the ground with a spear-like arm, stone exploding outward. The walls pulsed brighter, the sigils feeding its frenzy.

Cain moved then—too fast for the eye, a blur of precision. His blade slashed once, twice, each strike aimed not at flesh but at the marks etched into its body. Where he cut, the glow dimmed, the spirals unraveling like threads cut from a loom.

The monster screeched, sound grinding, unnatural. Roselle pressed the advantage, her twin blades piercing into its chest, holding it long enough for Hunter to fire again—this time directly into its glowing head.

The creature convulsed, spasms rattling its broken frame. It collapsed, ichor spreading, its spirals dimming into silence.

The alley was still again. Only the faint pulse of marks on the surrounding walls remained.

Susan exhaled, wiping black blood from her blade. "That was just one. And it nearly took us apart."

Roselle’s eyes stayed on the corpse. "They’ll grow stronger."

Steve’s device beeped erratically, light spilling across his face. His voice shook. "This wasn’t just a fight. Data’s screaming—the kill lit up the whole grid. Everything down here knows we’re here now."

Cain knelt by the corpse, studying the dimmed sigils. His expression didn’t shift, but his voice carried the final weight of his thoughts. "Good. Let them come."

He rose, turning toward the blackened passage ahead. "We’ve seen their face. Now we show them ours."

Hunter moved into step behind him. Susan glanced once at Roselle, then followed. Steve hesitated, staring at his glitching device, before forcing himself forward.

The marks on the walls pulsed in answer, as though acknowledging Cain’s challenge.

The hunt had widened.

And for the first time since they began, Cain felt the city itself tilt—no longer neutral ground, but battlefield.

Cain kept moving, his boots whispering against the broken pavement as if he had no weight at all. The storm of the night had not abated, but now it had a rhythm—one that pressed in from the alleys, the cracks, the unseen rooftops above. Every heartbeat was a reminder that the city itself was listening, taking in the clash, reshaping the silence into a memory that would outlive them all.

Susan matched his pace, her cloak damp with ash and dew, her eyes cutting through the haze with a cold steadiness that unsettled even the shadows. She had said nothing since the last strike, but Cain did not need her voice. He understood her silence as he did the placement of her feet—she was ready, and she was holding her fury in check for the right moment.

Hunter trailed behind, his gaze never leaving the rooftops. He counted shapes in the dark, waiting for the ripple of motion that would betray their enemy’s presence. Each pause of his breath felt deliberate, a sharpened blade waiting for release.

Steve muttered curses into his equipment, coaxing signals where none should exist, dragging half-dead circuits back into life. His hands shook with fatigue, but still, he persisted. His craft was the thread between their plans and chaos, and even Cain knew better than to underestimate the stubborn fire in him.

The city bent inward, narrowing streets, forcing them into a throat of stone and shadow. Cain lifted his chin, listening—something was shifting ahead, something preparing. He knew the pattern by now. The phantom was not retreating. It was circling, testing their formation, probing for weakness.

And Cain welcomed it.

He exhaled, steady, low, a sound almost lost beneath the city’s breath. Then he whispered—words not meant for reassurance, but command.

"Hold."

The hunt was no longer about pursuit. It was about the strike that came after patience.