The commander's tent was a cavern of hides and rough-spun wool, smelling of smoke, old meat, and male aggression. The man who sat on a raised platform of crates, draped in a wolf pelt, was ancient but far from frail. His face was a roadmap of scars and sun-beaten leather, but his eyes held the sharp, predatory focus of a hawk. This was a man who had not just survived the end of the world; he had carved out a kingdom in its corpse.
Eva, with Wolfen at her side, felt the weight of the armed guards' stares from the shadows of the tent. She kept her expression neutral, a mask of weary traveler.
"Hi," she said.
Wolfen translated, his voice a flat, unimpressed monotone. "དེ་རིང་བདེ་མོ།" (De ring bde mo.) Greetings.
The old commander, whose name they would learn was Jampa, didn't return the courtesy. His eyes, like chips of flint, swept over Eva, then settled on Wolfen with a dawning recognition that was anything but friendly. He spoke, his voice a dry rasp, and Wolfen translated without inflection.
"He says, 'You should not have come here.'"
As if on a silent cue, the guards at the periphery of the tent raised their rifles. The barrels were not standard issue; they were thicker, with a coppery sheen, and the tips glowed with a faint, malevolent blue light.
Jampa spoke again, a cruel twist to his lips. Wolfen's translation was chillingly calm. "He says, 'These are not for ordinary men. The copper is alloyed with a psionic-dampening compound. The energy charge disrupts biological regeneration. They were made to kill monsters. Like you.'"
Eva's body went rigid. Every instinct screamed fight. Her muscles coiled, her enhanced reflexes calculating trajectories, weaknesses. She took a half-step forward, a snarl forming in her throat. They had walked right into a trap.
Then, Wolfen laughed.
It wasn't a loud laugh. It was a soft, darkly amused sound, like stones grinding together deep underground. It cut through the tension, not by dispelling it, but by reshaping it entirely. The sound was so unexpected, so utterly out of place, that it froze even Jampa for a second.
"Eva," Wolfen said, not taking his eyes off the old commander. "Stand down. The good commander and I are just beginning to understand one another."
He took a step forward, his hands open at his sides, a picture of non-threatening curiosity. But his presence seemed to swell, to fill the tent. He wasn't challenging their authority; he was making it irrelevant.
"Commander Jampa," Wolfen began in Tibetan, his tone shifting from translator to principal. It became conversational, almost respectful. "ཁྱེད་ཀྱིས་ང་ཚོར་རྔམ་སྟོན་བྱས་པ་ལེགས་སོང་། ང་ཚོ་ནི་ཁྱེད་ཀྱི་དགྲ་ཡིན་པ་མིན།" (Khyed kyis nga tshor rngam ston byas pa legs song. Nga tsho ni khyed kyi dgra yin pa min.) "You have shown us your strength. Impressive. But we are not your enemy."
Jampa's eyes narrowed. "You are what the silver men hunt. That makes you my business."
"Does it?" Wolfen asked, his head tilting. "Or does it make you their servant? A proud mountain wolf, reduced to a leash-bound hound, barking on command for scraps."
A flicker of anger crossed Jampa's face. Wolfen had found a crack in his armor: his pride.
Wolfen pressed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "ཁོང་ཚོ་ཁྱེད་རང་ལ་ཅི་ཞིག་ཞལ་བཀོད་བྱས་པ་རེད། རིམ་པ་ཡོད་པའི་ནང་མི་དེ་དག་གིས་ཁྱེད་རང་ལ་རྒྱུ་ནོར་དང་། ཤུགས་ཆེན་པོ་ཞལ་བཀོད་བྱེད་ཀྱི་ཡོད་དམ།" (Khong tso khyed rang la ci zhig zhal bkod byas pa red? Rim pa yod pa'i nang mi de dag gis khyed rang la rgyu nor dang, shugs chen po zhal bkod byed kyi yod dam?) "What did they promise you? Did the men in the silver masks, the ones who hide in their perfect rooms, promise you wealth? Power?"
He took another step closer, his gaze locking with Jampa's. It was no longer a conversation; it was an excavation. "ཁོང་ཚོས་ཁྱེད་རང་ལ་བདེ་འཇགས་ཀྱི་ཞལ་བཀོད་བྱས་པ་རེད་དམ། ཁོང་ཚོས་ཁྱེད་རང་ལ་འདི་གར་སྡོད་ཆོག་པའི་ཁྲིམས་ལུགས་ཞིག་སྤྲད་དམ།" (Khong tshos khyed rang la bde 'jags kyi zhal bkod byas pa red dam? Khong tshos khyed rang la 'di gar sdod chog pa'i khrims lugs zhig strad dam?) "Did they promise you safety? Did they give you a right to be here?"
