Chapter 71: Into the Wasteland
Jet Walker stepped beyond the last shanties of the refugee camp as dusk faded, leaving behind the warm glow of firelight and camaraderie. Ahead lay the open Wasteland – an endless expanse of cracked earth and twisted metal ruins bathed in a dim red sunset. With each step eastward, Jet felt both a thrill of freedom and the weight of solitude. The gritty wind that tugged at his threadbare jacket carried the scents of dust and distant ash. It howled through skeletal remains of billboards and rusting vehicles, sounding eerily like the ghosts of the world before.
He adjusted the strap of his old messenger bag – now bulging with supplies gifted by the refugees – and kept a hand near the hilt of his Chrono Blade. The legendary sword hung sheathed at his side, comforting in its weight. Even without drawing it, Jet could sense a subtle hum of temporal energy from the blade, as if it resonated with his own heartbeat. Overhead, the sky darkened to a bruised purple. One by one, stars emerged, cold and distant.
Jet paused atop a low hill of debris to look back one last time. Far behind, the camp's perimeter fires flickered like tiny orange stars on the horizon, a fragile beacon of hope in the darkness. He remembered the tearful farewells: Gregor pressing a sturdy canteen of purified water into his hands, Ava packing dried rations and a map drawn on cloth, the ragged children hugging his legs in thanks. He remembered Finn clapping him on the shoulder, and Reina's smirk as she told him to "try not to get eaten out there." They had all insisted on helping him prepare. Now those friends were silhouettes in his memory, growing fainter as night took hold. Jet's chest tightened with a pang of loneliness—Lexi's laugh and the bustle of city streets had been replaced by emptiness and quiet threat.
The System's voice cut into his thoughts with its usual dry candor. "Sentimental already, Jet? It's been five minutes. Eyes forward – nothing out here but rocks and radiation." The AI's tone was half-mocking, half-warning.
Jet exhaled, vapor puffing in the cooling air. "I know," he murmured under his breath, tugging up a makeshift scarf against the dust. He squared his shoulders and resumed walking. Beneath his fear, he felt a spark of determination. This was what he'd set out to do – venture into the unknown, get stronger, and help more people. He wouldn't let a little looming dread stop him now.
Within an hour, true darkness had fallen. A pale quarter-moon cast weak light over the desolate plain. Jet's boots crunched on soil turned to glassy slag by ancient blasts. Here and there, the husks of dead trees jutted from the ground, branches contorted like grasping hands. He moved carefully, senses on high alert. His Perception stat had climbed over his many trials; now he could pick out faint sounds like the skitter of a lizard hiding from him under a piece of scrap, or the distant rumble of shifting earth.
The System highlighted faint green glimmers in his vision – residual radiation pockets dotted the landscape ahead, likely pooling in low trenches. "Radiation levels rising. Recommend caution or detour," it intoned clinically. Jet nodded and altered course to give the glowing sinkholes a wide berth. His heart beat a little quicker. He'd dealt with "acid drizzle" and smog in the city, but direct radiation was a rarer threat up close. The refugees had given him a cracked Geiger counter that currently ticked softly from his bag, a reminder that even the air here could kill if he wasn't careful.
As he carefully descended a mound of rubble, a sudden sound made him freeze. A faint scratching carried on the wind – dry and irregular. Jet crouched behind the rusted chassis of an overturned truck, straining to listen. The noise came again: a slithering rasp, then silence. He couldn't tell if it was the wind scraping metal or something alive moving just out of sight.
Slowly, Jet slid the Chrono Blade a few inches out of its sheath, just enough to feel its power at the ready. His other hand found the cold metal of a small throwing knife tucked in his belt. Muscles tensed, he scanned the darkness ahead, waiting.
A high-pitched chitter broke the silence. From the shadows between two collapsed concrete pylons, something erupted – a serpentine shape, long and pale, arcing through the air toward him. Jet threw himself aside on instinct as the creature slammed into the truck carcass with a heavy thud, right where he'd crouched a split second before.
Dust and rust burst upward. Jet rolled to his feet, heart hammering. In the moonlight, the thing revealed itself: a worm-like monstrosity as thick as a man's torso, pallid flesh glowing with bioluminescent sickliness. Its eyeless head thrashed, ringed by hooked mandibles that clacked against each other, frustrated at missing prey. A rad-worm – one of the Wasteland's infamous horrors, birthed from radiation and mutation.
Jet's mouth went dry. He'd seen pictures of these in a worn field guide Aurora's team had provided – underground predators drawn to heat and motion. The System's prompt blinked in the corner of his vision:
[SYSTEM SCAN: Rad-Worm – Level 18. A burrowing mutant worm that senses vibrations. Highly resistant to radiation and toxins. Weak point: mouth/throat (unarmored flesh).]
The rad-worm swiveled, its tubular body undulating with surprising speed. It oriented on Jet, sensitive to the vibrations of his movements. With a shrill hiss, it lunged again, mouthparts snapping.
Jet reacted in a split second. "Overclock," he whispered, invoking his newest ability.
Time seemed to stretch like taffy. The whipping dust mote in front of Jet's eyes slowed to a crawl, and the rad-worm's charge turned into an almost gentle glide. Jet felt a familiar surge of energy flood his limbs – an exhilarating lightness paired with razor-edged focus. Everything around him took on a crystalline clarity. Overclock engaged.
He sidestepped the creature's sluggish lunge with ease, each of his footfalls hitting the ground in a rapid staccato beyond normal human ability. To Jet, the world had fallen into slow-motion; to any observer, he moved as a blur. In a fluid motion, he unsheathed the Chrono Blade completely. The steel left its scabbard with a resonant ring that cut through the night air.
The rad-worm's head sailed past him, missing by a wide margin thanks to Overclock. Its momentum carried its front half forward, exposing the softer under-segment behind the head, just as the System's scan had highlighted. Jet didn't waste the opportunity. He swung the Chrono Blade in a precise arc, aiming for the vulnerable spot.
Even in Overclock, the act of swinging the sword felt oddly normal to Jet – the Blade seemed to obey with uncanny speed. A flash of silver, and the edge sliced clean through the worm's rubbery hide. Ichor sprayed, black under the moonlight, as the creature shrieked in pain.
Jet landed lightly behind it as Overclock's burst of acceleration waned; he could feel the ability's strain nibbling at his stamina. The rad-worm writhed violently, its front rearing up and flailing. He'd cut a deep gash along its flank, ichor oozing from the wound, but it wasn't finished.
With a guttural gurgle, the worm twisted back toward Jet, sweeping its massive tail in a broad swipe. This time, Jet couldn't fully dodge. The tail clipped his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling onto his back. Pain flared in his calves where the rough hide struck, and Jet bit back a curse. Immediately he rolled sideways, barely avoiding a follow-up lunge that drove the worm's gnashing maw into the dirt inches from his previous position.
Adrenaline pounded in his veins. Jet scrambled to his feet, feet sliding on loose gravel. The rad-worm retreated a yard, then coiled, preparing another strike. Its wound dripped, but the creature seemed enraged more than hurt.
Jet's mind raced, options flickering. He could try Overclock again, but his breathing was already ragged from the brief usage; the ability took a lot out of him and likely had a short cooldown. Instead, he tightened his grip on the Chrono Blade with both hands and focused. If he timed things just right...
The worm shot forward, a white blur in the gloom. Jet planted his feet and raised his sword high. At the last second, he triggered a different power coursing within him – not a full Time Freeze (that was too energy-intensive to waste on a single creature), but a minor time-dilation trick he'd mastered with practice. To his perception, the creature's charge decelerated just enough for him to act decisively.
He sidestepped and brought the Chrono Blade slashing down with all his strength directly into the worm's open maw. There was a wet, terrible schlorch as the blade bit deep, cleaving through soft tissue and exiting out the side of the worm's neck.
The effect was instantaneous. The rad-worm's momentum carried the severing through – its head, nearly split, crashed to the ground on one side of Jet, while the rest of its thrashing body collapsed to the other. Black ichor pooled and steamed, filling the air with an acrid, metallic stench.
