The Fellstar Cemetery always looked better under moonlight, which meant it looked very out of place in the sunlight. Maybe it was the way the tombstones gleamed in the fog like teeth, or maybe it was the fact that the dead here had better real estate than the living two wards over, but Gael adjusted his collar with a grimace and stepped over a carved cherub as he and Maeve passed the iron front gate.

"It's brighter than I remember," he muttered, squinting up at the pale mansion looming just ahead. "Are the dead supposed to be this bright?"

"Maybe because it's the only building here not covered in spores," Maeve offered.

"Or maybe the old man's finally spending his inheritance."

Old Banks, as usual, greeted them at the door with his usual grumble, dressed in a fine robe and fuzzy slippers as if they were there for morning tea rather than to scavenge through two-month-old corpse meat.

"Hey, old man. We're here for—"

"Follow me."

They didn't shake hands. The old man just turned and limped back inside, and the two of them followed him through a freshly scrubbed hallway that reeked of rosewater and embalming fluid.

"Your complexion's looking better," Maeve said politely as they travelled through the back of the fake vault and began descending down the stairwell. "Have you been exercising more?"

Old Banks huffed. "Three months on the Doctor's expensive-ass potions. I'd better be bloody blooming for all the investment I'm giving you lot."

Gael clicked his tongue and threw a finger gun. "Nine more months, and you'd be the picture of a healthy Bharnish lad, blackened lungs and all."

"How charming."

Down and down they went, stone steps spiraling past shelves of bottled organs and rusted candelabras. The air got colder. Mustier. Deader. When they reached the bottom, Old Banks flicked on the vault lights, and what was once a treasury of gold and artefacts was instead filled with… rows of stacked and sealed barrels. The whole place smelled like sour lye, old blood, and just the faintest hint of peppermint.

"You know," Banks said, leaning against the doorway as the two of them waded deeper in, "you could just build your own vault under your own clinic. Stop making me host your butcher's pantry."

"Our basement's a herb garden," Gael muttered back. "You wanna eat Myrmur meat next to a bed of whispervines and glowing fungi? Didn't think so. Maybe if we had more money coming in, we could actually dig out a new vault."

While Old Banks grumbled and Maeve gagged the moment she popped one of the lids off to check on the contents inside, Gael cracked the seal on his nearest barrel, peeking inside to see the sloshing piles of Myrmur meat were still very well preserved.

Two months ago, they'd returned to the clinic with forty Myrmurs' worth of meat, but since they had nowhere to put that much biomass, they'd decided to stash it all under Old Banks' manor. He cut out all the organs and hard chitin plates, put in some preservation liquid, sealed the barrels airtight, and just kinda left the edible parts of the Myrmurs there to age and ferment… so he stuck his head deep into his barrel, taking a good whiff of the aged meat.

"It's been preserved alright," he said casually, pulling himself upright and reaching into his coat. "So it's technically edible. Technically disgusting, but technically edible."

Then he sprinkled a pinch of golden powder from a little pouch into his barrel, and the scent of sour lye immediately shifted to overcooked riced pudding.

He rubbed his hands together. "We eating here or hauling some of these barrels back?"

"Neither," Maeve muttered. "I vote starve."

"Coward. You haven't put anything really bad in your mouth just yet," he mumbled back. "Hey, old man, you don't mind us eating down here, right?"

Old Banks was already halfway back up the stairs. "I'll get you guys a portable stove—"

"No need for that. Watch this."

With that, he pulled two more pouches from his coat. Each was about the size of a tea bag, laced with stitching and strange yellow labels.

"What're those?" Maeve asked warily.

"Experimental," he replied, grinning. Then he tossed one into each of the two cracked-open barrels, and there was a second of pause before—combustion.

Steam burst from both barrels, a sudden hiss of heat surging through the preservation fluid. The aged Myrmur meat began bubbling, flesh curling at the edges, and the water tinted orange as the flesh started cooking immediately.

Maeve jumped back out of fright, hissing at the barrel she was standing next to, while Old Banks frowned down at the barrel Gael was peering over. "What did you just toss into them?"

Gael reached into the barrel without hesitation and pulled out a steaming chunk of meat with his glove. It dripped slightly with slimy yellow liquid. He shook it off.