Wolfen's voice was hypnotic, weaving a tapestry of doubt and resentment. He was not arguing; he was planting seeds, watering them with Jampa's own latent distrust for the outsiders who held him on a string.
"They want the survivors dead," Wolfen continued, his tone one of sharing a painful truth. "ང་དང་། བུ་མོ་དེ་དག་དང་། བུ་མོ་ནག་པོ་དེ་མ་གཏོགས་གསོད་འདོད་ཡོད།" (Nga dang, bu mo de dag dang, bu mo nag po de ma gtogs gsod 'dod yod.) "They want the survivors dead. All of them. Except for me, the girl, and the dark-haired one." He gestured vaguely towards Eva and, by implication, Maya outside.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to crawl directly into Jampa's mind. "ཁོང་ཚོས་ཁྱེད་རང་ལ་དཔལ་འབྱོར་མང་པོ་དང་། ཁོང་ཚོའི་གཡོལ་སྲུང་ཞལ་བཀོད་བྱས་ཡོད། གནས་ཚུལ་འདི་དག་ཁོང་ཚོས་ང་ཚོར་སྤྲད་ཡོད།" (Khong tshos khyed rang la dpal 'byor mang po dang, khong tshoi g.yol srung zhal bkod byas yod. Gnas tshul 'di dag khong tshos nga tshor strad yod.) "They promised you supplies, their protection. They told you to keep us here. To hold us until their 'creations' arrive."
Jampa's eyes widened slightly. The accuracy was unnerving. Wolfen was reciting the Architect's orders as if he had been in the room.
"Twelve of them," Wolfen murmured, his smile widening. "ཁོང་ཚོའི་བྱིས་པ་གཞོན་པ་བཅུ་གཉིས་ཡོང་གི་ཡོད། གང་ལྟར་ཡང་ང་ཚོ་འཚོ་གནས་བྱེད་དགོས།" (Khong tshoi byis pa gzhon pa bcu gnyis yong gi yod. Gang ltar yang nga tsho 'tsho gnas byed dgos.) "Twelve of their new children are coming. To collect us, one way or another." He paused, letting the number hang in the air. "ཁོང་ཚོས་ང་ཚོ་དེ་གར་འགྲོ་དགོས་པ་རེད། དེ་ནི་ཁོང་ཚོའི་གལ་ཆེན་གྱི་ལས་འགུལ་ཞིག་རེད།" (Khong tshos nga tsho de gar 'gro dgos pa red. De ni khong tshoi gal chen gyi las 'gul zhig red.) "They need us for their great work."
Then, he delivered the masterstroke, the piece of information Jampa had not been given, the lie wrapped in a terrifying truth. "ཁོང་ཚོས་ཁྱེད་རང་ལ་བཙན་འཛུལ་བྱེད་མཁན་དེ་དག་གསོད་དགོས་པའི་རྒྱུ་མཚན་ཅི་ཡིན་ཤེས་འདུག་གམ། ཁོང་ཚོ་ནི་ས་ཆ་གཞན་པ་ཞིག་ཏུ་བཙན་འཛུལ་བྱེད་མི་འདོད། ཁོང་ཚོའི་སྤྱོད་ཚུལ་གཞན་པ་དེ་དག་མི་ཚོས་མཐོང་མི་འདོད།" (Khong tshos khyed rang la btsan 'dzul byed mkhan de dag gsod dgos pa'i rgyu mtshan ci yin shes 'dug gam? Khong tsho ni sa cha gzhan pa zhig tu btsan 'dzul byed mi 'dod. Khong tshoi spyod tshul gzhan pa de dag mi tshos mthong mi 'dod.) "Do you know why they want the survivors dead? It is not because they are a threat. It is because they are witnesses. The Architects do not want their new… designs… to be seen before they are ready. Your camp is not a holding pen, Commander. It is a cleanup operation."