Jet stumbled back, chest heaving. His legs trembled both from exertion and the after-effect of bending time to his will. He gripped the Chrono Blade tightly, ready in case the creature still had fight left, but after a final shudder, the rad-worm lay still. Only the echo of its death screech lingered in Jet's ears.
He swallowed down bile and wiped sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. This was his first kill in the open Wasteland since leaving – a far cry from battling gang members or even the mutant hounds outside the city wall. Out here, the nightmares were real and unrestrained.
A familiar chime resonated in his mind, and Jet caught a faint glow of text in his peripheral vision:
[SYSTEM ALERT – Enemy slain: Rad-Worm (Level 18). +180 XP]
[Skill Usage Bonus: First successful use of Overclock in combat. +20 XP]
[XP: 8450/9000 to Level 26]
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The numbers floated and then faded. Jet allowed himself a small smile – even the System was acknowledging the achievement, albeit in its transactional way.
The AI's voice piped up, dripping with its trademark sarcasm. "Lovely form, Jet. Nothing like a radioactive worm gutting to kick off your solo adventure, hmm? At least you remembered the weak point. I'd give that performance a 6 out of 10 – points deducted for nearly getting yourself tail-whipped into paste."
Jet rolled his eyes, kneeling to wipe the Chrono Blade clean on a patch of dry scrub. "Thanks for the critique," he muttered. Up close, the worm's blood was making the dirt smoke faintly. He was careful to keep it off his skin – who knew what toxic cocktail ran in its veins.
The System wasn't done. "Also, friendly reminder: Overclock drains stamina fast. Your heart rate is still elevated. Don't drop dead of a heart attack trying to play speedster, alright? I have plans and they involve you staying alive."
Jet could almost imagine the AI wagging a finger at him. He sheathed his sword, took a steadying breath and then a sip from his canteen. The water – crisp and clean from Lexi's purifier – soothed his raw throat. "Noted," he answered inwardly. The System's concern, however pragmatic, was duly taken. Overclock had felt amazing, but the fatigue afterward was real – a slight dizziness lingered at the edges of his vision.
Once he felt steadier, Jet carefully approached the rad-worm's carcass. The System overlay was already highlighting parts of interest, turning his gaze to the creature's remaining un-splattered anatomy. Mutant or not, everything in the Wasteland had potential uses.
[Lootable: Rad-Worm bile gland (toxic, can be refined into acid); Rad-Worm hide scraps (resilient leather, medium quality).]
Jet grimaced at the idea of carving into the thing, but he was in no position to waste resources. Holding his breath, he used his knife to extract the bile gland – a slimy sac situated near the creature's head – and sealed it in a small specimen jar Dr. Zhang had given him for samples. Next, he cut free a few intact sections of the worm's pale hide, careful to avoid the most irradiated-looking parts. The thick rubbery skin might be fashioned into armor patches or sold to someone back in the city eventually. He stowed these in his pack, making note to clean and cure them later if he could.
Rising to his feet, Jet took stock. The night was quiet again, aside from the soft whistle of the wind. His first true Wasteland battle was over, and he had come out on top. A tremor of pride went through him, warming him against the chill. But the encounter also underscored just how dangerous this open expanse was, even mere hours from the relative safety of the camp. He'd have to stay vigilant.
Jet glanced skyward. The stars were brilliant out here, unmasked by city lights, but he could identify none of the constellations – too much had changed in the atmosphere, or perhaps it was simply that he'd never learned them. Either way, they seemed like a thousand unfamiliar eyes watching him.
He moved on, putting distance between himself and the rad-worm's corpse, just in case more scavengers were drawn to the smell of blood. Navigating by the moon and the heading marked on his cloth map, Jet pressed eastward. According to Gregor's notes, an old highway lay a few miles in this direction – a cracked ribbon of road that once connected to distant settlements. With luck, he'd find it by morning and use it to guide his path.
His legs ached from the day's walking and the recent fight, and a fatigue was setting into his bones. As much as Jet wanted to push further, he knew the value of rest. Eventually, he spotted a suitable resting place: a collapsed concrete overpass jutting from the earth, beneath which a relatively sheltered hollow beckoned. It would hide him from prying eyes and block some of the biting wind.
Creeping under the slanted slab, Jet set down his pack. The ground here was dry and mostly free of glass shards. He arranged a square of tarp (another gift from the camp) to lie on and unrolled a thin sleeping pad. It wasn't luxury by any means, but it beat sleeping exposed under the sky.
Before settling in, Jet ate sparingly from his rations – a strip of cured meat and a few sips of water to replenish what he'd lost in sweat. The taste was salty and tough, but it was energy. Every bite reminded him of Ava's kindness in preparing the food. He hoped she and the others were safe back at the camp, likely asleep by now behind their walls.
Jet took out a small photograph he kept tucked in his inner jacket pocket, under the armor plate he'd sewn there. It was wrapped in plastic to protect it from the elements. In the dim light of the wasteland night, he could barely see the faded image of his parents with a much younger him and Lexi. Still, just feeling its worn edges between his fingers comforted him. "Goodnight, Lex," he whispered, imagining his sister safe in the city or perhaps at Aurora's clinic by this hour. The memory of her voice during their last call echoed in his mind: "Come back soon, okay?" she had pleaded. "Be safe, Jonah."
"I will," Jet promised softly to the photograph, to himself. "I'll make you proud."
Tucking the photo away, Jet lay down and finally allowed his body to relax. The System stayed notably silent, likely content to let him rest now that it had dispensed its critique and observations. In the quiet, Jet listened to his own heartbeat and the distant moan of the wind through crumbling concrete. There was a long journey ahead, full of uncertainties. But he had faced the first challenge and survived. Level 26 was within reach – he could feel it – and every hard-won point of experience was another step toward being strong enough to change this harsh world for the better.
As Jet's eyes drifted shut, he maintained a light grip on the hilt of the Chrono Blade beside him. The sword's presence was a reassurance – a reminder that he wasn't helpless, not anymore. Tomorrow would bring new trials, no doubt. But for now, under the ruins of an old world's road, the young Chrono Vicar allowed himself a moment of hard-earned rest, alone in the vast, unforgiving Wasteland.
Chapter 72: Fallout Skies
Dawn broke in a muted haze of red-orange light. Jet woke to a dry mouth and a subtle headache – likely the lingering effects of stress and the ever-present radiation. He quickly checked the cracked Geiger counter clipped to his belt. Its needle hovered in the yellow zone; not immediately dangerous, but a constant reminder that the Wasteland itself was a threat. With a groan, he stretched his sore legs and emerged from under the broken overpass that had sheltered him through the night.
Outside, a vast plain of desolation unfurled. In the dawn glow, Jet spotted the silhouette of the old highway in the distance – a line of broken asphalt and contorted guardrails. It was perhaps a couple of miles out, just as Gregor's map promised. Between here and there stood clusters of wrecked structures: the gutted frames of former rest stops or houses, half-sunken in sand. He also noticed something else that set him on edge: the sky to the east was tinted a sickly green. Thick clouds with an unnatural hue churned on the horizon, and even as he watched, a distant fork of lightning split the sky without a sound, too far to hear.
Jet's stomach tightened. A radiation storm – it had to be. He'd seen the beginnings of one during training briefings, but never this close. The Wasteland brewed toxic tempests that could strip flesh from bone or leave a person glowing in the dark – if they survived at all. The System immediately confirmed his fears:
[ALERT: Radiation Storm approaching from east. ETA: 1-2 hours. Seek shelter.]
The message flashed insistently. Jet didn't need the extra push – he was already hastily packing up his bedroll. "Yeah, no kidding," he muttered. He slung his pack on and began jogging toward the nearest cluster of ruins that might offer cover. The highway could wait; safety came first.
As he trotted across the broken terrain, the wind picked up, shifting direction. It blew from the east now, carrying a dry metallic odor that made Jet's tongue taste like copper. The rising sun was quickly swallowed by the oncoming wall of greenish cloud. The world took on an ominous twilight cast even though morning had just begun.
