Malaca didn't want to explain exactly what was going on.
But the urgency in her eyes was like a splinter lodged in my mind — one that kept me from sleeping.
The doubts she had raised made too much sense to ignore.
After all, Marcoriel was, without a shadow of a doubt, the strongest among us.
Strong enough to be respected as a leader, even without being part of Strugar's guilds or one of Varnak's Elders.
His presence was a silent pact of power: if things got out of control, he could simply fly away and survive.
That kind of resource made him dangerous.
Unpredictable.
The uncomfortable truth was that even when we fought the White Knight, no one dared try to kill him directly — it was easier to eliminate the creature controlling him and hope that would be enough.
Which is why…
Something didn't add up.
— Kid, you awake?
Malaca's voice came low, almost a whisper, cutting through the dimness of the cave.
The sun hadn't risen yet, but the light of dawn had begun slipping in like cold fingers through the cracks in the entrance.
She approached slowly, probably planning to wake me — but when she saw my eyes open, she simply nodded.
She knew what I was thinking.
— How are we supposed to escape with the door locked? — I asked before she could say anything.
Malaca crouched beside me, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows around us, and answered in a quiet tone:
— I talked to the others yesterday. I'll head out first to check the area where Marcoriel was killed. I asked for you to come with me.
— They… agreed? — I asked, doubtful.
— Of course not.
But you can head out shortly after me with a convincing excuse.
— Like what?
— I have an idea… but I don't think you're going to like it.
She was right.
The idea was awful.
Not because it was poorly planned — but because it was disgusting.
— The latrine's probably full. You could say you're going to clean it so you can use it… or get it ready for the next group.
I stared at Malaca like she'd suggested I tear out my own tongue.
She shrugged, completely unfazed by my disgust.
— There's an old rule: the latrine in a safe zone has to be cleaned once it's no longer in use. If someone breaks that rule, the fine is steep. And it's easy to track down who did it.
She was right. It was one of those ridiculous but sacred regulations.
And Varnak…
The last thing Varnak would want was to deal with a fine.
Not after what a failure this expedition had turned into.
The best he managed was a few items from the White Knight — and we didn't even know if they were worth anything.
— This'll be our chance. — she said, with a crooked half-smile.
Her mind already seemed two steps ahead of everyone else.
It was a filthy plan.
But… it worked.
And maybe that was Malaca's greatest talent:
Survival.
Whether by the strength of her axe or knowing when to act with cunning.
That night, I realized something.
She was one of the few people in that hell I truly trusted.
— Seriously, you're doing this? Thank you.
Fiona's words were still echoing in my head as I left the cave.
Honestly, Malaca's plan, ridiculous as it sounded, worked better than expected.
The idea of pretending I was going to clean the latrine was accepted with disturbing normalcy — as if no one even wanted to ask.
Fiona even thanked me sincerely. She probably would've been stuck with the task if I hadn't "volunteered."
And just like Malaca had predicted… no one offered to help.
No looks of support. No questions. No objections.
Unfortunately…
the reservoir was actually full.
To the brim.
The smell was unbearable. The heat of the steam, suffocating.
I had to hold back vomit more than once.
The mixture of shame, nausea, and tactical relief made me sweat more than any battle ever had.
As I pushed the waste into the transport barrel, I felt eyes on me, watching my movements until I disappeared from the cave's line of sight.
I had to be quick.
They were almost ready to leave.
The dumping site was isolated — a damp stone area with little ventilation.
No visible threats, just the weight of being alone with tons of filth.
I emptied the contents as close to the designated area as possible and forced myself to clean my hands and arms with a liquid that… honestly, I'd rather not know what it was made of.
That was when Malaca's voice came from behind me:
— You made it. Where's your stuff?
— Had to leave it behind.
Honestly? The guitar… I can make another.
But I brought this.
From my inner pocket, I pulled out the glove.
As soon as I slipped it on, I felt that familiar warmth wrap around my hand — like a silent grip, alive, still there.
