Chương 5: Chapter 4

The roar of the engine drowned out the rest of the world. Cal found it for the best, preferring not to hear his transport disintegrate around him. As his harness jerked him around, he wished Millie had made the damn thing more comfortable. There was no use complaining too much; he was the one who once idly complained about the commute being too long. Millie was just nice enough to take that part to heart... and completely ignore things like safety and comfort.

A rational person might give it the benefit of the doubt and think the design choices were related to considerations of production time or cost. As someone who knew the mad woman? It slipped her mind. There was a reason her inventions went through extensive reviews before the public even got a whiff of them. Air rushed in as one of the outer panels finally ripped free and he squeezed the trigger he'd been holding for the duration of his flight.

In response, the rest of the panels ejected, and he was launched out of the rocket, missile, or really whatever the abomination was called. Now hurtling through the air, he slipped out of the harness and put himself in the arch position. The wind rushed through and around him as the ground rapidly approached. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply as he took in the magic of the Waste. He greedily drank it in, feeling the burst of euphoria before sending it to the same place his natural magic regeneration went.

Shunting it away for later use. He opened his eyes, his magic shell allowing him to see without issue. The sight of a scar-filled land greeted him. Shattered mountains, dry river beds, and a swirling storm of glass? The Waste cared little for sense. Navigating via landmarks once again proved useless, so he opted for his old, tried and true. Angling towards where he felt the magic thickest, he got into a delta position and manifested a burst of wind to propel himself forward.

It wasn't a flight; he found that usually too expensive for his taste. Falling with style was much more his speed. As he neared closer to touch down, he spotted the shifting of the landscape. It seemed he woke something up. Good. He sped towards it. It was never too early to start serving customers.

"Damn, you were a nasty thing, weren't you?" He spoke to the dead beast as he rummaged through its innards. It looked like the cursed love child between a mantis and a spider. He'd done the world a service by removing it from this plane of existence. Finally finding the core, he pulled it with a bit too much force and ended up stumbling down the carcass, covering himself in even more ick. His clothes were a total write-off at this point.

He kicked the bus-sized remains for good measure before manifesting a small amount of water to douse himself with. It didn't help. Muttering curses, he retrieved the satchel that he had the good sense to set aside before going prospecting. Honestly, he couldn't remember what number beast this was. The Waste had no shortage of them and while it was the reason he was here, he'd much rather drop the satchel off first so he didn't have to worry about it before indulging in an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Not that he was going to eat this thing. Some magic beasts could be considered delicacies. This wasn't one of them. In the distance, he heard the thumping of footsteps. It never ended here. He turned in another direction, forcefully increased the augmentation in his legs, and sped off. He left whatever that was with a free dinner, minus the dessert he had taken with him. As he traveled, the softball-sized core in his hands lost its brilliance as it went from a shining emerald to a pallid green.

Had anyone else been watching... well, who was he kidding? They'd have LOTS of concerns. He'd wager chief among them was someone draining a core of this size and quality. It wasn't an impossible feat; far from it. It seemed every other month some idiot decided it was a good idea. Was he an idiot? Sometimes. This particular moment he was anything but. While most would go, quite literally, insane ingesting so much foreign magic, he was making the most of his single greatest advantage this life.

What set him apart and let him wade into a beast wave with impunity. The void. He'd never actually left it. Not fully, at least. Even now he could feel the connection in the back of his mind, calling out to him. Unsettling and yet also a welcome comfort. Because, as much as he never wanted to be stuck there again, the benefits it afforded made him discard any thought of severing it. He wasn't sure what happened when people died, but he was sure what happened when he did.

A return to the void and the ability to walk the world of the living once more. Stabbed. Crushed. Burned. Digested. Having his entire body destroyed? He bounced back from it all. He was nigh unkillable. Nigh. It came with a cost, and magic tended to be the universal currency. The void was ever hungry, and he suspected should he ever empty its reserves, he'd be stuck for good. Something he'd not look forward to; he'd only escaped the first time on the back of others making some truly foolish decisions.

Ones not easily replicated. Fortunately, it didn't just devour everything he fed into it. It functioned more like a Swiss bank, skimming a bit off the top at a slow and steady rate while allowing him to 'wash' magic of foreign influence and withdraw it when needed. Flesh creation was an extra charge. To the brass, he appeared to have unlimited reserves and a problem staying dead. They had no idea how close they'd gotten. How he'd burned through a decade of accumulation. How frantic he'd truly been at the end.

Which just reinforced his decision to never let anyone discover his fondness for cores. It was better for them to think him some lunatic who needed to let out his insatiable bloodlust on hordes of beasts than to know the truth of the matter. He felt the power slow to a trickle before the whole thing crumbled and scattered in his wake. As disgusting as that beast was, he'd been able to kill it fairly quickly. Quick was good. Quick meant less time for the thing to waste its magic on silly things like stabbing him.

After traveling several hours, the landscape remained largely unfamiliar, a consequence of having an endless quantity of beasts parading through. If he looked closely, every now and then the barest hints of human habitation showed themselves. A stone too perfectly shaped, colored fragments of what may have been a mural, a weathered coin. Echoes of a civilization once able to claim hegemony over the whole continent. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

He wasn't sure what stood out to him, but somehow he suddenly knew to slightly shift course. Shortly after, his instincts proved correct. The first thing he noticed was the smell, or lack thereof. Following that, he noted the sounds of the day dying off. Next, the greenery went from being flush with life to a rotted husk. Finally, the hill he knew so well appeared in front of him. In all his travels in the Waste, here was the one constant.