Jet reached what had once been a roadside diner – now just a canted shell of concrete and steel. One side of its roof had caved in, and faded letters on a toppled sign read "EAT" in bold red, the rest lost to time. He ducked through a doorway missing its door. Inside, the diner's interior was ravaged: bolted-down stools strewn across the floor, shattered glass and old plastic wrappers crunching underfoot. But the far corner booth area had a section of ceiling relatively intact. That would have to do.
He secured what remained of the front entrance as best as he could, propping a rusty sheet of metal across it to block direct exposure. Within minutes, the daylight outside dimmed further, a green gloom descending. Thunder rumbled, closer now, and Jet caught whiffs of ozone and something acrid.
Not wanting to be caught off guard, Jet quickly scavenged the diner for anything useful. He found an old steel serving tray that could serve as an improvised shield if needed, and behind the counter, jackpot – a trapdoor in the floor of a pantry. Yanking it open, he revealed a tiny cellar space, probably used for storage long ago. It was cramped and smelled of mold, but it was a lower space and likely safer from radiation. Unfortunately, it was also flooded with a foot of stagnant water and who-knew-what contaminants. After considering briefly, Jet grimaced and decided to remain above, where it was drier, unless the storm turned truly apocalyptic. He did, however, tug a cracked plastic tarp from a toppled shelf and drag it over to his chosen corner.
As he worked, he found an old notebook lying amid some debris. The cover had a cartoonish logo – perhaps a tourist's journal sold at the diner. Curiosity got the better of him. Jet picked it up and flipped to a random page, seeing surprisingly legible writing:
"...Day 5: We're almost out of fuel. Mary is sick from the water – I told her not to drink from that last pond. The map says a city might be another hundred miles. I'm starting to doubt we'll make it. Last night we heard voices in the dark, chanting from that abandoned church. Frank thinks it was just the wind, but I swear it sounded like people. We didn't investigate – thank God. At dawn, we saw bodies hanging from the old billboard nearby, strung up like warnings. We're steering clear and continuing west. Whatever's out here... it's worse than I feared."
Jet swallowed, eyes darting to the date scrawled above the entry. The year scribbled was two years ago. He thumbed further forward – many pages were ruined by water stains, but another entry near the end stood out:
"...Day 7: Frank is gone. They took him in the night. I hid, like a coward, under the wreck of that semi. I watched them... those things that used to be people, I think. They wore rags and bits of metal, and their skin... glowing sores, like the radiation lives inside them. They dragged Frank away towards the refinery towers. I heard him scream once. I'm alone now. Heading back. Can't go further – the wasteland belongs to the damned."
The entry trailed off with shaky writing. Jet closed the notebook, hands trembling slightly. The chanting voices, bodies on billboards, glowing sores... it painted a picture of some mutant cult preying on travelers. Possibly the same group might still be prowling these parts. The mention of refinery towers gave him a location to be wary of – often old oil refineries or chemical plants dotting the Wasteland became nests for dangerous groups or creatures.
He slipped the notebook into his pack. It was evidence of the cruelty out here, and maybe Aurora or someone could use it someday to track missing people. Or at least Jet could give those unknown victims some acknowledgment.
Outside, the storm hit with sudden fury. A gale-force wind slammed into the diner, rattling its flimsy remains. Jet retreated to the corner and hunkered down under the plastic tarp just as a wash of green-tinted rain blew in through gaps in the walls. The raindrops sizzled where they landed on exposed metal, leaving corroded pockmarks. One drop touched Jet's sleeve and began eating a tiny hole before he brushed it off. Acid rain – a byproduct of radioactive particles and chemicals in the stormclouds.
Jet pulled the tarp tighter over himself, making sure his pack and gear were covered. Underneath, he donned a pair of old goggles (cracked but better than nothing) and a bandana over his mouth – makeshift protection against the toxic tempest. He felt like a child hiding under a blanket from monsters, except this was no childish fear.
Each minute of the storm felt elongated. Thunder boomed overhead, now loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. Green lightning flashed, illuminating the diner's interior in stark, sickly light. Through a gap in his tarp, Jet watched as a bolt struck something in the distance, a direct hit on a derelict car outside. The vehicle exploded in a shower of sparks and sizzling metal. He flinched at the brightness.
The System kept up a scrolling log of the environmental hazard, its tone clinical:
[Radiation spiking – Exposure: 14 mSv and rising]
[Recommendation: minimize contact. Potential damage to health: Minor… Moderate…]
Jet's heart thudded dully. He could only endure; moving out in this was suicide. So he waited, every so often adjusting his cover or swatting away the odd stray drop that sneaked through the roof.
After what felt like an eternity – in reality perhaps an hour – the storm's intensity began to ebb. The thunder grew more distant, and the daylight shifted from green back toward a more natural gray. The acidic rain slackened to a drizzle. Jet dared to emerge from beneath the tarp. The air smelled sharp and ionized, and an eerie quiet replaced the roar of wind.
Carefully, Jet stepped to the doorway, keeping the metal sheet as a shield as he peered out. The storm was moving westward – he could see it as a curtain of emerald gloom dragging itself further away toward the horizon. Overhead, patches of ashen sky were visible again.
He took a cautious breath. The Geiger counter clicked faster than before – he'd need to take some radiation pills soon to counter the dose. Dr. Zhang had insisted he carry a few. Jet rummaged in his bag for a small pill bottle labeled with a biohazard symbol. Shaking two potassium iodide tablets into his palm, he swallowed them dry, hoping to mitigate any harm from what he'd absorbed.
Stepping outside, he surveyed the area. The ground was steaming in places where the acid rain had pooled. The remains of the car that was struck still smoldered, half-melted. But as bad as it looked, Jet knew it could have been worse. There were tales of "hyperstorms" that raged for days, lethal to any caught out.
He looked back at the diner and silently thanked whatever luck or intuition had guided him there in time. The System chortled in his head, "I suppose that counts as finding shelter, though next time maybe pick somewhere that doesn't leak."
Jet managed a weak chuckle. "Noted. I'll ask the storm to schedule a convenient time and place next go-around." It felt good to maintain some humor, even as his body trembled slightly from residual adrenaline.
As he gathered his things to depart, something outside caught Jet's attention. The storm's heavy winds had shifted a lot of dust and debris. Just across the road, an area that had been buried under sand was now partially exposed – the corner of a concrete structure with a faded symbol painted on it. Jet recognized the pattern of that symbol from the notebook's description: a crude sunburst with radiating wavy lines, painted in what looked uncomfortably like dried blood. Beneath it, words were scrawled on the concrete in a jagged script.
Jet approached cautiously, Chrono Blade drawn just in case. Up close, he could read the scrawl: "THE DAWN EATERS – Embrace the glow."
He felt a chill unrelated to the storm. Dawn Eaters. The name oozed menace. Perhaps this was the cult the journal had referenced – people twisted by radiation, worshiping it, maybe even cannibalistic ("Eaters" wasn't a comforting term). The painted symbol and message looked to be a warning or a territorial marker. And with the storm stirring things up, who knew if any of them were nearby?
The System highlighted a few footprints in the mud around the structure – Jet's own prints were boot-shaped, but among them were some irregular bare footprints with elongated toes… or perhaps melted flesh. They led away down a slope toward an area of jagged rocks and scrub.
Jet debated internally. Those tracks looked a few hours old at most, not yet washed entirely by the rain. Could have been cultists watching the storm or traveling under its cover. But he didn't hear anything now. If this truly was their domain, he'd need to be extremely careful going forward.
He remembered the journal entry: bodies hanging from a billboard. His eyes scanned the horizon uneasily until he spotted something in the distance – the skeletal frame of a large billboard near the highway. It was too far to see clearly, but he thought he saw tatters of cloth flapping there. Maybe just old advertisements shredded by wind... or something worse.
A sense of resolve hardened within Jet. These "Dawn Eaters" were a horror he couldn't ignore if he encountered them. He didn't come out here just to hunt monsters for XP; he came to help who he could, and if a mutant cult was terrorizing survivors or travelers, that fell squarely under what he couldn't walk away from. But he also had to be smart – running in blind would help no one.
