Yoren imitated ACE and gave Indra a thumbs-up.
"My friends, I wish you a smooth future."
Maybe it was just an act, a last-ditch attempt to save face. But in that moment, Yoren truly meant it.
He looked good right now—strong, determined.
Yes, this was his choice.
It had been more than five minutes since the infection symptoms first appeared. The only inhibitor had already been injected into Vina's body.
In other words, his fate was sealed. There was no changing it.
He was now infected.
The very thing everyone in Terra feared—mineral disease. Oripathy.
He had become part of the most despised group in this world. The infected.
It should have been a devastating realization. If life were a marathon, oripathy was the equivalent of having your leg shattered at the starting line. Not only was winning out of the question—he might not even make it to the end.
He had no spells. No understanding of Originium skills. And, unlike the people of Terra, he wasn't even one of them. He was human. The disease would ravage his body faster, his organs failing quicker. Right now, it seemed like the infection was nothing but a death sentence.
It should have felt hopeless.
But Yoren only felt free.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he had done something that mattered.
With his own hands, weak as they were, he had saved Vina.
It wasn't much. It wasn't some grand, history-altering feat. But at this moment, he finally felt like a true traveler between worlds.
Yoren let out a long breath.
"This is fucking awesome."
He had changed something—something real, something that mattered. However small, he had altered history.
The price, though, was steep.
Indra didn't hesitate. To her, Vina's life was worth a thousand of his. She looked at Yoren, voice soft.
"Take care."
Then she turned and ran, holding Vina tightly in her arms.
Yoren stood there, the discomfort in his body fading slightly. The numbness in his limbs receded.
What did it feel like to be infected? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that his body was in chaos—one moment burning with strength, the next wracked with weakness and cramps. It was miserable.
Behind him, the sharp crack of ice breaking echoed through the air. Frost Nova was using magic to create barriers, blocking the infected while fending off Red Knife in close combat.
At the same time, others poured into the street—refugees, desperate to escape City C. They must have seen the bodies left in the explosion and decided this was their way out.
The infected of [Heisen] didn't hesitate.
Blades flashed. Flesh tore. Blood splattered across the cobblestones. Every ounce of anger, every shred of resentment, they unleashed on the helpless civilians. In an instant, the street became a slaughterhouse.
Three infected spotted Indra running south with Vina and moved to chase her down.
Yoren grabbed a chunk of ice and hurled it at the lead attacker's face.
"Bang!"
The ice shattered, and the man staggered back, blood streaming from his nose.
Rage burned in his eyes. "Kill him."
Several of his allies surged toward Yoren.
They raised their weapons—but Yoren immediately lifted his hands in surrender.
"Wait!"
"Begging for mercy?" one sneered.
"No, no! I'm one of you! Look—I'm infected too!"
"Huh?"
They hesitated.
One of them narrowed his eyes, gripping his weapon. "You just turned. Don't you want revenge on us?"
Yoren shook his head like a drum.
"No, no! I admire the infected. I've always wanted to experience this... this freedom! Your group—Heisen, right? Let me join."
"You? Join Heisen?"
The man Yoren had hit earlier looked skeptical.
"Then why'd you throw ice at me?"
"Nerves! I meant to hit those damn non-infected behind you!"
The man handed Yoren a machete.
"Prove it. Go kill a few of them. Right now."
"Alright!"
Yoren took the blade with enthusiasm.
Then his expression twisted in fear. He pointed at the sky, eyes wide.
"Shit! A slime!"
The infected flinched, looking up—though none of them knew what a slime was.
The sky was empty. Just dull gray clouds.
Yoren's grip tightened around the machete. A flicker of murderous intent crossed his eyes.
A scream split the air.
"AHHH!"
Yoren's blade came down hard, striking the nearest infected and sending him sprawling. Blood splashed across the cobblestones.
It was the first time Yoren had ever killed someone.
He felt it all—the blade tearing through flesh, the warmth of blood hitting his face.
Hesitation. Pity. Fear. Guilt.
None of them touched him.
Why?
Because he was pissed off.
Compassion was a luxury, a decoration people wore when they felt safe. The moment their lives were on the line, that kindness shattered like glass.
Yoren had seen this world for what it was.
Natural disasters, war, and disease had split the world into two colors. The non-infected, clinging to their false sense of order, preaching justice while stepping on the weak. And the infected, driven to madness, seeking revenge for their suffering.
If you wanted to take a life, you had to be prepared to lose your own. It didn't matter if you were infected or not.
It was all so ridiculous.
In the end, hatred turned everyone into the thing they despised.
And now, Yoren was part of this endless cycle.
Just minutes ago, he had been an ordinary person. Now, he was an infected. Just like that, his position flipped.
Like a cruel game of CrossFire's zombie mode—one moment, you're fighting alongside your team against the infected. The next, you turn, and before you even process it, your former allies have already shot you dead.
Who made these rules?
Yoren wasn't a zombie. Infected or not, he knew where he stood.
Every debt had its debtor. Every sin had its perpetrator.
He had two priorities.
The first: make sure Vina escaped Mandel City.
Done.
The second: survive this chaos.
The "slime" distraction had worked. Yoren took full advantage, slashing down a second enemy before they realized what was happening. The third barely had time to react before Yoren severed his arm and drove his machete deep into his chest.
Blood sprayed as their swords crossed in midair.
The enemy's blade plunged into Yoren's shoulder.
Pain roared through him, sharp and blinding. He gritted his teeth, eyes unwavering.
He had saved Vina.
