The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] Chapter 29: Chapter 29: The Value of a Man

Read chapter 29 of The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] by Adamus_Auguste on NovelPedia.

Chapter 29: The Value of a Man Light reflected off bottles traced shadows on Marek's face. Words prepared as explanation formed and froze along with the chill that refused to leave his bones. He paced in front of the counter, like a criminal's last minute before Silma led him to the gallows. And there she came, out from Garrick's office, her lips curved like a knife. "Get in. The rug's expensive, so try not to stain it." Marek's hand began to tighten around the hilt of his sword. Fingers never actually wrapped it. They hung over it, rationality overwhelming instinct. The rug wasn't Silma being playful. It was a catchphrase he had heard dozens of times with a single meaning: Garrick's displeasure. What he would tell him... He wrenched his belt by the sheath and slammed it on the counter. Then, he crouched beneath the flap. With a shuddering breath that belied his steady steps, he entered the office. Silma closed the door behind him, leaning against it. But his eyes were on Garrick and Garrick alone. The uncrowned lord of the slums spoke first. He interlocked his fingers beneath his chin, leaning on his leather chair. His smile didn't reach the two scars cutting his golden eyes. "My dear experimental facility manager. To what do I owe this impromptu visit this early? Surely excellent news about your success in stabilising my weapon with the three cores it needs." A drop of sweat traced Marek's temple, sliding silently on the immaculate rug. The truth. That was all he could answer with if he didn't want his own blood to follow the sweat. "I faced unforeseen... complications." Garrick leaned on his oak table, scattering a pile of gold crowns across its surface. His voice grew heavier than the clangs, deep and cold. "The type of complications that'll set us years back, or something you can fix." "S-Something I can fix. Just not alone. I went to turn test subjects number one and three into anchor-ghasts with a dozen men. They were gone." Marek's throat tightened at the slight twitch of Garrick's fingers. "Number three left a message written in blood on the wall: the Sump Dogs killed them. I don't know about number one, but three left a trail leading to the Sump Dog's headquarters. The blood in their room wasn't enough for two. I know he's there. I tracked him. Give the command, and I'll get his core before nightfall." His words didn't hang for more than a second before Garrick slammed his palm on his desk. "The dogs I allow to scavenge my trash dare to bite the hand that feeds them?" His voice didn't rise, but his eyes narrowed like golden needles. "Silma, surround their place with the lads. Bring me what they owe me. Refill the cells of the facility with fresh blood if they can't." "Got a report twenty minutes ago. Two of our men were slaughtered in an alley. The dogs again, or the ragged crown?" Silma opened the door, but waited in the frame. "Joss Ren's taking too much space lately. We don't need fake rivals anymore." "On it." Silma left with a nod. For three heartbeats, the oil lamp's flicker devoured the room. In the imposed silence, Marek's mouth opened, then closed as he swallowed his question. Then Garrick offered him a king's wave of his palm. The motion ended as he picked up his quill with one hand, while he opened a ledger with the other. "Your value's decreasing more these days. You may leave, Marek." Marek understood the word leave as live, and let out a long, deflating sigh. Without wasting time that could make Garrick reconsider, he scrambled out. But he almost stumbled as the true meaning bit his heart. He still had value. What when he didn't? Would he join the Sump Dogs in the cells of the facility he had managed for twenty years? An idea, even worse, slithered into his mind. Two missing cores because of him. He might very well turn into the last anchor-ghast Garrick needed... The protection he should have felt when he picked up his sword turned into irony. Nothing could save him but his competence. As long as he be