Chapter Ten: The Vulture

As a wanderer of the wastelands, Vulture was filled with confidence in himself. He loved the wilderness; every time he rode across the boundless expanse, Vulture felt a rush of exhilarating freedom and joy. Of course, the dangers lurking in the wilds were formidable, but Vulture, relying on his wits, always managed to survive in the end. It was much like the code name he had chosen for himself—Vulture, a creature that thrived on carrion. In that sense, he was much the same.

Yet, even a vulture possessed the heart of an eagle.

Gazing at Farren and his maid before him, even Vulture could not suppress a surge of excitement. He was not one of District Nine’s own; he only visited occasionally to restock supplies for himself and his men. Nevertheless, the reputation of the “Seven Titans” in District Nine was well known to him. Vulture envied them deeply—they came and went as they pleased, everyone treated them with awe, and their words were law in District Nine. They did not need to heed the true rulers of District Nine—the Blackstone Consortium—nor did they have to shiver through frigid, rainy nights, hiding in caves or ruins, forever wary of being slain by monsters or betrayed by their own followers. Instead, they could recline in clean, warm beds, enjoying fine food, women, and every pleasure imaginable.

Whenever he thought of this, jealousy nearly drove Vulture mad. He, too, wanted to join the ranks of the Seven Titans, but Vulture was, after all, only a vulture—he could never become an eagle. No matter how hard he tried, no one spared him a second glance. Even the wretched commoners and slaves of District Nine looked at him with nothing but disgust and fear. This was not what Vulture wanted. What he desired was to become one of the Seven Titans—an uncrowned king!

Still, Vulture knew that becoming one of the Seven Titans was no easy feat. The simplest method, of course, would be to take one of them down and claim his place. But this was exceedingly difficult. Nearly every Titan commanded a formidable force, wielded great power, and their subordinates were fiercely loyal. Vulture had tried to entice some of their men to betray their masters, hoping to profit from the chaos, but the tactics that served him so well in the wilds failed him utterly here. To his astonishment, these followers were not bound by mere self-interest, but by something he had only read about in books from before the Cataclysm—a loyalty akin to that of subjects to their sovereigns!

How could such a thing be possible?

Vulture racked his brains but could not comprehend it. In the wastelands, people only banded together for survival. If a comrade or leader lost their usefulness, they were abandoned without hesitation; with the right incentive, anything could be betrayed or discarded.

Yet, clearly, the laws of the wild did not apply in District Nine.

After being beaten nearly to death several times, Vulture finally abandoned his previous ambitions and sought a new target. That was when his gaze fell upon Farren.

The reason Vulture chose Farren was simple—among the Seven Titans, “the Doctor” was the only one without an organization or followers. Dealing with him would be far easier than with the others. Even so, it would be unwise to make a move within District Nine itself. As a Titan, Farren clearly held some authority, so Vulture curbed his impatience and began a thorough investigation. In fact, the recent bar conflict and the subsequent provocation by Mad Dog all bore Vulture’s hidden hand.

Their deaths, in Vulture’s eyes, provided him with invaluable information. It became clear that the Doctor’s abilities were of a close-combat nature—perhaps formidable in melee, but likely lacking at range. Precisely for this reason, Vulture dared to trail Farren, hoping to find the perfect opportunity to kill him and take his place.

The appearance of the elite energy leech was unexpected, but Vulture quickly sensed an opportunity. He had hoped to wait until Farren had exhausted more of his strength before making his move, but when he saw Farren acquire a superior-grade energy core, Vulture could no longer restrain himself.

A superior-grade energy core! If he could claim such a thing, there would be no place in the wastelands he could not go. To hell with District Nine, to hell with the Seven Titans—he could have anything he wished! Wealth, status, women—everything!

There could be no more hesitation!

As Vulture watched Farren stow away the core, greed overwhelmed his reason, mingled with fear. After all, an energy core could enhance the power and rank of a privileged one. Normally, such a rare core would not be used lightly—but who could say? Farren was a lone wolf, not a clique-builder like the Queen or the Viper, and had no need to maintain a power base. If he suddenly lost his senses and used the core himself, Vulture might just drop dead of a heart attack right there.

Originally, Vulture had intended to order his sniper to take Farren out from a distance—make it a clean kill, and then return home with the core and that lovely maid. But fate had other plans. Farren miraculously dodged the deadliest shot—a feat, considering that the sniper was Vulture’s prized asset and the only second-tier marksman among them with awakened long-range abilities. Usually, Vulture would have the sniper take out the enemy leader before the rest swarmed in. But this time, things did not go as planned.

Left with no choice, Vulture resorted to Plan B. He had been confident in this plan, but the instant he met Farren’s gaze, a chill of terror swept through him—an icy dread shot up his spine, raising every hair on his body. It was the instinct honed in countless battles between life and death.

He was going to die!

“Open fire!”

Vulture’s order was nearly hysterical as he raised his weapon and unleashed a torrent of bullets ahead. At the same time, his armed thugs squeezed their triggers. The two men who had long been waiting, RPGs on their shoulders, launched their rockets. With a hissing roar, twin missiles streaked through the air, trailing white smoke, and exploded right in front of Farren and Derin.

A thunderous blast, wreathed in fire and fury, swallowed their figures whole, and a storm of bullets followed, covering the ground in a deadly hail.

Click... click-click...

The guns had run dry. Vulture stared fixedly into the cloud of smoke, his finger still on the trigger, unwilling to let go. His automatic rifle clattered out a mechanical rattle, like a corpse in its death throes.

Were they dead?

Staring at the haze and flames before him, Vulture gritted his teeth. Reason told him no one could survive such firepower, and he knew the Doctor’s domain did not include any defensive abilities. Yet, for some reason, unease gnawed at him. He glanced up instinctively—and then his eyes widened in shock.

There, against the dark sky, Farren’s figure appeared before him. His pitch-black cloak unfurled like the wings of a bat, heralding darkness and death.

He could fly!

Vulture was stunned. He had witnessed many strange abilities, but flight was a first, even for him. Vulture himself was a third-tier privileged, but his abilities were purely auxiliary—search and detection. In the wilds, it allowed him and his crew to find food, water, and resources, which was how he gathered followers. In combat, however... his powers were all but useless.

This was bad!

As a seasoned fighter, Vulture’s reflexes were sharp. Realizing things had gone far beyond his expectations, he immediately began to retreat, snatching up an automatic rifle from a nearby fool. He aimed skyward, desperate to mount a counterattack. But in that instant, a shadow flashed before his eyes, and the next moment, Farren’s smiling face appeared right in front of him.

Strictly speaking, Farren’s smile was elegant and gentle, the kind a skilled physician used to put patients at ease. But Vulture felt anything but relaxed. On the contrary, it was as if his very blood had turned to ice, his entire body numb with cold.

A heartbeat later, searing pain scorched his hand, burning away the chill that had gripped him.