He leaned back, his expression one of pity. "ཁྱེད་རང་ནི་ཁོང་ཚོའི་ཁྲིམས་ལུགས་ཀྱི་མཐའ་མཇུག་ཏུ་གྱུར་ཡོད།" (Khyed rang ni khong tshoi khrims lugs kyi mtha' mjug tu gyur yod.) "You are the final piece of their containment protocol."
Jampa was silent, his weathered face a mask of conflicted emotions. The arrogance was gone, replaced by the cold calculation of a man realizing he's been played. Wolfen had taken the Architect's commands and reframed them, turning Jampa from a valued contractor into a disposable tool. He had been brainwashed, not with force, but with the most potent weapon of all: the truth, twisted just enough to shatter his trust.
Wolfen turned to Eva, his smile now radiant, like a child on his birthday. "It seems Prime Architect 6 is sending a welcome party. Twelve of his finest new creations. He says each trio is a match for me." He sounded delighted. "They want you and Maya alive. The others are to be erased as inconvenient witnesses."
Eva stared, her blood running cold. It wasn't the threat of the twelve that terrified her; it was the ease with which Wolfen had dismantled the hardened commander. The manipulation, the psychological surgery he had just performed, was more frightening than any display of physical power.
"Get the survivors," Wolfen said, his voice losing its playful edge and becoming lethally serious. "Take them back into the mountains. Find high ground. I'll deal with these raiders and then our incoming guests."
Eva could only nod, her throat dry. She turned and left the tent, the guards parting for her, their confidence visibly shaken by the unseen battle that had just taken place.
Inside, Wolfen looked back at Jampa. The old commander opened his mouth, perhaps to call for his men, to reassert control.
He never got the chance.
Wolfen's hand shot out, not with flame or ash, but with simple, brutal speed. He grabbed Jampa's head and, with a sharp, precise twist, broke his neck. The crack was deafening in the sudden silence.
Wolfen turned to Eva, his smile now radiant, like a child on his birthday. "It seems Prime Architect 6 is sending a welcome party. Twelve of his finest new creations. He says each trio is a match for me." He sounded delighted. "They want you and Maya alive. The others are to be erased as inconvenient witnesses."
Eva stared, her blood running cold. It wasn't the threat of the twelve that terrified her; it was the ease with which Wolfen had dismantled the hardened commander and now seemed to know the Architect's battle plans.
"How… how could you possibly know all that?" she whispered, her eyes darting towards the late Commander Jampa. "He didn't tell you that. He didn't have time."
Wolfen's smile was a razor's edge. "He didn't need to. While you were all marveling at the fluffy dogs, I was listening. One of the raiders near the gate was complaining into a radio. He said, 'Tell Prime 6 the package is secured, but we need an ETA on the twelve. He said they'd be here by now.'" Wolfen shrugged. "It was simple deduction from there. Why send twelve of anything unless you believe they can handle a specific threat? And since I am the only significant threat the Architects have on their radar that isn't currently in a cage, the math becomes very simple."
The casual revelation stole the air from Eva's lungs. His hearing was that acute? His mind was that fast, connecting disparate pieces of information into a perfect, horrifying picture in seconds? The manipulation, the psychological surgery he had just performed, was more frightening than any display of physical power. But this… this was something else. He wasn't just a serpent. He was the spider at the center of a web, feeling every vibration, understanding its meaning instantly.
"Get the survivors," Wolfen said, his voice losing its playful edge and becoming lethally serious. "Take them back into the mountains. Find high ground. I'll deal with these raiders and then our incoming guests."
Eva could only nod, her throat dry. She turned and left the tent, the guards parting for her, their confidence visibly shaken by the unseen battle that had just taken place.
(The rest of the chapter continues unchanged from "...Inside, Wolfen looked back at Jampa...")
The slaughter that followed was not a battle; it was a culling. Wolfen moved through the raider camp like a reaper, a whirlwind of controlled, efficient violence. He used their own copper-alloyed guns against them, turning the weapons designed to kill him into tools of their own destruction. The barks of the mastiffs were cut short, the shouts of men turned to gurgles.
Eva, rallying Derek, Leo, Jordan, and the terrified survivors, heard the chaos erupt behind them as they fled back towards the mountain paths. She didn't look back. She just ran, pushing the others forward, Wolfen's final, chilling words echoing in her mind.
He had saved them, again. But the cost of his salvation was the terrifying realization that they were allied with a serpent whose greatest weapon was not his power, but his mind. And she had no idea what his true endgame was.