Jet pulled the map cloth from his pocket and traced the route. The old refinery towers – likely the ones mentioned in the journal – were marked with a crude 'X' further east of the highway. The cult might be based around there, since refineries had shelters, chemicals, and vantage points. The highway itself was a more direct route but probably exposed. An alternate path might be to veer slightly north, through a stretch of rocky hills, then approach the highway closer to those towers, keeping to cover. That could bring him near whatever trouble spot lay ahead.
The System offered a rare proactive suggestion, "A detour, perhaps? You could avoid this altogether, you know. The efficient route would be to skirt the area and continue leveling on, let's say, less deranged opposition." Its tone was almost too casual, like it already knew his response.
Jet slid the map away and looked toward the distant billboard and the looming shapes of refinery structures beyond. His jaw set. "You know I can't just avoid it," he answered quietly. "If people are being hurt, if there are victims like that traveler's friend Frank... I have to do something."
The AI sighed in mock exasperation. "Predictable bleeding heart. Fine. Just be prepared – fervent lunatics often don't go down as easily as brainless mutants. Human-ish enemies come with unpredictability. And generally less XP payout, by the way."
"That's not why I fight and you know it," Jet replied firmly.
"Yes, yes. You're a hero, etcetera," the System relented, though Jet thought he detected a note of grudging respect beneath the sarcasm. "At least when you charge into cultist central, try not to get yourself ritually sacrificed. We're only five percent to our level target, and I'd hate to have to start over with a new host."
Jet snorted. "Glad to hear I'm so valued." He took a final swig from his canteen and rechecked his gear: Chrono Blade ready at his hip, a couple of throwing knives accessible, a short length of rope coiled at the side of his pack, medkit sealed tight, and the few makeshift explosives he'd saved from Hydra's cache – small pipe bombs of dubious reliability, but they might come in handy for a surprise.
With the storm now a memory on the western horizon and the sun struggling to break through the haze above, Jet steeled himself and set off towards the rocky hills. He moved deliberately, staying low when he could, using the terrain as cover. The world after the storm felt freshly scoured yet perilous – puddles of acid hissed, and the air had a bitter tang.
The path through the hills provided some concealment. As Jet ascended a ridge, he glimpsed movement far ahead: tiny figures crossing the highway, maybe half a dozen, heading in the direction of the refineries. They were too distant to make out clearly, but he had a sinking feeling about who they were. Through a break in the clouds, a beam of sunlight caught what looked like a makeshift spear one of them carried, reflecting briefly.
Jet's grip tightened on the ridge rock. If he followed those figures, they might lead him right to the cult's nest – and possibly to anyone they'd taken captive. This could be his chance to intervene before more innocents were lost. Yet he knew the risk was high. He was alone out here, taking on an unknown number of mutants on their home turf.
He exhaled slowly, centering himself as Rory had taught him for triage work – calm focus. He wasn't helpless; he had tools, skills, and surprise on his side. And most importantly, he had purpose.
Keeping a sizeable distance, Jet tailed the distant figures, all the while sticking to cover. The System helpfully tagged them with faint red outlines in his vision once he'd pointed them out – a targeting assist for tracking. "Six hostiles, give or take," it noted. "Vital signs: irregular. Mutation levels: high. They've really embraced the glow alright."
Jet pushed aside a flash of anger at the thought of what such creatures had done to travelers. Step by step, he drew closer to the heart of the Dawn Eaters' domain, every sense on high alert. He moved like a shadow among the rocks and ruin, the Chrono Blade quiet in its sheath but thrumming in anticipation.
Whatever awaited him at those refinery towers – captives to save, battles to fight, or horrors to witness – Jet Walker would be ready. His solo journey had only just begun, and already it was testing the limits of his courage. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the slight resistance of muscle fibers enhanced by his rising stats. Level 26 was near, and beyond that, the promise of greater strength. He intended to earn every bit of it, one challenge at a time.
Jet crept onward, into the jaws of the unknown, fueled by resolve and a fierce hope that somewhere ahead, someone's dawn would be saved from the darkness.
Chapter 73: Shadow of the Dawn Eaters
From the shelter of a rusting pipeline half-buried in sand, Jet surveyed the cultists' lair. The old petroleum refinery loomed ahead – skeletal metal frameworks and cracked cylindrical tanks clustered like a dead forest of industry. Once, it might have fueled cities; now it housed the worst of humanity's mutations. Even a hundred yards out, Jet could see makeshift banners hanging from scaffolds: tattered cloth painted with that same sunburst-in-blood symbol.
A jagged perimeter fence, mostly collapsed, surrounded the site. The six figures Jet had tailed slipped through a gap and were greeted by others – in total he counted perhaps ten or so shapes moving among the structures. Some tended a bonfire in what had been an empty concrete lot. Others stood guard with crude firearms or spears at various choke points. Many had a visible glow about them: patches of luminous, blistered flesh visible on arms or faces. Dawn Eaters, Jet thought grimly, remembering the journal's description of "glowing sores." These people – if they could still be called that – were heavily irradiated, likely in chronic pain and driven half-mad by it. Dawn Eaters… they clung to some nihilistic faith that turned their suffering outward onto others.
Jet's eyes narrowed as he spotted a figure bound to a tall metal post near the bonfire. His heart skipped – it was a young woman. Even from this distance, he could see her struggling, arms lashed above her head to the pole. She was alive, that much was clear: her dark hair whipped as she thrashed and shouted something hoarse at her captors. Two cultists lurked near her, brandishing serrated knives that glinted in the firelight.
Anger and urgency spiked in Jet's chest. There was the person who needed help – likely the reason those mutants had been out roaming, to capture her. He needed a plan, fast.
First, he silently thanked luck that it was daytime; the cult's name implied their rituals might culminate at dawn or dusk, and the sun was now high behind the haze. They might be preparing her for a coming "dawn" sacrifice, which gave him a window of opportunity. But he couldn't assume they'd wait long.
Jet crept closer, keeping low and circling toward the backside of the refinery where old pipes and debris provided cover. The System fed him quick tactical updates on the cultists' positions, highlighting when one moved out of line-of-sight or turned their back. His Perception stat plus the AI's assistance turned the chaotic scrapyard into an intelligible map of threats and openings.
He slid behind the shell of a rusted-out fuel tanker. From here, he was maybe forty yards from the bonfire. The woman on the pole was to his left, about twenty yards from his position – painfully close and yet too far in the open to approach without being seen. Jet's mind raced. There were three cultists quite near her: the two with knives and another bulky one with an improvised club slung over his shoulder, likely a guard. Around the fire itself, four more milled about, perhaps celebrating the catch or conducting some vile prayer. Others were out of sight, possibly inside the gutted refinery buildings or patrolling the perimeter.
"Assessment: If you charge in blade swinging, you'll be swarmed," the System warned in a low inner murmur. "Odds of success: 32%. Recommend a distraction or divide-and-conquer approach."
Jet agreed. A frontal assault was suicide. He quietly unhooked one of the small pipe bomb explosives from his pack. The Hydra thugs back at the camp had cobbled these together; Jet hadn't yet used them, but now seemed a good time. He armed the crude bomb with a twist of wires – it would give him about ten seconds once activated.
Beyond the bonfire on the far side of the complex, he noticed an old distillation tower, half collapsed. If he could lob the explosive there, it might draw some of them away.
Taking a deep breath, Jet crept a few paces to get a clear line. He then lit the fuse and with a pitcher's precision, hurled the device toward a heap of scrap near the tower. He immediately ducked and clamped his hands over his ears.
A sharp CRACK-BOOM tore through the air as the bomb detonated. Shrapnel and sparks flew. The sudden explosion sent the cultists into a frenzy of motion and guttural cries. Jet peeked around the tanker to see his hoped-for reaction: the four by the fire scrambled toward the source of the noise, weapons raised. The guard by the captive barked an order, and one of the knife-wielders reluctantly ran off to join the others in checking the disturbance.