He made his way up, and what from afar could be mistaken for foliage, revealed itself to be the discarded skeletons of beasts too reckless to heed the signs. He'd added some himself. Some, not most. Reaching the crest of the hill, he stood before his destination. A cabin, a single-story one. It had a simple design that came across as imposing. On account of the logs that made it being black enough to suck in the light around them. His first home in this world. A prison, or it was. Now it acted as a sort of refuge.

The porch steps let out not a creak as he climbed them; reaching the door, he hesitated a moment before swinging it open. There was no lock. Anyone who made it this far wouldn't be stopped by one.

"Helloooo," he called out.

"Anyone home?" Silence was his only greeting. Almost gingerly, he stepped through the threshold and found himself in a small foyer with a coat rack and two doors. He poked his head through the one on the right; his kitchen was as spotless as he left it. Good. Next, he walked through the one on the left and into the living room. The room was decorated with all kinds of pelts, artwork, and various expensive-looking knickknacks.

They were tossed around without care, so rather than add to the space, they made it seem cluttered. A fireplace lay dormant on the far side, with a sofa lying opposite it. An empty sofa. Now that was a good sign. He walked through, ignoring the empty cans and plates on the coffee table. He'd deal with those later. Passing through the dining hall, he found it untouched as usual. The few books on the table, the only ones on the premises, were still on the same pages he'd left them.

He could recite them from memory, so often he'd read them. Eventually, he made it to the bedrooms, and after inspecting each one, he breathed a sigh of relief. Dealing with Her was not on the list of things he wanted to do today. Or any day. He made his way back to his own. The door jingled as he moved it, the source being a handful of bells attached to the knob. The noise dug up old feelings of frustration. He chuckled to himself; he'd come a long way from back then.

After setting down his belongings, he went straight for the shower. Having hot water out here was a near miracle, and he was very thankful for the small luxury. He made a mental note to check the central power unit later. The cores might need replacing, and he'd rather not find that out with the feeling of ice cubes going down his back. Using a special soap, he managed to get rid of everything that stuck to him throughout the day.

The clothes were still going to be burned; no use wasting time cleaning them when he'd just get new ones. After washing up, he changed into a fresh set from his closet. Remembering his latest score, he removed the robe from the satchel and hung it on the bedpost. He nodded, satisfied with the addition. His room was a fairly modest affair. A twin bed, night table, dresser, small desk, and wooden chair were the only furniture pieces to speak of.

In contrast to the living room, his trophies were placed after careful consideration. Tusks, horns, a pair of gloves, staves, and some daggers could be spotted neatly placed. In truth, his quarters in HQ were both larger and nicer. They also felt alien, like he was living in a hotel. This was him. It also didn't hurt that he could be assured some level of privacy here. He flopped down onto the bed, resting his eyes.

It might be the Stockholm Syndrome talking, but he found this place comforting despite all the memories associated with it. The bad ones. The many bad ones. He'd died here. More than once. Quite frequently, in fact. It turns out that housing a child in an area with such a high concentration of magic was a bad idea. Hells, even most adults would be convulsing on the floor here. There was a reason humans didn't inhabit the Waste, and it wasn't just because of the rampaging beasts.

Not that the latter helped property values. Those first years had been hectic, a non-stop exercise of shunting magic to the void in hopes he'd be able to have enough to return before the magic killed him again. Ironically, if he'd been left in a less dense area, it may well have done the job for good. Now? It was just a steady flow of free money, a benefit of the Waste to anyone strong enough to use it. Ten days. That's how much time he had until the rendezvous.

Less than that, factoring in the amount of time it'd take to get somewhere that would let the beacon he'd been given do more than be a fancy paperweight. While he didn't quite need to reach the Federation border, he would need to get to a point where the magic was weak enough to no longer interfere with the signal. And then just a bit further until a pilot felt brave enough to pick him up. The locals here did not follow aviation guidelines. Three days, he budgeted for the way back.

Far longer than it took to get here, but that's what you get when you can't hitch a ride on a rocket. That left seven days to hunt as much as possible. He'd prefer to relax, but given he'd no idea how long this assignment would take, it was better to play it safe and bank as much as possible. He'd start around that one beast's lair. If it was still there, he'd bring back anything that looked good and leave it some scraps.

Speaking of, it hadn't been too long since his last meal, but those fights had made him a bit peckish. He glanced at the empty planter resting on the windowsill. It looked sad in that state. He'd have to leave it disappointed. It wasn't worth growing anything over such a short period when he already had dried spices safely stored away. He rolled out of his bed and towards the kitchen. The last time he was here, he'd been a bit decadent and ended up making his own ice cream.

There was little other option if he wanted to enjoy it. No one delivered to the gaping wound that dominated the center of the continent. He'd have to carry whatever he wanted himself—not a viable strategy, so traditional groceries were a no-go. Opening the freezer, he grabbed the tub with anticipation. It was light. He opened it; it was empty. That fucking bitch.