While Marco's group lingered near the outskirts of the settlement, asking cautious questions about the sanctuary's rules, high above them, in the topmost layer of the castle-like structure, Malcolm's senses were already awake.
Through his Thermal Omniperception, he felt everything. Every heartbeat, every faint stir of heat. And then… he noticed the anomaly.
A little boy—One—radiating no heat. No thermal signature at all. It was as if the child's body existed as a black hole, absorbing every trace of warmth that dared to approach. He felt… nothing. Yet the absence itself screamed to him. Malcolm's pulse quickened, a faint shiver of wariness running through him.
And then he sensed Marco. The man was no ordinary survivor. The compressed, storm-like inferno trapped in Marco's mechanical heart core radiated absolute terror. Malcolm had felt plenty of powerful mutants and abominations, but something in Marco's aura made him pause. Not much—he had faced far greater threats—but enough. Enough to remind him that even in these pollution-infested wastelands, nobody is an absolute predator.
Every being was prey.
Malcolm leaned back, reflecting on what the chaotic world would inevitably bring his way. A mutant, or an abomination, or… some entity even stronger than he could anticipate, would come along. And he would need to be ready.
He thought of the Armament waiting in the center of his sanctuary. Every time he collected the heads of killed abominations—especially the strong ones—the Armament absorbs them and grew. And with it, Malcolm grew. A symbiotic relationship: the Armament fed on the heads, the pure inkforce, and in return, it enhanced his power, giving him a buffer for encounters he couldn't entirely predict.
Leisurely, Malcolm moved through the castle-like structure, his steps silent but purposeful. In the heart of the building lay a massive helmet, black as the thickest ink, releasing and reabsorbing tendrils of smoke that seemed alive, curling and shifting with their own intent. Strange runes etched into its surface glowed faintly in the darkness, mysterious and threatening.
It lay there like a collisal and unmovable mountain admidst the inkforce tendrils.
It was looked discarded yet alive—something even greater than Malcolm himself. He traced its uneven surface, a mix of awe and respect in his gaze.
He remembered the first time he encountered the Armament.
After exacting revenge on those who wronged him—obliterating every being in the vicinity of his mutation, including his boss's family—he had wandered the wastelands. He destroyed, absorbed, killed, and left nothing untouched. And then, he witnessed the Inkforce collapsing entire structures: buildings, vehicles, and every living being nearby, compressed into something singular, something alive… the Armament.
He had already known the value of such entities from his travels during his time in the wasteland. From that day, he had claimed these lands for himself. His word became law. His vengeance had forged not just power, but dominion. He personally reconstructed the abandoned church into the castle it was now, not to hide the Armament, but to declare dominion—an unmistakable mark to any who dared trespass.
He was the Heat Emperor Malcolm. These lands, these survivors, every mutant or abomination—they were his property now.
He also understood the nature of Armaments: they could grow. Through careful experimentation, Malcolm discovered that pure Inkforce absorbed from abomination's heads could strengthen the entity. Abominations, when pushed past human limits by Inkforce, concentrated power into their brains upon death. The concentrated and pure inkforce from their heads became sustenance.
Feed them to the Armament, and it grew stronger. But the only disadvantage here is that it makes the Armament more difficult to own. He plans to own this helmet shaped constuct Armament but, he finds himself becoming a little hesitant because of how strong the Armament is. The stronger the Armament, the more strength and willpower required to subdue it. So you can say that, him strengthening the Armament, is making it more harder and dangerous to own later on which will likely lead to a fate worse than death should the control fail.
Even his immense powers were not absolute. He had faced abominations capable of shutting down all heat in their bodies, bypassing his abilities entirely. Against those, strategy and brute force were his only recourse. Luck, timing, and cunning kept him alive—but he knew he would not always get lucky.
Abominations are everywhere, he feels them everytime his Omni heat perception is actived. The number, he is not very sure. Maybe thousands, hundreds of thousands or even millions. What would happen if he were to implode all those together and absorb all them, he guessed he'll immediately become a god. But he doesn't dare nor has he even tried to absorb the heat relased by any abomination, afraid of getting himself corrupted by polluted energy. So, if there's a 50 percent chance that he can absorb the heat of an abomination without problems, he doesn't dare gamble with his life with a meager 50 percent chance of success. He doesn't have the guts to experiment with something as chaotic and dangerous as inkforce. He'll rather look for an alternative way to strengthen himself. His brow furrowed while thinking to himself.
Meanwhile, Marco, after assessing the settlement and the general environment, decided to leave the group for a while. They weren't children. They could handle themselves—and there were matters only he could take care of. Without a word, he slipped away deeper into the shadows of the settlement, leaving Steven, Brant, Veronica, and One to continue observing and integrating with the locals.
The settlement itself was alive. Mutants of all shapes and mutations hurried along narrow streets. Dog-girls darted between homes carrying scavenged materials, their ears twitching at every sound. Thin humanoids with crystalized limbs shuffled through alleys, while glowing-eyed children peeked from broken windows. A few towering mutants silently patrolled rooftops, scanning for danger. Every step, every glance, was heavy with caution. Fear of the polluted ones and stronger residents permeated the air.
The faint scent of metal, scorched earth, and residual Ink hung in the atmosphere, mixing with the pungent tang of mutant sweat. A metal gate creaked as a pair of armored scavengers passed, carrying crude weapons—evidence that even the seemingly safe streets were no guarantee of survival.
Talon, ever-watchful, had noticed Marco's absence. Seeing an opportunity, from a hidden corner where eyes couldn't reach, he sent a minion to test the group—a wiry, pale mutant with jagged claws and mottled skin.
One of the little followers he recruited during an outside sanctuary trip.
His name was Gillian, a mutant with a crude energy shield that arced and sparked as he moved, giving him minor super strength, regeneration and enhanced constitution.
He hesitated briefly before making his way towards the group after taking a careful look at them.
His target was the Scarfaced muscled man because he noticed how a certain long dark haired man carried himself, so he guessed he was the boss. Even if he were given more balls, he wouldn't dare to challenge the boss of such a terrifying group.
He approaches his target under everyone gaze.
Gillian spoke while pointing at Brant with a greedy look in his eyes:
"How bout we have a little competition about who's stronger between us both"
Brant just looked at his wiry, pale skinned constitution, losing all interest. He turns the direction of his gaze, ignoring him completely like he was just sir.
Gillian froze, gritted his teeth in anger, moving closer towards Brant in agitation, but hurriedly changed his expression when Steven turned his icy gaze towards him. He quickly retreated with a tense expression after feeling the amount of pressure released by Steven.
He scrambled and managed to blend into the crowd before any action could be taken thereby saving his life.
Nearby mutants who were watching the show froze. Some pressed themselves into walls; others silently scurried back into homes. They whispered, watched, and kept their distance trying to understand what was so terrifying about the group that even someone like Gillian will be forced to flee with just the group's boss's stare.
Every onlooker then came to their own conclusion: this group wasn't to be trifled with.
One stood silently, observing everything. Expressionless, as always. His eyes traced every movement, every shadow, every subtle energy shift. The faint murmurs of nearby mutants reached him, but he felt that it was such a waste....he was watching in anticipation before... wanting the fight to take place. It didn't really matter who won, what really mattered was that he'll get to finally have his hands on the corpse of a mutant. He guessed what kind of serums could be produced from them.
He became a little disappointed after Steven's earlier intimidation.
He turned to look a Brant with a puzzled expression