Now only two cultists remained near the prisoner – the burly guard and one knife-man. They looked anxious, glancing between the refinery and their victim as if unsure whether to stay or investigate. The guard tightened his grip on his club and stepped toward the main hub, likely to get a better look at what happened.
This was Jet's moment. Before the guard could raise an alarm or rejoin his comrades, Jet activated Blink. In a blink – literally – he closed the distance. One heartbeat he was crouched behind the tanker, the next he was directly behind the guard in a swirl of dust, the Chrono Blade drawn.
Jet drove the pommel of his sword hard into the base of the guard's skull with a dull thud. The big man – mutant – whatever he was, crumpled with a surprised grunt, knocked out cold by the precise strike. Jet caught his falling club before it hit the ground and gently let the body sag silently onto the dirt.
The remaining cultist, the one with the serrated knife, spun around at the slight sound, his eyes widening as Jet seemingly appeared out of thin air. The man's skin was pocked with glowing lesions, his lips peeled back in a snarl. "Intru—!" he started to bellow, raising his blade.
Jet didn't give him the chance to finish. He lunged, swinging the Chrono Blade upward to intercept the cultist's knife arm. Steel met flesh in a flash – the mutant's forearm was slashed open, bone visible, and his cry turned to one of agony. The cultist stumbled back, clutching his ruined arm as blood spattered the sand.
Before Jet could close in, the injured man unexpectedly flung himself at the captive woman, perhaps intending to use her as a shield or a hostage. Knife-hand useless, he tried to hook his other arm around her neck. Even bound, she reacted swiftly – twisting away despite her restraints. The move caused the cultist to lose balance and miss his grab.
Jet seized the opening. A quick strike with the hilt of his sword caught the cultist at the temple. The man's eyes rolled up and he collapsed at the base of the pole, unconscious or worse. Either way, he was neutralized.
The young woman stared at Jet, chest heaving, clearly trying to process the sudden turn of events. Up close, Jet saw she was indeed around his age, perhaps a year or two older. Despite dirt and bruises, her face held a fierce, arresting beauty – high cheekbones, striking green eyes that burned with defiance even now. A trail of blood trickled from a cut at her brow, and her lower lip was split, but the injuries did nothing to diminish the aura of strength about her. Jet felt a strange jolt, partly relief at seeing she was alive, partly… something else as their eyes met – a spark amidst chaos.
She broke the moment first. "You're not one of them," she rasped, voice dry but edged with wary determination. It wasn't a question so much as a statement of disbelief. Of course he wasn't; Jet hardly looked like a glowing mutant cannibal in his dusty urban scavenger attire.
"No, I'm a friend," he replied quickly, stepping forward to cut the ropes binding her wrists. He had to stand on tiptoe – she'd been tied high to keep her on tiptoe herself, a cruel bind. As the ropes fell away, the young woman nearly collapsed forward. Jet caught her by the shoulders, steadying her. Her frame was lithe but strong; even through his sleeves he could feel the taut muscle trembling from exhaustion. She had clearly been struggling against those bonds for hours.
She blinked at him, surprise flickering across her face at the gentle catch. But the respite was short-lived – around them, shouts erupted. The other cultists had discovered the bomb was a decoy and now saw their comrades down and their precious captive freed.
Jet turned to see four of them already sprinting back from the far side of the yard, howling in rage. Further behind, two more emerged from a tin-roofed shanty, drawn by the noise. So much for getting away cleanly.
The young woman in Jet's arms gritted her teeth. Without warning, she bent, grabbed the fallen cultist's serrated knife from the dirt with her now-freed hands, and whirled to face the oncoming attackers. Despite her injuries, she dropped into a fighting stance at Jet's side, feet planted firmly. Jet felt a grin tug at his mouth – dangerous indeed. She wasn't going to play the damsel.
"Can you fight?" he asked, eyes flicking to her for the briefest moment. It was a redundant question; her stance answered well enough.
She spat a bit of blood from her lip and nodded, a fierce light in her eyes. "Try to keep up," she replied hoarsely, voice laced with challenge.
The cultists swarmed in a frenzy. The first reached them, a gaunt woman with glowing pustules across her face swinging a scrap-metal machete at Jet. He sidestepped nimbly, the System slowing the moment in his mind just enough for him to trace the arc of the blade and counter. The Chrono Blade met the machete with a clang, cleaving through the cheap metal and biting into the cultist's shoulder. She screamed, and Jet wrenched his sword free, kicking her back.
Beside him, a second cultist – this one a hunched man with one milky-white eye – lunged for the young woman with a rusted pitchfork. Still partially bound at the ankles (her captors had tied her feet loosely to limit her mobility), she couldn't fully dodge. Instead, she pivoted inside the thrust, taking a glancing slash on her arm, but managing to stab her stolen knife into the man's flank. The cultist howled as she tore the blade free, black-red blood spurting. With surprising ferocity, she followed up by smashing her elbow into his jaw, sending him reeling.
Jet wanted to help her, but two more assailants were upon him. He ducked a spiked club aimed for his head, then retaliated with an upward slash that caught the club-wielder under the chin. The man gurgled and collapsed as Jet turned to face the next.
This one was apparently the leader or priest: a taller figure draped in a cloak of patchwork skins, with a necklace of what looked like finger bones rattling on his chest. His eyes literally glowed – twin points of sickly yellow light, possibly augmented by some radiation-fueled implant or mutation. He carried a staff topped with a human skull. With a guttural hiss, the priest pointed the skull staff at Jet and barked in an unknown dialect.
Jet instinctively dove aside as a crack! rang out – the skull had discharged a slug or projectile that whizzed past Jet's ear and blew a chunk out of a metal beam behind him. A gun! Some crude firearm jury-rigged into the staff. The realization put a spike of ice in Jet's spine. The priest aimed again, moving with unsettling speed for someone his height.
Before the leader could fire a second shot, the young woman intervened. She had freed her legs by cutting the ankle ropes and now she launched herself at the priest with fearless aggression. Using the pole she'd been tied to as a springboard, she vaulted and delivered a flying kick at the priest's midsection. The impact spoiled his aim; the staff-gun went off with a flash, the bullet sailing wild into the sky. The priest staggered, momentarily winded by the surprising strike from the very prisoner he'd intended to sacrifice.
Jet wasted no time. Channeling a pulse of chronokinetic energy, he blurred forward with Overclock – just a short burst to cover the distance. In a blink, he was at the priest's flank. The cult leader's glowing eyes widened, and he swung his staff around to block, but too late. Jet's Chrono Blade drove clean through the man's defenses, impaling him through the chest with a decisive thrust.
The priest shuddered, a look of bewildered pain crossing his disfigured features, and then collapsed to his knees as Jet withdrew the blade. A gout of blood – strangely luminescent – poured from the mortal wound. With a final rasp, the Dawn Eaters' leader toppled face-first into the dust.
A sudden silence fell as the remaining cultists saw their priest fall. Their frenzied charge faltered; one of the remaining two attackers peeled away and fled outright into the maze of refinery pipes, perhaps more animal than man and now spooked. Another, wounded and limping, backed off, clutching a broken bottle as a weapon but clearly losing the will to fight.
Jet leveled his sword at the retreating figure, chest heaving. "Drop it and leave," he called out, voice colder than he felt. The man – if he could be called that – let the bottle fall and scrambled back, then turned and ran, disappearing into an open sewer grate with a clatter.
Jet listened hard, scanning for any more threats. Only crackling from the bonfire and the distant footsteps of the one who fled answered him. It appeared the cult had been broken – at least for now. The majority of its members lay incapacitated or dead around them; the rest had scattered like cockroaches with the loss of their leader.
The System chimed immediately with triumphant fanfare:
[Quest Complete – "Break the Dawn": You intervened and stopped the Dawn Eaters' sacrifice. +500 XP]
[Combat XP Gained – Enemies defeated: 8. +400 XP]
[Level Up! Jet – Level 25 → Level 26]
[Chrono Vicar attribute bonuses applied. Stat increase: +2 Agility, +2 Strength, +1 Endurance]
A surge of vitality rushed through Jet's body as the level-up took effect. The fatigue of battle ebbed slightly, his stance straightening. Wounds that ached a moment ago now dulled as a minor healing wave accompanied the stat boost – a perk of gaining a level. He closed his eyes for a second, offering silent gratitude.
