Chapter 23: Gate Static

Arwyn crouched behind a crooked barrel, and fog curled thick around him. The south gate was ahead. How Dhann described it was indeed accurate. Rusted iron, hinges sagging, and really was half a mile from Dhann's shack. His cloak clung damp, sewer stink still on it, but the brown fabric kept him a shadow. The Glock sat heavy in his waistband, silencer cold against his hip, and his sketchbook rested in his hand with his pencil tucked in his sleeve. The sonic pulse rune was ready to be slammed. 

The Codex and Diary weighed his jacket down, and they thumped softly like they knew what was coming.

He peeked out, and one sentry paced around, holding a torch that flickered in the haze. His armor glinted dull, as if it'd gone to countless wars before this. Dhann's map crinkled in his pocket, the south gate marked with that smudged X. "One guy, rusted lock," Dhann had said.

"Time it right," Arwyn muttered, scar buzzing hot at 6,400—no, scratch that, 7,000 poules. He crouched low, eyes locked on the sentry pacing by the south gate. Gotta catch the bastard's rhythm.

Except… there wasn't one. The guy wandered like a drunk rat, no pattern to his steps. His sword clinked against that Dream-forged armor. Loud, sharp, rattling out into the fog. Arwyn's gut said go now, legs itching to bolt for the keep. Then that damn rattle swung back, closer, echoing off the rusted gate. He froze. 

"Fucking hell."

The sentry stopped, head tilting. Something shifted. His armor shimmered, but not just from the torch. A faint ripple ran over it, like heat off pavement. Arwyn squinted. "What the hell's that?" 

The guy's stance hardened, shoulders squared, and his torch hand steadied. Didn't look like normal Dream-forging. Arwyn's gut twisted. This wasn't just some grunt.

Half a mile done, and Nathaniel was bending bars down there—beggar's words stuck with him. The newspaper's headline burned too: "Fortissimum is not Fortissimum any longer." Bullshit. Nathaniel wasn't done. Not yet.

Fog rolled thicker, smoke and rot choking the air. So Arwyn ducked lower, boots silent on wet stone. The sentry's torch swung his way and light sliced the haze. He froze, breath shallow. The guy's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. That same shimmer hit again, but stronger, coating his armor like a second skin. Sommetal, Arwyn realized. Some metal as he read the Delacroix Diary back on Earth. It was some trick he'd heard whispers of. Like steel in your bones, senses jacked up. 

Great. Stealth just got harder.

He slipped the sketchbook open, sonic pulse ready. Fifty poules, tight and quiet, and was supposed to drop the guy clean. He pressed it to the barrel's edge, muttering with deep breaths. "Work, damn it." The rune glowed violet, and a faint hum slowly built. He slammed his palm down with a bit of hesitation.

A soft whump rippled out, air pulsing toward the sentry. The guy flinched, with his head whipping around. 

But it didn't drop. 

Sommetal flared, and his armor glinted hard, absorbing the hit. "Who's there?" he barked, voice rough, torch raised high. Arwyn cursed under his breath. "Should've known. Shit."

The sentry stepped closer, boots clacking. Arwyn shrank back, Glock in hand now. Scar pulsed hotter—seven grand steady, but shaky. He aimed, silencer steady, and squeezed. A muffled thwip cut the fog, bullet streaking for the chest. 

With a bullet darting—

It hit, metal clanged and sparked off. The guy grunted, staggering, but that stupid Sommetal hardened his ribs. Bullet didn't pierce. He looked back, seeing Arwyn's crouching stance with the silenced gun in his peripheral. "Sketcher!" he snarled, charging.

Arwyn bolted from the barrel, fog swallowing his steps. The sentry swung his torch like a club, Sommetal rippling over his arm. It grazed Arwyn's cloak, heat searing through. He ducked, rolling into an alley mouth. "Shit, shit, shit," he hissed, scar burning. This guy was tough—Haki-tough, like those pirate tales his classmates used to ramble about.

He flipped the Codex open, pages crinkling fast. Passion Compression stared back. "Smaller. Smarter." He sketched quickly—a concave lens, warped edges, 50 poules. Same trick from the sewers. He slapped it down, air warping around him. Light bent, cloaking him in bruised shadow. The sentry stomped past, torch sweeping inches away. "Where'd you go, rat?"

Concave lens was his greatest weapon. Simple, fast, and efficient. Despite that, the lens still drained his energy hard. The Dream-forged armor's rust looked to fade, and Arwyn realized once again.

His energy was draining from his armor.

Arwyn held his breath, scar throbbing. He couldn't hide forever. The guy turned, Sommetal glinting, senses sniffing him out. "Got you," the sentry growled, lunging.

Arwyn dropped the lens, Glock up. 

Thwip-thwip!

Two shots, chest and thigh. Sommetal blunted them again, but the guy stumbled, grunting. Arwyn charged, sketchbook flapping. He sketched mid-run—a tighter pulse, 70 poules, no spiral needed. Slammed it into the air. A sharper whump hit, louder, cracking against the sentry's helmet. Sommetal shimmered, faltering. The guy swayed, eyes glazing.

"Not enough," Arwyn muttered, scar flaring hot. He tackled low, slamming the Glock's butt into the guy's jaw. Sommetal hardened the chin—barely a flinch. The sentry roared, fist swinging. It caught Arwyn's shoulder, Sommetal-heavy, knocking him into the gate.

Pang!

Pain flared, sharp and ugly, but Arwyn rolled, breath coming in gasps. He tried standing—first try, his legs buckled, dumping him back into the muck. That steel rattle swelled, grating on his nerves. The soldier closed in, steps steady, no twisted grin like those other Runar psychos.

Second try, he wobbled again, half-up, half-down. The sketchbook stared up from the filth, pages splayed like it was screaming, "Pick me up, idiot!"

'Think… THINK!'

He sketched again. Three orbs that were meant to be XXL bowling balls, compressed Passion, with 30 poules each. For the umpteenth time, he slammed his palm. They shot out rapidly, three heavy masses whooshing toward the sentry, smacking the guy's chest, neck, knee. Sommetal dulled the hits, but the knee buckled. He staggered, growling. It wasn't a pierce, but three weighty punches.

Arwyn saw it. Opening. 

He lunged, wrapping his arm around the sentry's throat. Sommetal hardened the neck, but he squeezed anyway, Glock pressed to the temple. The guy thrashed, fists flailing, Sommetal fading under strain.

The sentry's eyes widened in pure fear. "P-please…" But he didn't answer. His finger tightened around the gun.

Then—

Thwip!

The silenced bullet shot through his skull. The sentry's eyes filled red, and blood splattered around Arwyn's face, warm and wet. The man slumped, Sommetal gone. 

Arwyn stumbled back, panting almost in fear that he'd killed someone for the first time. "I… killed someone," he muttered, wiping his glove on his cloak. The guy was heavy—Dream-forged armor, Sommetal weight. 

He grabbed the arms, dragging him toward an alley corner. Fog hid the blood trail, barely. His shoulder ached, scar burned, but he hauled anyway. "I can't leave you here."

The alley was tight, with crooked walls and trash piled high. He shoved the body behind a stack of crates, kicking junk over it—rags, broken boards, a rusted can. The torch still flickered by the gate, casting weak light. Arwyn crouched, catching his breath. Passion felt low—5,800 poules maybe, scar cooling slow. Too much sketching, too fast.

A groan rumbled below—stone shifting, metal bending. Nathaniel? Arwyn's head snapped up, fog parting. The gate's lock hung loose, rusted teeth grinning. He smirked, shaky. He tucked the Glock away, sketchbook ready, and slipped toward the dungeon stairs.