Discordant Note | TBATE

Chapter 80: The Survivors

Toren Daen

I reached the top of the skyscraper with ease. I walked over the edge, setting foot on flat ground once again.

A moment later, Sevren Denoir shot straight up behind me. He slowed midair, modulating his weight. He threw his dagger forward in one smooth motion, the glinting thin wire spiraling behind it. The blade sunk into the concrete near me, and Sevren pulled.

He lurched forward, skidding to a halt next to me. With a quick yank, his dagger dislodged from the stone and returned to his hand.

"There are mana signatures inside," Sevren said quietly, even though he didn't need to. My sound barrier prevented any noise from leaving. "I think we've found our target."

I nodded in agreement. The zombies down below had mana signatures, but they were strange. There was an aura that pervaded everything around them which made it difficult to sense their mana. The mana they exuded seemed to blend with the energy of every other undead.

I'd only made the connection as the packs of undead became consistent hordes, roving the streets far below. With such a constant cluster, the strange effect they had on the ambient mana was far more apparent.

Lady Dawn would have noticed this strangeness far sooner, a treacherous part of myself noted.

"Want to let them know we're here?" I asked, stretching out my back.

Sevren looked at the rooftop access door. "It's only polite."

We flared our mana in near-perfect sync, the effect similar to a man blowing oxygen over a fire. For the briefest of moments, our mana signatures were beacons, casting light into the ocean of ambient energy.

Sevren and I waited tensely, side by side. It didn't take long for us to get a response.

A mage pushed open the rooftop door, peering out with wild eyes. I could almost taste their apprehension, and I was sure they had a weapon readied behind that steel door.

"Hello," Sevren said, taking a slight step forward and raising his hand in a peaceful manner. "We come in peace, with an offer if you'd hear it," he said leisurely.

The eyes behind the door sharpened, and I could definitely sense them preparing their mana as they pushed open the door further.

I tensed, but considering I didn't sense killing intent from the man, I settled for resting my palm on the hilt of Oath. The door cracked open further.

A man hunched there, a wild look in his eyes. He held an axe tightly in one hand, while the other was frantically imitating a 'shush' motion over his lips.

When I had been tasked with meeting this other team, I'd expected another group in a similar situation as the Unblooded Party. A slowly starving team, gradually whittling away under the strain of entrapment. They'd be gaunt, but they wouldn't be at death's door.

The man in the doorway shattered those expectations. Greasy brown hair clung to his face like reeds. His clothes were in rags, torn and burned in a dozen different places. What must have once been a sturdy cloak barely passed his back, the shreds hanging like a drowned corpse. His eyes were sunken and haunted, and old bandages wrapped themselves around his arm. They were nearly black, the linens old and crusty.

The part of me that had worked as a surgeon felt immediate concern. Considering the temperature of this zone and the rate it took blood to dry to such a dark color, those bandages hadn't been changed in over a day. If there was a severe wound underneath–which the amount of staining in the bandage seemed to suggest–he had a highly increased chance of infection and rot in the damaged area.