The System crowed in his mind, "Level 26, Jet. And here I thought you'd never get past 25 at the rate you play hero. Yet, here we are."
Jet allowed himself a small, weary grin. But his attention immediately returned to the young woman who stood a few paces away, chest rising and falling as she surveyed the carnage.
One of her arms was slick with blood from the pitchfork graze, and a fresh bruise was swelling at her jawline, but she remained unbowed. She tossed aside the cultist's knife – its blade now chipped and bent – and gingerly rolled her shoulder, wincing.
Jet stepped toward her, wiping his blade on a rag and sheathing it. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern clear in his voice.
She turned those striking green eyes on him again. In the sunlight, Jet could see gold flecks in them. For a moment, she just looked at him, as if parsing what to make of this stranger who had appeared out of nowhere to save her life. Finally, she gave a tight nod. "I will be," she replied, voice raw but steadier now. "Thanks to you."
Her tone was more gratitude than she probably often gave. Jet got the sense she wasn't used to being on the rescued end of things. He offered a friendly smile. "Glad I showed up in time," he said. "They... uh, they call themselves Dawn Eaters, right?"
She grimaced, eyeing the fallen priest's corpse with disgust. "Whatever they call themselves, they're filth." She brushed a stray strand of dusty hair from her face. "And they almost had me."
Jet noted the "almost" – she was clearly a fighter who believed, if given another chance, she wouldn't have fallen. He didn't doubt it, considering how fiercely she leapt into the fray once free.
Behind them, one of the downed cultists groaned, not quite dead. The young woman's expression hardened. She stepped over and, before Jet could object, delivered a swift kick to the side of the unconscious knife-wielder's head who had tried to grab her. The cultist's groan ceased; he went fully limp. It was a ruthless but understandable move, given what they had intended for her.
Jet took a slow breath. Mercy was his inclination, but he also knew leaving such predators alive could spell doom for future travelers. He wouldn't condemn her action. Instead, he focused on her.
Now that the adrenaline was fading, a slight awkwardness crept in. He realized he was staring a bit – at her torn, form-fitting survival gear, at the confident yet defensive way she held herself. He quickly busied himself by retrieving the priest's skull-topped staff. It was heavy and crude up close, little more than a sawn-off shotgun jury-rigged into a symbol of terror. He unloaded a remaining shell from its chamber and tossed the improvised gun aside, useless now.
The woman watched him, an unreadable half-smile tugging at her mouth as if she sensed his momentary fluster. "You move fast," she commented, breaking the silence. "Never seen someone appear out of thin air like that. And that sword..." She eyed the Chrono Blade at his side. "Not exactly standard wastelander equipment."
Jet rubbed the back of his neck. "I, uh, have a few tricks," he conceded. He wasn't about to explain the whole System and chronomancy right here. "Let's say I've been... training."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't press. Instead, she extended a hand. "However you did it, you saved my life. I owe you." Her voice was sincere, the wariness in her posture easing slightly.
Jet met her gaze and clasped her forearm in a friendly grasp, the way fighters or nomads often greeted. "I'm Jet," he offered with a warm grin. "Jet Walker."
A faint spark of amusement lit her eyes at his name. "Jet... fitting, given how quick you were." She inclined her head. "I'm—"
Before she could finish, a sudden rumble interrupted from deep within one of the refinery's cracked storage tanks. Both Jet and the woman snapped their heads toward the sound. For a heartbeat, Jet thought it might be another cultist or some structural collapse. But then he felt it – a slight tremor in the ground.
The young woman's expression shifted to concern. "That doesn't sound good," she muttered.
The System immediately went on alert: "Earthquake? Or... oh, lovely. Jet, I'm detecting movement under us. Big movement."
Jet's eyes widened. Could it be an aftershock from the explosion? The tremor grew stronger; the whole yard seemed to vibrate. And then he realized with dawning horror – the explosion earlier, and the vibrations of their fight... perhaps it had disturbed something below ground.
With a deafening crunch, the earth near the bonfire erupted. Sand and concrete flew as a massive form burst upward – a gigantic segmented head with a maw of jagged teeth, easily three times the size of the rad-worm Jet had killed the night before. A colossal rad-worm queen, its pale body bulging with radiation-glowing veins, had been nesting beneath the refinery and now rose in furious awakening. The cult's bonfire pit must have been right above its lair.
It let out a shriek that shook the air, a screech of hunger and rage.
Jet felt the blood drain from his face. The young woman beside him instinctively stepped back, her eyes widening at the monstrosity rearing up before them. "What is that?" she breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
Jet tightened his grip on his sword, heart pounding anew. "Trouble," he answered.
The Dawn Eaters may have been dealt with, but the Wasteland wasn't finished testing them yet. Side by side, Jet Walker and the mysterious warrior woman he'd just saved now faced a new terror – one that neither could handle alone. Their eyes met, a wordless agreement passing between them.
This fight wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Chapter 74: Queen of the Wastes
Jet barely had time to shout "Look out!" before the colossal rad-worm queen lunged. The creature's maw gaped wide, easily large enough to swallow a person whole. Rows of hooked fangs glistened with venom and saliva as it struck at the two humans standing amidst the debris of the Dawn Eaters' camp.
Jet tackled the young woman to the side as the queen's massive head smashed down where they'd been. The ground shook with the impact, sending up a cloud of dust and ash from the extinguished bonfire. They hit the dirt hard behind a chunk of concrete, Jet absorbing the worst of the fall to shield her. A split-second slower and they would have been crushed.
The worm queen reared back, an ear-splitting screech issuing from its throat as it sensed its strike had missed. Up close, Jet could see its hide was pale and mottled with cancerous growths, likely from feeding on irradiated carrion. Unlike the smaller rad-worm he'd fought before, this queen had bony armor plating along portions of its body, and protruding spines near the head. Deep-set within the folds of its grotesque face were two black, glassy eyes – a rarity, since lesser worms were blind. Those eyes fixed on Jet and his companion with furious intensity.
The ground shook with each step as it made its way down the slope, the huge tail swatting aside boulders as if they were pebbles. It released another bellowing roar – like a fusion of a dinosaur's call and a foghorn – that blasted the air.
"By the gods…" Leris breathed, raising her coilgun reflexively.
The ground vibrated under their feet. That sound was unmistakably the call of a much larger beast.
The spiked-tail raptor, perhaps emboldened by the roar, lunged again despite its wound. It feinted with its tail, then snapped forward. Leris anticipated it; with a fierce cry, she sidestepped and brought her sword down in a powerful overhead cleave that met the raptor's neck. Her blade bit halfway through the creature's thick hide and lodged in cybernetic vertebrae with a screech of metal. The raptor thrashed, and Leris lost her grip as she was forced to dodge away.
Jet moved in to finish it. As the raptor reared, trying to dislodge the sword from its partially severed neck, Jet came from the side. One precise thrust into its exposed side – piercing the heart (organic or mechanical, it didn't matter) – and the beast collapsed with a shudder, Leris's sword still jutting from its collar.
Jet yanked her weapon free and tossed it to her. She caught it with a nod of thanks, breathing hard. Around them lay the broken bodies of four cyber-raptors, the last twitches of machinery and flesh mixing in a grotesque tableau. The pack was defeated.
But neither Jet nor Leris relaxed. That huge roar still echoed in their ears. They took involuntary steps closer together, back to back, scanning the ridges.
The echoes died, leaving an eerie silence. Jet's heart pounded in his chest. The System's alert flared a split-second later: "Warning: Active defense signature detected."
Jet's eyes widened. Could it be an aftershock from the explosion? The tremor grew stronger; the whole yard seemed to vibrate. And then he realized with dawning horror – the explosion earlier, and the vibrations of their fight... perhaps it had disturbed something below ground.
"Let's pack up, then," Jet said, feeling a surge of energy (some of it from the level-up, some from the excitement of discovery).
