The light stung Jin's eyes.
It wasn't the sterile brilliance of a hospital or the soft warmth of sunlight—this was something harsher, colder. Fluorescent tubes flickered on rusted metal ceilings, casting a pale glow over cracked walls and blood-stained tarpaulin. The fan overhead wheezed in a slow, uneven spin, circulating the air just enough to remind Jin that it reeked of disinfectant, old sweat, and burnt antiseptic.
Pain anchored him to the cot. His right arm lay limp in a sling, bones shattered and nerves frayed. A dozen fine stitches marked the path where bone had burst through skin. His ribs were bruised, and his lungs stung with every breath. Bandages coiled across his chest like the wrappings of a mummy.
But none of that hurt more than the silence.
No one had come to see him. Not from headquarters. Not from his crew. Not even a field officer to debrief him.
Just silence—and Makalu.
"Didn't think you'd wake up today," Makalu said, stepping into the room with a bowl of something that might have passed for broth. He didn't offer it. He placed it on the side table, watching Jin through that glimmering, Force-crafted eye. "Thought you'd bleed out in the sand like the rest."
Jin didn't respond. He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.
Makalu leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "No part haul. No Force relics. No salvage. Just a busted arm and a mountain of dead men. Not exactly a profitable mission."
Jin's voice came out hoarse. "We were set up, besides men just died, really good men and your here talking of profit "
"Maybe, don't you know all men in this organisation are replaceable? Or do I need to remind you basic training at this point captain" Makalu shrugged. "Maybe the dungeon was unstable. Maybe someone sold bad intel. Or maybe you were just unlucky. Doesn't change what happened and doesn't change what's next."
Jin turned his head slowly. "What do you mean?"
Makalu reached into his vest and tossed a folded envelop onto the cot. Jin picked it up with his good hand. A message was written boldly DISCHARGED—FIELD OPERATIVE CLASS B—REDEPLOYMENT DENIED. STATUS: NON-ACTIVE.
"Headquarters says you're done," Makalu said. "No backup. No extraction. No therapy unit. They're not investing Force-repair tech on a one-armed scout who didn't bring back a single claw."
Jin's fingers tightened around the device. "I gave them years."
Makalu exhaled, almost in pity. "We all did. The Syndicate doesn't care. You're a blade, Jin. When it breaks, they forge a new one, it's that simple."
The words sank into his bones. They hurt more than the break.
He'd been hunting monsters since he was thirteen. He'd crawled through Riftfields, dodged Class-B Wretches in pitch black, lost friends in dungeons no map could chart. And now, with one arm shattered and nothing to show, they threw him away like a dull knife.
Makalu eyed him for a moment longer, then pushed away from the wall. "You've got about a week before we send you off-site. After that, you're on your own. Might want to start thinking about what's next."
The extractor paused at the door. "There's worse things than being discarded. Some people never even got used."
And with that, he left.
The walls felt tighter now. The fan louder. His breath came shallow, every inhale like fire through his ribs.
So that's it?
They used him. Bled him dry. And when the mission yielded nothing, when his body gave out—he became a liability. Not even worth the price of a second chance.
Like being abandoned for being a weak force user by he's own family wasn't enough. A ragtag group in the middle of a random mercenary organisation in the middle of a faraway continent.
He stared at the trembling fingers of his good hand.
Maybe they were right.
Or maybe they were cowards or rather the fact they were the ones who saved him from being trafficked
Something stirred in him then not the Force,The heat of purpose blooming in the chest of someone with nothing left to lose. He wasn't going to rot in this desert outpost. He wasn't going to become one of the nameless, crippled relics of a war that never ended.
No.
If they wouldn't give him a mission, he'd make one.
He leaned forward slowly, teeth gritted against the pain, and forced himself up from the cot. His legs shook. His breath was short. But he stood.
Africa had become a continent of wild Frontlines and black market kingdoms places where monsters ruled the wilds and men ruled what was left, very few settlements could be called cities. But beyond the Rift Ocean, beyond the ether storms and the dead sea lanes, there were other cities. Other continents. Other truths.
His father's world—Neokyoto. The Eastern Wall. The Divine Bastion. The places where power moved like currents through the veins of politics and madness.
He took a breath and whispered through blood-stained lips and made a decision. He'll leave for home, how he'll get there? when he'll get there?...nothing was certain, only the urge to leave this place, for now he'll recover, after that, home looked like a good Destination