And yet it preserved a subtle sense of touch, as if nothing covered my skin.
— Don't worry. Look what I brought.
Malaca opened her pack.
And from inside… she pulled out my guitar.
The neck was loose, but not broken.
She held it carefully, like someone carrying something more valuable than an object — a piece of my soul.
— How did you…?
— I know where you keep your things.
And you explained to me, even briefly, how it was built.
I figured I could find a way to bring it like this…
I thought you'd leave it behind. And I didn't want that.
I went quiet for a second, my fingers tracing the wood.
She was right.
I wouldn't have brought it.
And that said far more about me than I cared to admit.
— Yeah… Thank you.
Malaca gave a crooked smile.
That expression that mixed pride and urgency.
— They'll probably take a few minutes to realize you're not coming back.
So let's move.
As we ran toward the second level, my thoughts kept racing.
Why the rush?
Why that silent, almost primal fear in Malaca's eyes?
We were going back anyway, sooner or later.
There was no reason to flee like this — as if something was waiting along the way.
And then, finally, as we slipped through the fields of ancient stone, she decided to speak.
— I think we have a traitor among us.
Malaca's voice was low, as if even the stones might be listening.
— But… I don't know who. Or what exactly they're trying to do.
Maybe not even they know yet...
— But the item you found. The glove. And especially… the ability you used.
— That could be the reason.
I stopped running for a moment. My body still heaved from the effort, but my mind now raced faster than my legs ever could.
— What do you mean…?
Malaca stopped abruptly. But her eyes… didn't blink.
— There are many things in this world that scare me.
And you should be scared too.
She paused. Not from fatigue, but as if choosing her words carefully.
— There are bad people, of course. But there are also… groups. Factions. Orders. Cults.
And do you know what they all have in common?
— Greed.
Those words didn't sound like advice.
They hit me like a late warning.
I knew exactly what she meant.
Even in my world, people betrayed for less — for money, for status… for envy.
But here, in a world where power decides life and death, greed became something far more lethal.
— I know what you must be thinking — she continued, breathless.
— But when we won the battle… I checked Marcoriel's body.
That part caught me.
Marcoriel was the strongest man in the group.
Strong enough to fly alone away from danger.
Strong enough to escape.
Too strong to simply die.
— His body… was torn apart. It was clear he fought the White Knight head-on.
But… that's not what killed him.
I froze.
— What?
— He had signs of mana poisoning.
The world seemed to fall silent for a moment.
The forest, the wind, even my thoughts stopped.
As if that word were forbidden.
— Sorry… I don't know what that means.
Malaca nodded slightly.
— I figured you wouldn't. Mana poisoning happens when your body absorbs more energy than it can process.
— There are two ways that can happen. And neither of them is… natural.
She raised her hand, gesturing like a grim professor.
— The first, and most common, happens when a mage is desperate.
Out of their own mana, they begin to pull mana from the environment.
But ambient mana is raw. Unstable. Contaminated.
It hasn't been refined by your body.
And when it enters... it's like injecting poison straight into your veins.
She paused, her eyes locked on mine.
— If you're lucky and treated quickly… you survive.
But it leaves marks.
Internal scars.
It made me swallow hard.
— And the second way…?
— The second way is… the most dangerous.
And the rarest.
It happens when someone deliberately poisons you with mana.
Through an artifact.
A magical item.
A cursed weapon.
Something built with that purpose.
She turned to me.
Her eyes didn't ask for my attention.
They demanded it.
— It's so rare that most mages will never see an artifact like that in their entire lives.
But… I've seen one.
And I know exactly what it does to someone's body.
— But how can you be sure he didn't just poison himself during the fight with the White Knight?
The question came out between gasps, but the answer… came before Malaca even opened her mouth.
She shot me a sharp look as we ran, as if to say "You already know."
And I did.
— Marcoriel was a Molok.
I said it in a low voice, like confessing a forbidden truth.
— And Moloks don't use mana.