Iron Alley was not a place to seek answers.
It was a place to lose your way—or lose a part of your body.
Jainal stood before a narrow crevice barred by rusted fencing and a faded warning sign.
Beyond it, a steep path descended like an open wound into the belly of Kurtub.
No light.
No sound.
Only the scent of metal, rust, and something eerily familiar—the dried-blood odor of an abandoned lab.
> "If the Scar Collector ever existed, their trail would linger here," Jainal whispered, brushing his fingers across a stone wall scorched with the remnants of burned-out runes.
He stepped inside.
---
I. The Unrecorded Depths
This corridor was nowhere on any official map.
But the map given by the ThirdHand revealed a fork in the city's old medical distribution tunnels.
The first room he found was a magicrecordingchamber.
A shattered scrying mirror lay in the center.
Numbers were scratched repeatedly into the walls: 05-05-05.
On the floor lay a wooden doll—missing one eye and one arm.
Beneath it, written in dried blood:
> "Those who are broken can still see.
But those who see… can't always speak."
Jainal knelt, fingers brushing the surface of the stone.
Etched faintly beneath the grime was a symbol: a circle with a crossed wound at its center.
The Scar Mark.
But older.
More refined.
---
II. Fragments of Truth
In the next chamber, Jainal found a memo rack carved into stone.
Among the broken shards, one scroll remained intact, written in crystal-infused ink:
> "Subject 5–Delta displays divergent responses to fear-based magic trauma.
Memory distortion stabilized after contact with empathic object..."
Jainal gripped the paper tightly.
Subject 5–Delta.
That was Unit 5.
> "So… he was brought here."
On the far wall, a pattern revealed itself—spirals that only shimmered under wind-element magic.
Jainal activated the pattern, and the wall groaned open, revealing a hidden archive.
Inside: stacks of handwritten notes, blurred photographs of children with code-names, and—a cracked glass mask, small enough to fit a child.
He bent down.
Behind the glass, a compressed rune glowed faintly.
He touched it.
A girl's voice, weak and fractured, echoed from the magic imprint:
> "My name is not Unit… my name is… I… forgot…"
The rune shattered. The recording broke.
But it was enough to chill Jainal's blood.
---
III. The Collector's Final Message
On the back wall of the archive, someone had written in charcoal:
> "If you're reading this, then I've either failed to survive—or I made it out.
The Scar Collector is not one person.
We are wounds that refused to fade.
But we're vanishing… one by one."
> "If you're different—fight for us.
Open. Expose.
Don't die alone."
Beneath the message was a small golden sigil still faintly glowing:
a crossed wound, with a single eye above it.
> A new symbol.
Perhaps the next version.
An evolution of the Scar Collector.
Or… a sign that the last survivor no longer just collects scars—
but leaves new ones.
---
IV. A Lingering Trace
As Jainal prepared to leave, he heard footsteps—heavy and mechanical.
He quickly ducked into the shadows.
From the corridor emerged a towering figure—part machine, part corpse.
Its right eye was a recording lens.
Its body bristled with wires and energy-detection runes.
A Watcher.
From the Fourth Eye Network.
The creature scanned the room, casting pale blue light.
Then, in a cold, digitized voice, it announced:
> "Scar Collector trace—confirmed.
Tracker presence—verified.
Surveillance priority upgraded.
Silencing protocol not yet authorized.
Awaiting central command..."
The machine turned and exited.
And Jainal knew—his time was running out.