CHAPTER 146: FIRST CONTACT

Their strides devoured the plain. Human lightning bolts splitting the heat, moving so fast the stones beneath their feet blurred into continuous gray. Dylan’s essence core pulsed beneath his ribs like a war drum, transforming every muscle into steel springs. Maggie raced beside him, a nimble shadow whose boots barely grazed the ground, stirring minimal dust. And Élisa—Élisa literally soared above the desert. Her spear vibrated with an emerald halo, carrying her weight like a guided projectile.

Her bare feet skimmed the scorching rocks, sparing her skin but more importantly conserving her precious essence. She could have outpaced them—become a streak of light racing toward Martissant—but she deliberately kept pace. Every pulse of the spear drained her reserves, a constant calculation between speed and survival.

Suddenly, Élisa slowed. Her spear tilted, the emerald energy flickering weakly. She landed softly, her feet finally meeting stone with a suppressed wince.

Dylan and Maggie braked instantly, their own cores damping their inner fire. A few hundred meters ahead, the shimmering heat gave way to a tangible scene: a heavy wooden wagon tilted like a wounded animal, its rear wheel completely shattered.

Three human figures bustled around it. Two nervous horses pawed the ground, tethered to the front. One of them—a burly, bearded man—was desperately yanking at a twisted axle. Another, a younger woman, tried calming the beasts. The third, lean and twitchy, frantically rummaged through a tool chest.

"We need to slow down," Élisa breathed, her voice rough but carried by an essence-infused gust that cut through the wind. She raised her hand, palm open toward her companions. A stop signal. "At this speed, they’ll only see hostile shadows charging... and they’ll panic." Her intense green eyes scanned the scene. "The woman by the horses has a sophisticated bow strapped to her saddle. She hasn’t grabbed it yet... but she will if we seem threatening."

Dylan growled, his jian already half-drawn by reflex. His core’s pulse had steadied, but a dull tension thrummed through him. Maggie, silent, had already slid her chain weapon along her neck, trying to appear as relaxed as possible.

Her brown eyes assessed the situation with tactical coldness. "Three people," she murmured. "A merchant wagon—see those sealed crates in back. Lost in the middle of nowhere. The dangerous one’s got the rifle."

Élisa nodded. She planted her spear tip into the ground with a sharp clack, leaving it vibrating faintly. A clear gesture: No weapons drawn. "Approach slowly. Hands visible. Dylan, sheath your blade. Maggie, keep that hybrid marvel hidden." She stepped forward first, her bare hands open at hip height—a non-threatening yet ready stance.

Her footsteps were deliberately heavy, making gravel crunch under her bare feet to announce their presence. Dylan followed, jaw tight, his jian now sheathed but palms sweaty. Maggie brought up the rear, a discreet shadow, her weapon swinging from her neck but muscles primed to strike.

At thirty meters, the bearded man looked up. His face, red from effort and sun, froze upon seeing their approach. His small, sharp eyes locked onto them. "Halt!" he bellowed, his gruff voice thick with a city accent. He released the axle and straightened, one hand instinctively moving toward the massive halberd leaning against the skittish horse. "Stop right there! Show me your hands!"

The young woman at the horses startled, gripping the bridle tighter. The twitchy one at the chest froze, a rusted hammer in hand. The air turned electric.

Élisa stopped, the others mirroring her. She inhaled, projecting her voice with studied calm that contrasted with her dust-covered, sweat-streaked fugitive appearance: "Peace! We’re travelers, like you. We spotted your distressed wagon from the ridge." She gestured toward the horizon with a broad, slow motion. "We offer help... if you’ll accept it."

A tense silence settled, broken only by the horses’ short breaths and the distant creak of phantom wagon wheels in the wind. The halberdier—clearly their guard—scrutinized them one by one.

His eyes traced their tattered clothes, their concealed but hinted weapons, the spear planted like a strange standard. He noted their exhaustion, their grime, but also a determination that didn’t belong to beggars. His gaze lingered on Élisa’s calloused bare feet, then on Maggie’s barely faded scars.

"Help?" he sneered, suspicious. His hand didn’t leave the halberd’s shaft. "In this godforsaken wasteland? You look more like you’re being chased by the Devil himself!" He threw a nervous glance over their shoulders, as if expecting the hell they’d fled to materialize. The young woman at the horses muttered something, her light eyes full of apprehension.

Élisa kept her glacial composure. "The Devil wears many faces in these lands," she replied, a hint of urgency bleeding through her control. "And night falls fast. A broken wagon makes a more inviting target than three hardened runners." She jerked her chin at the shattered wheel. "We have strength. Skills. Let us help fix this, and we’ll head to Martissant together. More numbers... less prey."

The halberdier—Dylan mentally dubbed him ’Warrior’—exchanged looks with the twitchy one, who shrugged fatalistically. The young woman seemed almost relieved. Logic was piercing suspicion. The warrior finally released his weapon’s shaft and spat into the dust.

"Fine... Agreed. But one shady move, one lie, and the desert gets three more corpses to chew on." He jerked a thumb at the wagon. "My comrade Jonas here spotted a crack in the axle before the wheel gave out. We’ve got a spare, but getting it out and fitted..." He shook his shaggy head. "We’ll never finish before nightfall alone."

A thin, near-imperceptible smile touched Élisa’s lips. She glanced at Dylan and Maggie, silent orders in her eyes.

Both took one step forward. Just one. Almost choreographed.

The kind of movement that says we know how to fight, but choose not to.

Dylan raised his arms halfway, palms forward, shoulders deliberately relaxed in a harmless posture. Dust drifted from his elbows as he flashed a carefully casual smile.

"Let us help. I may be scrawny..." He rolled up his torn sleeves to reveal lean but sinewy arms, veins subtly pronounced, still trembling slightly from their run but very much alive. "...but stronger than I look, you know."

He flexed a bicep slightly, almost proudly, and shot Maggie a quick wink.

Maggie slowly rolled her eyes skyward.

Then she crossed her arms, her dark gaze resting on Dylan’s shoulder as if debating whether to slap him or compliment him.

The bearded warrior snorted loudly.

His gaze traveled slowly down Dylan’s arm, then back up to his face.

"Yeah..." he grunted, working a wood splinter between his teeth like an imaginary toothpick. "Real impressive."

His tone dripped sarcasm. But the danger had dialed back slightly. The weight in the air had shifted a notch.

"Jonas, get the spare axle," he barked without taking his eyes off Dylan. "And you, girlie, keep the horses calm."

"It’s Marisse, asshole," the young woman growled without even looking at him, before soothing a horse’s neck with her palm.

The twitchy boy—Jonas—began rummaging in the rear chest. He kept stealing glances at Élisa, as if she were some rare beast he dared neither approach nor ignore.

Élisa, for her part, finally approached the wagon. She pulled her spear from the ground with a sharp hiss and slid it across her back in one precise, almost military motion. Her gaze skimmed the stacked crates.

"Merchants, then?" she asked neutrally, almost politely.

The warrior leaned against the wagon’s flank, his weight making the planks groan like a threat.

"We haul lumber. And tools. That’s what Martissant wants."

A grimace. "And you? What’s your business there?"

Dylan and Maggie exchanged a quick glance. Not a word. But silent agreement.

Élisa answered calmly.

"A rest."

The warrior barked a joyless laugh.

"Ah... A rest. Yeah. You’ll be disappointed."