"Instant heat packs," he said, holding his meat up like a butcher's prize. "Made of some reactive salts and thermal algae you wouldn't recognize. Toss 'em in any liquid, and the pouch will immediately melt, causing a heating reaction that can cook just about any meat from the inside-out. I think I'll call it… soupfire."

"That's a stupid name," Maeve muttered.

"You're a stupid name," Gael replied, and took a bite. The meat sizzled on his tongue—half crab, half nutty root. The heat wasn't even. Still, it was edible, so he chewed and made a show of grinning painfully. "Tastes like arson, so thank the Saintess I sprinkled some seasoning in before I cooked them. Now start eating, Exorcist."

Maeve stared hesitantly into the second barrel like it was a dare. Then, slowly, she reached in with her umbrella and hooked out a single meat strip. It glistened like boiled kelp, so she stared at it for a long moment, and then back at Gael.

He nodded encouragingly.

Reluctantly, she took a bite—and then she gagged again.

"Needs… salt," she managed, grimacing.

While Gael tossed her a small bottle of Wraithpier salt, Old Banks leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed. "If you both die in my vault, I'm not cleaning it."

"Duly noted," Gael said, licking his fingers.

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While the two of them ate, he pulled up his status interface to see how they were doing on the numbers front.

[// STATUS]

[Name: Maeve / Gael]

[Grade: B-Rank Wretch-Class]

[Standard Class: Wasp]

[Passive Mutation: Profane Eyes]

[Essence Arts: Purging Blood / Blood Covenant]

[Aura: 259 BeS / 224 BeS]

[Points: 13 vBe / 3 vBe]

[Strength: 4 / 3, Speed: 3 / 3, Toughness: 3 / 3, Dexterity: 3 / 2, Perceptivity: 3 / 3]

[// MUTATION TREE]

[T1 Mutations | Scent Latch Lvl. 3 / Miasma Mantle Lvl. 2]

[T2 Mutations | Basic Claws Lvl. 3 / Basic Repository | Basic Chitin / Basic Chitin Lvl. 3] 50P

[T3 Mutations | Basic Vision / Basic Vision | Basic Setae / Basic Setae | Basic Spiracles / Basic Spiracles] 150P

[T3 Core Mutation: Basic Vision] 150P

[Brief Description: Both the Hunter and the Host will evolve basic compound lenses over their eyes that will give them a wider field of view. Subsequent levels in this mutation will further increase their field of view]

[T3 Core Mutation: Basic Setae] 150P

[Brief Description: Both the Hunter and the Host will grow microscopic setae across their skin that will allow them to cling to and move on walls. Subsequent levels in this mutation will decrease the stamina drain from sticking on walls]

[T3 Core Mutation: Basic Spiracles] 150P

[Brief Description: Both the Hunter and the Host will evolve specialized spiracles around their neck, allowing them to regulate their oxygen intake more efficiently and increasing their resistance to suffocation or airborne toxins. Subsequent levels in this mutation will enhance their oxygen efficiency and provide limited protection against harmful mists or gases]

Hunched over his barrel with the inside of his mouth coated with brine and a hint of roasted algae, Gael licked his teeth, then smacked his lips once, twice.

"We killed about… thirty to forty Myrmurs total?" Gael mumbled through his fingers. "All F-rank Wretch-Classes. Under normal circumstances, we should have a lot more carcasses to store, but because we fucked them up so violently, we butchered them in the dumbest way possible and lost like half the meat… so we probably have about twenty Myrmurs' worth of meat in these barrels."

"That's still a lot," Maeve said, gagging as she continued eating. "If we assume fifteen points from each Myrmur, we'll each get… around two hundred and fifty points?"

"Three hundred, idiot. Didn't you go to some fancy school up there—"

"Close enough. Let's assume the worst. What will you do with two hundred and fifty points?"

Halfway through a bite, he stared up long and hard at his status interface. The words and numbers blinked back at him like the world's most condescending ledger.

"First things first," he muttered, "gotta unlock 'Basic Repository'. Storage comes before power, and I gotta have more room to store my alcohol. You should get your 'Basic Chitin' as well so we finish all of our T2 mutations, and then… we'll have around two hundred points left."

Maeve looked at her own interface as well, furrowing her brows deeply. "We'll each put aside a hundred and fifty points for one of the T3 mutations?"

"Eh. They all seem decent enough," he said, glossing over their brief descriptions again. "Wider field of view, wall clinging, and better breathing… I reckon we just save a hundred and fifty points and unlock one of the mutations when we really need them. That leaves about fifty for attributes."

