The terrain shifted beneath Cain's feet as he sprinted away from the battlefield, the dry, ash-laden ruins giving way to a denser, darker green.
Corroded metals that once instruments of showing both luxury and majesty receded into the darkness behind him, swallowed by the warped skyline of a city long dead.
'This was supposed to be Los Angeles said in the myths.'
As the panorama shifted, in their place, tangled vines crept from the cracked asphalt, and twisted roots breached the surface — a process no one could deny to the ecosystem.
Cain didn't slow, his breath was controlled, yet his appendages were burning from the layer after layer of enchantments still running through his body.
But his mind wasn't on the path, not even on the shifting ground, the distant nor the unnatural calls echoing through the jungle.
It was on the weight strapped tightly to his back — the lionare's bag.
It pressed into him with every stride, and he didn't need to look at the label to remember what it was.
'In all the brands it had to be Vaultbox.'
The brand was practically a go to for among scavengers, couriers, and treasure hunters.
One of the most trusted luggage makers across Fracturion, used by beastmen and humans alike.
Military-grade, reinforced, and smart-sealed.
Cain had one for himself — it was even the same model, the one he was currently using.
Vaultbox wasn't built for thieves, it was built for owners — submersible up to a full kilometer beneath the crushing depths, shockproof, and heat-sealed.
But the real gem was the lock — an integrated fingerprint scanner that went beyond prints.
It scanned for living cell activity, energy patterns, and even minor DNA sequencing.
Not enough to match a hospital's catalog, but just enough to know whether the finger touching it belonged to a living authorized owner — and not someone who pried it from cold dead hands.
Most would've left it behind, it was too risky, too loud ,and too obvious.
But Cain wasn't most, every thud of the bag against his back felt like a promise.
Like a vault of dreams just one trick away from cracking open.
He was already planning the angles.
Cain ducked beneath a hanging root, chest heaving.
The jungle thickened around him, shadows crawling with whispering leaves and distant, unnatural movement.
But even as the terrain grew hostile, his mind wasn't spiraling — it was sharpening.
The adrenaline didn't blind him — it made things clearer, making him remember.
Julius once told him that the difference between a survivor and a corpse was how creatively you could break the rules.
Julius was just as old as Arthur, but cut from a different cloth.
He didn't hack, he didn't bribe — but he opened.
That kind of man who never needed permission — he was both a thief and a con artist before he enlisted.
Cain had never mastered the skills — but he learned to improvise.
He fished into his side pouch while moving, fingers brushing over two familiar bottles.
The first was water, half-full and already warm.
The second was a plastic tube of used cooking oil — dark brown, heavy with the scent of fried chicken and clumps of old breading floating at the bottom.
Most wouldn't carry trash like this, but Cain had a habit of keeping the useless close.
Sometimes useless things bent the rules better than tools.
Slowing down, he ripped the Vaultbox from his back and slammed it onto a flat stone.
He doused it first with the water, letting it seep into the hairline grooves of the scanning plates and the hidden circuitries within it..
Then came the oil. He poured it slow, rubbing it in with both hands, massaging the thick, greasy layer until the mixture clung like sweat on metal.
He reached the edge of a shrub cluster and spotted it — one of his earlier static traps still nestled in the weeds.
A back-up just in case things went awry.
Without hesitation, he tossed the Vaultbox into it.
The jungle lit up with a crackle as hundreds of thousands of volts surged into the bag.
The water would evaporate within seconds in this heat — but the oil would keep the moisture sealed just long enough.
Electricity spidered across its surface in jagged veins, red arcs flaring as the paint started blistering under the heat while it's multilayer pressure and hydrophobic coating wilted one by one.
Circuits resisted, but the voltage clawed its way in as his hands didn't stop adding oil and water.
Cain shielded his eyes, some plates blackened, and others glowed red.
Until a — click.
Two seconds before the trap died, it gave in.
Cain rushed forward, hands wrapped in fortification magic.
He struck the lower section, wedged his fingers into a small gap, and pried it open with all the force he could muster.
Crack!
The Vaultbox opened.
'I hope this is all worth it...'
The lid of the Vaultbox creaked open, and Cain's breath caught in his throat.
Inside, nestled with careful precision, were rows of crystals — neatly stacked, their surfaces still glowing with ambient charge.
No fractures nor fake ones — and their luminosity even brighten up the darkness.
Cain stared for a second too long, eyes reflecting the muted glimmers like he was someone hypnotized.
Then his instincts returned — tearing his own bag open and began piling them in, hands moving with practiced rhythm.
Each one slid into place with a soft clink, and with every piece, his estimate rose.
'Thirty gold if the market isn't good. A hundred if the demand is greater than expected. Maybe even more, if I could give them a little coat of oil for an extra shimmer....'
But the Vaultbox held more than just profit.
Cain's fingers found a set of talismans nestled between false padding.
Unfamiliar sigils ran across their surfaces, some glowing faintly, others inert.
He didn't pause long — just enough to scan for pulses or emissions.
He didn't trust anything that glowed this quietly.
For all he knew, these were tagged to a family sigil or cursed to track their last handler.
'I know the Syndicate wouldn't bother if it was even something deadly. So... I guess I'll have to sell them cheap.'
His hands didn't stop — as he took all of them anyway.
Once emptied, he glanced down at the Vaultbox's frame.
Bend a little on the side, scorched lock ring, and half its alloy casing blistered from the static trap.
Even so, it might still sell for parts — but he chose to leave it be.
The real prize wasn't the hard shell.
Its black box — a core-integrated memory unit, standard in every Vaultbox, designed to survive failure and record everything.
Most users knew it — but never knew how to fully utilize the feature due to manufacturer warrantee.
Some recorded battle logs, journey notes, and even the last parting words of the deceased.
Others, unknowingly, stored evidence of crimes they never admitted aloud.
Cain pocketed the data core — that was worth more than gold.
'This might be my ticket to school...'
He stood, wiping grime from his gloves, breath slowing.
His haul weighed heavy on his back, but in the best way.
The feeling of financial freedom getting close might be an illusion — but he felt like he was crawling out of the mud of poverty with hands full of gold and letters of untold secrets.
But behind him, something followed discretely — it was huge, still, and almost mechanical.
Its eyes locked on Cain, not just with curiosity — but with hunger.