The frigid air, thick with the stench of rust and burnt fur, slammed into Alan's lungs, yanking him back from the edge of unconsciousness. He lay sprawled on the cold, unyielding ground like a beached fish, coughing violently, every gasp sending fresh waves of agony through his battered body. His vision swam, ears filled with a high-pitched whine, the world a spinning vortex. The only solid sensations were the rough concrete beneath him and the deep, bruising ache in his shoulder blade – a painful souvenir from the Warden's bone-jarging shoulder during their frantic escape.
He had no idea how far she'd carried him. Only blurred impressions remained: the wind howling past, the skeletal outlines of machinery whipping by, and the terrifying roars and shrieks fading behind them. Finally, he'd been unceremoniously dumped.
"Stay down!" The woman's voice, cold and commanding, came from above him.
Alan struggled to lift his head, vision slowly focusing. He found himself in a deeper, more concealed pocket of the industrial graveyard, a narrow crevice formed between the colossal, rusting hulls of two derelict freighters. Overhead, the massive steel plates blotted out most light; only a sickly, fog-filtered glow sketched the twisted surroundings. His rescuer – Lena White, the Warden – stood with her back to him, pressed flat against the cold steel of one hull. Her profile was sharp, hawk-like eyes scanning the direction they'd come from with laser intensity. The electrified baton was still clutched in her hand, its blue-white arcs flickering weakly but dangerously, casting shifting light and shadow on her grim face. She radiated tension, a coiled spring ready to snap.
Time crawled in the suffocating silence, punctuated only by the distant, unsettling echoes of conflict. Lena's ears twitched subtly, attuned to every nuance carried on the wind. Alan huddled in his corner, trying to still his pounding heart and churning stomach, flinching at every faint, far-off snarl.
Minutes passed, perhaps longer. Finally, Lena's rigid posture eased a fraction. A slow breath escaped her lips, visible as a wisp of vapor in the cold air. She turned, those piercing, evaluative eyes locking onto Alan.
Alan felt utterly exposed, dissected under that gaze. It was cold, professional, devoid of warmth, as if assessing an object or a problem to be solved. She approached, her footsteps unnervingly loud in the dead space.
"Can you move?" Her tone was flat, unreadable.
Alan flexed his fingers, then pushed himself up against the freezing hull with immense effort. Every bone protested, but basic mobility seemed possible. "…Yeah," he rasped, his voice raw.
Lena didn't comment. Instead, she crouched smoothly, retrieving a strange, palm-sized device from another pouch. It looked like a miniature radar screen, covered in a grid with blinking points of light. She aimed it at Alan and pressed a button.
Hum—
The device emitted a low thrum. Instantly, the points of light on the screen erupted into frantic activity, swirling and converging over Alan's position, forming a glaring, unstable vortex of energy! A red warning light pulsed ominously around the device's edge.
Lena's brow furrowed deeply, her expression turning graver, more intense. She stowed the device swiftly, her gaze returning to Alan, sharper than ever, seeming to strip away flesh to see the anomaly beneath.
"Who are you?" she demanded directly, her voice low but carrying immense pressure. "That energy pulse back there… Did you cause that?"
Energy pulse? Alan's mind was still a jumbled mess. He remembered the volcanic agony inside him as the berserk werewolf charged, the feeling of utter loss of control, the invisible ripple that had swept the battlefield… Was that what she meant? But… what was it? He had no clue!
"I… I don't know what you mean…" Alan shook his head, his voice weak, laced with genuine confusion and fear. "I'm just… a dockworker… heard noises on my way home… came to look…" He tried to make his eyes wide and innocent, terrified – not a difficult act, given his state. His grandfather's warnings screamed in his mind: Hide! Deny! Never admit anything 'different'!
Lena's eyes held his for several long seconds, dissecting his expression. Her scrutiny was so intense Alan felt pinned. Finally, she seemed to find no overt lie, but the deep suspicion didn't vanish.
"Passing by?" she scoffed, clearly unconvinced. "Ordinary people don't wander into places like this. And they certainly don't trigger Anima Field Disturbances potent enough to disrupt high-level vampire casting and werewolf rage states." She deliberately used the unfamiliar terms, watching for a reaction.
Anima Field? Disturbance? Alan's heart lurched, but he kept his face a mask of bewilderment and pain, shrinking back slightly as if intimidated. He couldn't slip up. Absolutely not.
Lena straightened, looking down at him. "Whatever you saw, whatever you think you know, forget it." Her tone was icy, imperative. "This isn't your world. Treat it like a bad dream and forget it ever happened. Or else…" She left the threat hanging, unspoken but potent. She tapped the small emblem on her attire – shield, sword, olive branch. "Remember this. We're 'Wardens'. We maintain the order of the Veil, handle… 'incidents' like tonight. And sources of incidents," her gaze swept pointedly over Alan, "are usually neutralized."
Neutralized. The word hit Alan like a physical blow, chilling him to the core.
"I… I really don't know anything…" he stammered, his voice trembling slightly despite his efforts. "I just… want to go home…"
Lena studied him for another long moment, her expression complex – suspicion, wariness, perhaps a flicker of something else… curiosity? Finally, she didn't press further. From another pouch, she pulled out a thin, metallic card, like foil. No text, only a miniature embossed version of the Warden emblem.
"Take this." She pressed the cold card into Alan's trembling hand. "If… if anything else… unusual happens. Or if you feel anything… strange. Crush it. It emits a traceable signal only we can detect." She paused, adding, "It's a one-time safeguard, not a charm. Your best option is total amnesia. Stay away from the shadows."