Now, he just had to survive.
Since traveling through the Terra world, Yoren had experienced things beyond his wildest imagination. He met his beloved operator from Arknights and was infected with this world's most despairing curse—mineralopathy.
Somewhere along the way, fear had left him.
The problem was back to square one.
Just as he had thought when he first stood on the streets of Chernobog.
He wanted to survive in this cruel world.
The chaos in the streets was intensifying, and Frost Nova was struggling to contain it. She turned to Yoren and shouted:
"Run! Don't die."
He knew she wasn't worried about his life—she was worried about the information concerning Snowsant.
It didn't matter anyway.
If he had to choose between himself and Vina to bear the burden of oripathy, he would protect her without hesitation.
But that didn't mean he wasn't afraid of death. Survival was instinct. Vina was safe now, and he refused to throw his life away for nothing.
"I...will never die!"
A large number of infected had noticed what he had done. Three of their own had fallen under his blade.
Dozens of them shoved through the crowd, eyes locked on him, howling in rage.
Yoren scanned his surroundings. If he stayed on the open streets, he'd be caught in no time. He could only run south—the same direction Indra and Vina had taken to escape the city.
No choice.
He tightened his grip on his blade and lunged at the approaching mob, slicing clean through one man's throat. Blood sprayed, and before the body even hit the ground, Yoren turned and sprinted into a half-collapsed building.
The place had been devastated by natural disasters. Fire had gutted its interior, leaving behind nothing but blackened walls and charred debris.
He tore through the first floor, searching for the stairwell.
He had to stay in tight spaces, places too complicated to navigate. No one, not even him, knew the structure of this ruined building. That meant whoever dared to chase him would be just as lost in this maze of destruction.
He reached for the railing—
"Bang!"
It crumbled beneath his grip, the stairs partially collapsing with it.
Shit!
The damage was worse than he thought.
Behind him, the infected had already poured through the entrance. With no time to think, Yoren gritted his teeth and scrambled up the stairs.
Reaching the second floor, he grabbed a nearby metal rack and shoved it against the stairway, hoping to slow them down.
The floor plan was different from the first—open and exposed. No good.
He didn't hesitate. He ran.
By the time he reached the seventh floor, he paused by a shattered window and looked down at the streets below.
The slaughter continued. The bodies piled higher. The infected, led by Red Knife, were overpowering the civilians despite their numbers.
Frost Nova was gone. Maybe she thought he had escaped. Maybe she had other battles to fight. Either way, he was on his own now.
The noise of the infected reached him from below.
He had no choice but to keep climbing.
But exhaustion was settling deep into his bones. He hadn't slept all night. His earlier sprint had drained him, and oripathy was eating away at his strength. His shoulder wound burned, blood soaking his body. His vision blurred. His legs trembled.
No.
He bit his lip hard, the pain snapping him back. Raising his hand, he slapped himself twice. The sting jolted his senses.
Keep moving.
"Bang!"
His foot slipped—
The stairs beneath him crumbled.
Instinct took over. He grabbed the handrail, his arms straining, feet kicking against nothing. Using sheer willpower, he pulled himself up.
Looking down, he saw the infected reach the sixth floor. Their path was blocked by the collapsed stairs. They cursed, shouting in frustration.
Good. That would buy him time.
But he had a problem. This place had to have another staircase. If they found it, they'd be right on his tail again.
He had to keep moving up.
—
Five minutes later.
Yoren could barely stand. His body was betraying him. If he fell now, he wouldn't get back up.
He had made it to the fourteenth floor.
Silence.
The infected were gone. Either they had given up or found another way to chase him down.
He leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.
He didn't notice the thing growing in the corner.
A strange cluster of Originium, unlike anything he had seen before. It was small, splitting into two distinct branches. One was pitch black, swallowing the surrounding light. The other was pure white, almost radiant, as if it could cleanse the world of all sin.
The ground around it was immaculate. No dust. No debris.
Yoren had no idea it was there.
He was too focused on survival. His injured arm was nearly numb. The blood on his body had dried. Strangely, his wound had stopped bleeding—perhaps another effect of the disease.
But he couldn't stay here.
If he remained in this place, his condition would only worsen. He had to move before his body gave out completely.
The infected were gone. It was time to find another way down.
Pulling out his canteen, he drank the last of his water.
Then, with a deep breath, he pushed himself off the wall and forced his legs to keep moving.
—
He had only taken a few steps when he rounded a corner—
And nearly collided with another person.
Yoren froze.
The man before him wore a brown turban, an eerie grin curling his lips.
His eyes, narrow and sharp, gleamed like a viper's.
"You're lucky," the man murmured. "But that's all."
A heavy sense of powerlessness settled in Yoren's gut.
Theresis.
The worst possible enemy to run into right now.
Yoren should have felt despair.
Instead, he smiled.
It was a strange, twisted smile—like a man who had finally accepted the joke the world was playing on him. At this moment, he felt like nothing more than a performer in some cosmic farce. And the universe? It was sitting back, arms crossed, waiting to see how much worse things could get.
How fitting.
Hah.
Yoren laughed—his shoulders shaking, his forehead tilting forward and back. At first, it was genuine. Then, it twisted into something darker. Something filled with rage.
He stopped laughing.
His expression turned grim as he glared at Theresis.
His voice, low and cold, was laced with unfiltered hatred.
"You bastard… I've been looking for you."
Theresis merely smiled.
—
Next to them, the black and white Originium cluster pulsed faintly, as if bearing witness to the bloody and brutal fight that was about to unfold.