They quickly gathered their gear, ensuring weapons were cleaned and loaded (Jet retrieved a few throwing knives from the Sentinel's remains, while Leris reloaded her coilgun and they even salvaged a small usable part – a working compass – from the wrecked checkpoint electronics).
Jet took a moment to record a brief log in the System – a habit he'd picked up to mark significant milestones. "Day X: Crossed Blackrock Canyon with Leris. Entering unknown territory. Feeling… hopeful." The System saved it, maybe for his own memory or perhaps to transmit back to Lexi eventually when a connection allowed.
Before leaving the checkpoint, Jet and Leris approached the fallen Sentinel. It lay half hanging over the platform as they'd left it, a monument to the old world's last stand. Jet placed a hand on the cool metal shell. It was hard not to feel a pang of respect for the machine that nearly killed them – it had simply been doing its duty, long after any humans remained to care.
Perhaps for closure, Jet murmured quietly, "Mission complete. Stand down," as if granting the Sentinel permission to rest. He then gently nudged it with his boot. With a screech, the heavy carcass slid the rest of the way off the ledge, plummeting into Blackrock Canyon. They watched it fall until it vanished in the green mist below. The path behind them was truly closed; only forward remained.
Leris adjusted the straps of her pack and took a deep breath. "Alright then."
"Alright," Jet echoed. He lead the way through the crumbled archway of the checkpoint, stepping onto soil that – in all likelihood – no Theta citizen had touched in a generation.
The ground squelched slightly from last night's rain. Strange bioluminescent fungi squished underfoot, releasing puffs of glowing spores as they went. Jet felt the System automatically analyze the air for toxins – levels were safe enough, if a bit rich in pollen and unknown particles. The ecology here was different but not immediately hostile.
A small creature scurried across their path – something like a large lizard with two tails, vibrant blue in color. It paused to regard them, frilled ears twitching, then darted into scrub. Leris laughed under her breath. "Two-tailed geckos. Why not?"
They trekked eastward first, toward the source of the faint signal the System picked up. Even if it was nothing, it gave them a direction to begin. The land sloped downward, making for easy hiking. They kept their guard up – no telling what predators might roam – but for the moment, the journey was peaceful.
Every so often, Jet couldn't help but comment on a new sight. "Look at those flowers," he remarked, pointing to a cluster of deep red blossoms on a spiny thicket. Each had an iridescent center that shimmered when touched by sun.
Leris wandered closer to inspect them, careful of the thorns. "Beautiful. Almost looks like… scales? On a flower?" She shook her head in wonder.
Jet snapped a mental picture via the System's interface, cataloguing the species (the AI helpfully labeled it "Unknown Flora Specimen #1"). Perhaps one day such data would be useful.
They walked for an hour, cresting a small ridge. On the other side, in a shallow basin, lay the remnants of what must have been a village. Dozens of small concrete structures, many caved in or overgrown, arranged along a cracked roadway. It was quiet – no sign of current inhabitants besides some grazing mutant goat-like creatures on the outskirts.
Jet and Leris exchanged looks. Should they investigate or skirt around? After a moment, curiosity won out.
They approached cautiously. The goat-creatures (six-legged, with spiral horns – Jet dubbed them "spiral goats" in his head) eyed them but trotted off, not keen on human contact. The village itself was eerie. Rusted street lamps, an old playground with a sagging slide, faded graffiti on a wall showing pre-war language neither fully recognized.
"Think anyone's still here?" Leris whispered.
Jet peered into a couple of doorways – dust and animal droppings, nothing more. "Doubtful. This place looks long abandoned."
They paused in what might have been the village square. A toppled water pump lay on its side. Strangely, Jet's System was pinging… it detected trace power. He followed the signal to a half-standing community hall. Inside, remarkably, a small generator was faintly humming – solar panels on its roof still feeding it a trickle. And connected to that, a radio transmitter, jury-rigged to a tall antenna that had miraculously not fallen.
"This is it," Jet said, waving Leris over. "The signal."
He examined the setup. The transmitter was on, broadcasting static on a loop. But there was also a receiver and a microphone. Perhaps the villagers had used it to call for help once, or to keep contact with someone afar.
Jet's fingers hovered over the controls. He bit his lip. Could he reach Theta from here? Unlikely without a massive tower, but maybe Dr. Aurora's far-range comm or Lexi's handset might catch a faint message, if repeated by other posts.
Leris rested a hand on his shoulder. She seemed to read his intent. "Worth a try," she encouraged softly.
Taking a breath, Jet switched to a frequency he knew the Aurora clinic monitored, and pressed the transmit key. "Hello? This is Jonah Walker – Jet. Broadcasting from beyond Blackrock Canyon. Can anyone hear me?" His voice echoed in the dusty hall. He felt slightly foolish; it was a long shot.
They waited, hearing only crackling emptiness. Jet tried again, repeating twice. No reply.
He sighed and was about to stand when – faint and warbled – a voice emerged from the static:
"...Jet? ...hear you... skkkk ...Lexi..."
Jet's heart leapt into his throat. It was choppy, distorted, but unmistakably Lexi's voice, or was it? It cut in and out.
"Lexi!" he practically shouted into the mic. Leris's eyes widened in surprise; she could only catch static, not the words, but she understood.
He adjusted the frequency slightly and the signal cleared a touch.
"Jet! If... can hear... I'm okay! Dr. Zhang got your message from camp. I'm safe... skkk... proud of you. Come back soon, okay? I miss you."
Jet felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. It was likely a pre-recorded message or something Aurora's network had bounced along, activated by his call. But it was Lexi's voice, seemingly recent, sending love across the void.
Leris stepped back a pace, politely giving him a moment, though her face was soft with empathy.
He pressed the transmit, voice thick. "I hear you, Lex. I promise, I'll come home. Not yet, but when I do… I'll make you proud. I miss you too. Love you, sis."
The static swallowed any possible response. The network likely was one-way at this range. But he imagined somewhere, somehow, his sister would know he'd heard her.
Jet wiped his eyes quickly and turned to find Leris right there. Without a word, she pulled him into a brief, comforting hug. No dramatics, just solidarity. He realized then that beyond being allies, she truly cared – they had become friends in the deepest sense.
He cleared his throat, regathering himself. "Guess we know communications might reach with the right boost."
She smiled softly. "I'm happy for you. Your sister sounds sweet."
"She is," Jet chuckled, pocketing that emotional surge for later reflection. "And probably worried sick."
"We'll get you back to her. After we accomplish whatever grand adventure you're on out here," Leris declared with a playful smirk.
Jet nodded, feeling lighter than he had in days. Reaching Lexi's voice, hitting level 30 – two milestones in one morning. He felt unstoppable.
They left the village behind, stepping out beyond its limits. According to any maps, they were now well off the known chart. Every step made them pioneers.
As they climbed the next ridge, Jet couldn't resist querying the System for a status. It dutifully reported Level 30 stats – significantly higher than when he'd started this journey. More importantly, it listed a new skill: "Chrono Surge" – which sounded like a powerful time acceleration ability affecting a wider area. He'd explore that soon.
For now, he shared a few stat upgrades with Leris in layman's terms, and she shook her head in amazement. "If only I could quantify my strength gains like you. I just have to settle for feeling awesome."
"You are awesome," Jet quipped, nudging her shoulder. "Numbers or not."
She gave a mock bow, then pointed ahead. "Looks like the valley opens up there. Shall we?"
Atop the ridge, they finally beheld a vista of the lands truly beyond Theta's shadow. The valley stretched onward, blending into what looked like a vast plain far beyond, dotted with strange rock formations. In the far distance, the glint of what might be water – a lake or sea – winked on the horizon. Overhead, unfamiliar birds with long, ribbon-like tails wheeled in the gentle blue sky.
Jet filled his lungs with the clean, wild air. This was it. The edge of the map was far behind them now. He glanced at Leris beside him – she was taking in the view with an expression of pure wonder, her cheeks flushed in the morning sun.
The System, perhaps moved by Jet's own elation, offered a rare unprompted observation: "Host is now in completely uncharted territory. No further data. We'll be writing the map as we go… Good luck, Jet." Even its tone sounded almost... excited.