Without another glance, Lena turned. She cast one final, vigilant look around the silent steel maze and the thick fog, confirming no immediate pursuit. Then, moving with the silent grace of a predator melting into the undergrowth, she slipped through the gap between the freighter hulls and vanished into the deeper darkness, leaving behind only a faint, lingering scent of ozone.
Alan was left alone in the freezing crevice, clutching the icy card like a talisman, the only proof the nightmare had been real. Fear, confusion, debilitating weakness, and Lena's chilling warning washed over him in icy waves. Neutralized. The Veil. Anima Field Disturbance. Source of incidents. The alien terms clashed violently in his reeling mind. What had he stumbled into?
He didn't know how long he sat there, shivering uncontrollably as the cold seeped into his marrow. Only when his teeth began to chatter did he manage, using the hull for support, to stagger to his feet. His legs felt like jelly, each step uncertain. He oriented himself towards the direction leading out of the docks, away from this steel hellscape.
The journey home was an agonizing ordeal. He avoided main roads, sticking to shadows and narrow alleys, jumping at every sound, imagining pale faces or snarling muzzles lunging from the dark. He clutched the metallic card until his knuckles turned white.
When the familiar, slightly shabby sign of "Bai Cao Tang" finally appeared under the dim streetlamp, a wave of overwhelming relief mixed with profound vulnerability washed over him. He stumbled towards the door, fumbling for his keys with shaking hands.
The door opened. Warmth and the familiar, complex scent of herbs enveloped him, instantly banishing the clinging odors of rust and terror. A single lamp cast a pool of yellow light inside. Grandfather Shaw wasn't asleep. He sat behind the counter in his old rattan chair, a thread-bound book open but unread in his hands. He looked up instantly at the sound.
"Alan?" His voice held a thread of tension and weariness. As his gaze landed on Alan, his sharp eyes narrowed instantly, like a hawk spotting prey!
Alan was a picture of utter devastation: clothes torn and stained with grime and suspicious dark patches; face ghostly pale, lips bloodless; hair plastered to his forehead with sweat; and worst of all, his eyes wide, haunted by terror, his whole body trembling as if he'd clawed his way out of hell.
Grandfather surged to his feet with surprising speed. He crossed the shop floor in three strides, grabbing Alan's arm with a grip that made him yelp in pain.
"Where have you been?! What happened?!" Grandfather's voice was low, harsh, laced with unprecedented anxiety. His eyes, like probes, scanned Alan's disheveled state, finally locking onto his face with terrifying intensity, seeming to pierce his very soul. "Your Qi… what's wrong with it?! So chaotic! So… leaking?! What did you encounter?!"
The barrage of questions hammered Alan's fragile state. He opened his mouth, wanting to spill everything, to seek sanctuary, but Lena's icy warning and the threat of 'neutralization' exploded in his mind. And Grandfather's lifelong, stern admonition: Hide! Never show the difference!
Overwhelming fear and self-preservation instinct took over. He jerked his head down, avoiding the penetrating gaze, his voice dry and feeble. "Noth… nothing… on the way home… fell… fell into an old pit… got scared…" The lie felt flimsy, pathetic.
Grandfather's grip tightened viciously, bone-crushing! Alan gasped, biting back a cry. He could feel something emanating from his grandfather – not anger, but an icy, razor-sharp vigilance… and something colder… like killing intent?
"A pit?" Grandfather's voice was glacial, each word an ice pick striking stone. "What kind of pit leaves your Anima field in chaos, your presence flaring like a beacon in the dark?!" His gaze, sharp as a blade, flicked to Alan's clenched fist. "What's in your hand?!"
Alan's heart felt like it would burst from his chest! He instinctively tried to pull his hand back, but Grandfather was faster, seizing his wrist! The cold, metallic card bearing the Warden emblem was exposed in the dim lamplight!
As Grandfather's eyes focused on the miniature shield, sword, and olive branch, the blood drained from his weathered face! His pupils contracted to pinpricks, filled with a storm of shock and… bottomless dread!
"Ward… Wardens?!" Grandfather's voice trembled with disbelief, as if beholding his worst nightmare. His head snapped up, no longer looking at Alan, but scanning the shop like a cornered animal – every corner, every window, every door. He even seemed to sniff the air, as if searching for an invisible taint. "They… they found you?! Gave you this?!" His voice was a strangled whisper, thick with apocalyptic dread as he pointed at the card, his own finger trembling. "It's over… The Hounds… they've caught the scent…"
"Hounds?" Alan was utterly bewildered by the violent reaction, numbly repeating the unfamiliar word.
Grandfather didn't answer. He released Alan's wrist and moved with frightening speed. He lunged for the shop door, slamming it shut with a heavy *thud* and throwing the thick bolt! Then, like a ghost, he darted through the small space, checking every window latch, yanking thick curtains closed, plunging the shop into deeper gloom. In the dim light, his elongated shadow danced wildly on the walls and cabinets, radiating suffocating tension and despair.
Only then, leaning back against the bolted door, chest heaving as if after a brutal fight, did Grandfather look at the terrified, bewildered Alan still standing frozen. His expression was a complex tapestry of fear, anger, helplessness, and a deep, sorrowful resignation.
"Alan…" Grandfather's voice was hoarse, exhausted, weighted with an unbearable burden. "We… are in trouble. Grave trouble."
The heavy wooden door, firmly closed, seemed to shut out the entire world, trapping the pervasive darkness and the unfathomable danger firmly within the confines of the little herbal shop, where the scent of ancient remedies now mingled with the acrid tang of fear.