"I'll go more strength."

"And I'll go more speed."

"Look at us," Maeve drawled, "like two responsible adults managing their investments."

"You're a very financially literate eighteen-year-old."

"And how old are you to be saying that, hm?"

A pause. The silence thickened slightly, filled only by the distant drip of condensation from the vault ceiling and the hum of Old Banks' presence near the doorway. Sighing, Gael swiped his fingers through the air and pushed the status interface aside.

"I still don't like that we're only B-Rank Wretch-Class," he said.

"It's only been four months," Maeve replied evenly. "That's not bad."

"Doesn't feel fast."

"You're just impatient."

"True." He grinned. "But we killed forty F-Rank Wretch-Class Myrmurs at once. Shouldn't we be at least S-Rank Wretch-Class?"

"Most Symbiote Exorcists don't reach this level so quickly."

That earned a skeptical snort from him. "Yeah? And why's that?"

She tapped the corner of her chin thoughtfully. "In Vharnveil, Myrmurs aren't as common. They're much rarer and far more dangerous to compensate, so when they do appear, it's not unusual for multiple Exorcist pairs to be dispatched at once."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning they split the points between pairs, unlike us. They become stronger much slower than we are."

Curiosity tugged at him. "How many Exorcists are there in total?"

"About… two hundred pairs," she said after a bit of thought. "Fifty are still Grave-Class trainees. A hundred are Wretch-Class like us. Forty have reached Blight-Class. Only three are Dread-Class."

Gael raised a brow. "Only three?"

"They're the strongest in the organization. The Dread-Class form the Purity Tribunal, and they decide on every major operation, every policy, and every pairing. The rest of us just follow their orders."

A dry grunt came from the doorway as Old Banks scratched his chin. "Hmph. That's not unlike the Church of Severance. The Seventy-Two Demonic Plagueplain Doctors all answer to the Archbishop unconditionally—at least in theory. Most of the seventy-two aren't stationed in Bharncair, but they're still on the church's books. They get most of their funding through the church, after all."

Maeve tilted her head at Gael. "Doctor, do you know how strong the other Plagueplain Doctors are?"

He chewed, swallowed, then said matter-of-factly, "Not a clue. Never met one outside of myself. Honestly, they're like bad omens—so rare you're better off pretending they don't exist—but I'd guess every single one of them's at least Blight-Class."

"All seventy-two of them?"

Old Banks nodded slowly. "That's about right. They don't show up often, but when they do, things tend to catch fire. Or melt. Or scream."

Maeve frowned. "Then how do they compare to the Exorcists?"

"They're more powerful," Banks said plainly. "Vharnveil is built on three pillars. The Mortifera Enforcers act as the standing army. The Symbiote Exorcists are the surgical blades, and the Plagueplain Doctors are walking disasters in coats and hats and masks. All three of them keep each other in check. They keeps things balanced… up there, at least."

"Down here," Gael said, gesturing broadly, "no Dread-Class. Just us. And maybe a few Blight-Classes hiding in the other wards." Then he glanced at Maeve, the familiar itch crawling under his skin again. "We're close, Exorcist. If we finish all our T3 mutations, we'll get our… What's it called again? Our First Class Mutation Selection?"

Maeve nodded as they polished off the last scraps of their meat in silence. While the Exorcist leaned back, full and dazed, Gael licked the corner of his mouth, stood, and stretched until his spine popped.

"Alright," he groaned, "time to head to the pipes."

But just as he stepped toward the stairs, Old Banks shifted his weight and said, without looking, "Don't be stupid, boy. You going down to the Gulch?"

"Uh-huh?"

"You head down there blind, you'll get yourself gutted in the first ten steps," Old Banks said. "The Gulch Pipelines aren't some scenic route. One wrong tunnel and you're breathing gas, drowning in sludge, or getting carved up by something that never learned to blink."

Maeve stiffened. Gael rubbed his temple. "So what, you want us to not go and get our Gulch water?"

"I want you to ask someone who knows what they're doing. Get a map or something, idiot."

Gael exhaled through his nose, then gave a small shrug.

"Fine, fine." He walked past Old Banks, dragging Maeve with him. "I'll go talk to Juno. It's been a while since I paid her a visit, anyways."

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