Jet smiled inwardly. "Ready to write this map?" he asked aloud, holding out his hand in a gesture somewhere between a handshake and an invitation.
Leris looked at his extended hand, then instead interlaced her fingers with his in a firm, confident grip. "With you? Always."
Together, Jonah "Jet" Walker and Leris Vale began to descend into the valley, side by side. Every step forward was a step into the unknown – new challenges and discoveries surely awaited, but they would face them arm in arm.
Behind them lay the trials of the Wasteland they had overcome and the broken pieces of Jet's old world. Ahead lay possibility – of experience and growth, of people to help, of a better future to build from the ashes of the past.
Jet felt a surge of optimism swell in his chest. Level 30 may have been a target, but it was by no means an end; it was a beginning. The System's interface glowed faintly in his vision, eager for quests and input, but for once Jet simply shut it off for a moment to fully savor reality with his own senses.
The sun was warm. The path was open. And he was not alone.
"Let's go," he said, voice bright with anticipation.
"Let's," Leris agreed, matching his stride.
And with that, the two ventured onward – into the deeper Wasteland beyond the map's edge, ready to pen the next chapters of their story in a land where anything could happen, and where, together, they would make all the difference.
Chapter 75: Into the Unknown
That evening, under a sky unfamiliar with city lights, Jet and Leris made camp at the foot of the valley. They'd covered several miles since crossing the canyon, moving at an easy pace to conserve strength and take in their new surroundings. Now, twilight brought a canopy of stars unlike any Jet had seen—brilliant, untamed, and stretching to every horizon. A slender crescent moon cast gentle light over the rolling plains ahead.
They found shelter in a shallow cave carved into a hillside, likely an old creek cut. A small fire crackled at the entrance, warding off the chill that crept in after sundown. As the flames danced, throwing flickers of orange on the cave walls, Jet unrolled a map he'd drawn throughout the day—a rough sketch of landmarks, notes on water sources they'd passed, peculiar flora identified. It was the very beginning of a new chart.
Leris sat next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched as they leaned over the map. She pointed with the tip of her knife at a spot Jet had marked with a star. "That's the high ground we climbed this afternoon. If we make for it again tomorrow morning, we might see what's beyond those far hills."
Jet nodded, penciling in a few more details. "Agreed. And if that signal we caught is anything to go by, there could be something out east—maybe those ruins we glimpsed, or even people."
At the word "people," Leris's expression turned thoughtful. "I wonder what they'll be like, those who live beyond Theta's reach. If there are communities, have they thrived? Struggled? We might not get the warmest welcome strolling in like explorers."
Jet folded the map gently. "We'll approach carefully. But if they're out here making a life, maybe they'll be open to trade or news. And we have plenty to share—medical knowledge, tech skills…" He offered a half-smile. "Chrono party tricks."
Leris chuckled. "I'm sure that'll break the ice. Show them your slow-mo dodge, instant friends."
Jet laughed, then grew momentarily quiet. "No matter what we find, we go together. Back to back, like always."
She bumped his shoulder with hers. "You're stuck with me, Walker. I hope you realize that."
Jet felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. "I'm counting on it."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching embers drift upward and vanish into the starry night. The magnitude of what lay ahead was finally sinking in. There were no more maps to consult—just their instincts, Jet's System pings, and whatever intelligence they gathered firsthand. It was both exhilarating and daunting.
Leris broke the silence softly. "You know… I never really had a plan beyond avenging Jace and maybe finding a cause worth fighting for. Now, out here, I feel like I've found both." She glanced at Jet, eyes reflecting the firelight. "Fighting for something good—with someone good."
Jet felt a lump in his throat. He reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, a gesture that had become natural between them. "Likewise. I came out here to become stronger so I could help people. And I've already helped someone who matters." He squeezed her hand again meaningfully. "From here on, whatever cause or crisis we run into, we face it together."
Leris turned her palm to intertwine her fingers with his for a brief moment. It was an innocent yet intimate gesture that sent a pleasant flutter through Jet's chest. Then, with a small smile, she released his hand and stood. "Well then, partner—what's our first order of business tomorrow?"
Jet rose as well, stepping just outside the cave. The valley before them was cloaked in blues and silvers. Far on the eastern horizon, he noticed a tiny twinkling light that hadn't been visible in daylight. It could have been a star low on the horizon, but his gut said otherwise. It blinked rhythmically, like firelight or perhaps an electric beacon from a distant settlement.
He pointed it out. "There—see that flicker, just over that ridge line?"
Leris shielded her eyes and peered into the dark. After a moment she nodded. "I see it. That's no star."
"Maybe a village or travelers' camp," Jet speculated, heart rate picking up. Proof of life, of society, beyond Theta. "We can head that way after we reach the high ground for a look. Approach in daylight, openly and carefully."
She flashed a grin. "With white flags ready, in case."
They shared a quick, nervous laugh. Both knew any encounter could go many ways—but knowing each was watching the other's back eased their worries.
Jet checked the perimeter one last time—no signs of hostile creatures lurking, just the chorus of nocturnal insects and the hoot of some distant nightbird. Satisfied, he ducked back into the cave where Leris was banking the fire for the night.
He spread his bedroll beside hers—not so close as to presume, but near enough that a whispered word would wake the other if needed. This had become their habit: maintaining a balance of camaraderie and respect.
As they settled in, Leris gazed up at the slice of night sky visible from their shelter. "You ever think how strange it is, the turns life takes?"
Jet turned his head toward her, curious.
She continued, "A couple of weeks ago, I figured I'd either die taking revenge or live a solitary wanderer's life. You were focused on hitting some arbitrary level and maybe coming back a hero to your city. And now… here we are, out beyond everything familiar."
Jet followed her line of thought. "If someone told me months ago I'd be sleeping under open skies with a badass warrior partner, planning which unknown village to knock on the door of… I'd have thought they were crazy."
Leris smirked. "I was pretty sure guys like you didn't exist—selfless, a little dorky, but surprisingly deadly when need be."
"Dorky?" He made an indignant face, and she muffled a laugh. He then sighed contentedly. "It's crazy, yes. But I'm grateful for it. All of it."
Her voice turned mock serious. "Even the worm guts and bullet bruises?"
"Battle scars make for good stories," he quipped.
She rolled her eyes lightly, then her expression grew fond. "I am too, Jet. Grateful. Wouldn't trade this adventure for anything."
That sentiment hung in the air, a quiet pact. In the tender silence, Jet felt the urge to say something more—to put into words the trust and budding affection he felt. But perhaps it was best left unspoken for now, carried in gestures and tone. There would be time.
The fire had dwindled to soft coals. Leris shifted, turning on her side facing him, head propped on her arm. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we officially venture where no one from Theta's gone before."
He mirrored her posture, offering a small salute. "Aye, Captain."
She shook her head, amused, and closed her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing evened out, exhaustion claiming her after the long day.
Jet stayed awake a little longer, mind drifting. The System was quiet tonight—no pings or sarcasm, almost as if it too was in contemplation of the journey ahead. Perhaps it recognized that its usual metrics and predictions meant little out here; for once, host and AI were equally in the dark, forging ahead step by step.
Before he succumbed to sleep, Jet whispered a soft prayer of thanks—to whatever powers might be listening in this wild land—for safe passage so far, for the strength to reach Level 30, for Lexi's distant message, and for Leris's unexpected companionship. He felt a resolve welling in him stronger than ever: to use his hard-won power and knowledge to make a difference out here, just as he had in Theta's slums. New faces, new trials, same Jet.
His eyes grew heavy. The last thing he saw was Leris's sleeping form, her features gentle in repose. He smiled, comforted by her presence.
As Jet Walker drifted into dreams, dawn inched closer—dawn of a day that would see them stepping fully into the unknown. They were prepared as they could be. Whatever awaited—be it friend or foe, hope or hardship—they would face it side by side, blades and wit united.
Tomorrow, they would push deeper beyond the edge of the map. And together, they would write a story of grit and hope in this untamed frontier—one courageous choice at a time.