Cain's mind whirred with recognition — Trap Engineer.
He'd read about them in his curriculum, a class of magicians who specialized not just in spells.
But in building intricate mechanical contraptions — automated turrets, surveillance systems, and complex stun traps.
They weren't just engineers — they were manipulators, able to turn any terrain into a death zone with the flick of a switch.
Their magic wasn't flashy — it was efficient, decisive, and lethal.
Cain's respect grew just a little bit more.
"Thanks for the assist, Specialist."
The voice crackled back with a chuckle.
"Ain't nothin'. Y'all got a knack for causin' trouble, I'll give ya that."
"Mind if I ask? What can I cash in around these parts?"
For a moment, there was silence, then the ground trembled slightly. A massive illusion sputtered and fizzled in front of him, like the curtain of reality was pulled back just for his eyes.
What lay beyond made his breath hitch.
A sprawling mining operation stretched as far as he could see, hidden behind layers of optical camouflage.
Hovertrucks glided over jagged terrain, loaded with shimmering uranium crystals. Hundreds of mining automatons skittered across the surface like metallic ants, scooping raw material with relentless efficiency, dumping them onto conveyor belts that disappeared into towering refineries.
It was a machine of industry, humming with calculated precision.
Cain turned to the man who had appeared beside him, a pipe clutched between metal fingers.
The man's body was almost entirely mechanized, polished chrome and reinforced plating covering everything but his lungs — those were encased in a transparent shell, exposed and blackened with soot and age.
Cain's eyes lingered there for a second too long. Colt noticed and chuckled, a thick rasp curling from his throat.
"Yeah, kid. Ain't pretty, is it?"
Colt tapped the glass of his chest with a metallic finger, the hollow sound reverberating.
"Small pleasures keep a man sane. But I reckon you oughta steer clear of tobacco. Ain't good for the livin' parts."
Cain gave a nod, lips pressed tight.
"Name's Colt Grayson."
The man extended his hand. When Cain took it, the grip was cold and metallic, unnervingly firm.
"I'm known 'round these parts, Uranium's good coin if you got the gear for it."
Colt eyed the jagged outcrops with a slow grin, he turned back and started rummaging through the back of his truck.
He pulled out a pickaxe, its metal gleaming under the sunlight, the handle rough and worn from use.
"These here's all I can lend mah boy."
He tapped his chest, metal clanging under his knuckles.
"This ol' metal body's already built for radiation. Don't need no hazmat suit."
Colt had already handed him the pickaxe, its weight settling into Cain's grip with a satisfying heft.
The possibilities swirled in his mind, but ambition alone wasn't enough — he needed more than just maps and data streams.
True understanding lived in whispers and well-worn paths — knowledge only locals possessed.
While hacking away at the crystals with steady swings, Cain glanced over and struck up a conversation.
If anyone knew the hidden veins of the land, it was someone like Colt.
"Any idea startup like me can play around here? I doubt mining's the only game in these parts."
Colt leaned back against a metal post, puffing on his pipe.
"Most of 'em head to the city. 'Bout a thousand clicks from here. Get themselves a job, sometimes somethin' decent, sometimes not. Depends on their luck, really."
He took another drag, the pipe glowing orange against his metal jaw.
"But if you ain't got the patience for that, there's always the local groups. Got a small network on social if you check your terminal. My grandson's friends do it. Easy cash, but it ain't somethin' you stick with if you want to keep all your fingers."
He tapped his metal temple, as if to emphasize the need to think for himself.
Cain was just here for information, not to mine.
Colt didn't seem to mind — if anything, the old man watched with a hint of amusement.
Cain caught the subtle rise and fall of Colt's chest, the man drawing in a few steady breaths before continuing his tale.
"If you're lookin' for more know hows, 'bout fifty clicks west, you'll find a crystal man."
"Stands his ground like a statue. You wouldn't miss it even if you were blind."
"There's a Syndicate Blackmarket there. If you're lookin' to get something accurate it'll be there."
Cain gave a nod of thanks, lifting the full cart of ore and wheeling it over. He left it beside the pile of unprocessed uranium crystals, a mound of raw, uncut material that would have taken ten automatons half an hour to mine without magic.
He knew Colt wouldn't speak for free. No one did, not in places like this.
Colt wasn't here to babysit a kid — he was here to make business, and time was money for everyone.
As Cain turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of Colt through the rising haze of pipe smoke, the man nodding with a smile, one metallic hand raised in farewell.
Cain returned the gesture and strode off, thoughts already spinning with the new information.
Behind Cain, the illusionary wall shimmered back into place, concealing the sprawling mining operation as if it had never existed.
He turned away, eyes fixed on the path ahead. A tree loomed nearby — not one of the Predator Trees, but something far safer. He climbed it with practiced ease, branches creaking under his weight until he reached the top.
From his vantage point, he scanned the horizon, tracing the path westward.
His map showed the location, just a little off the direct route to Sliabh'Verdan City — a detour, but not by much.
His mind drifted to stories his grandpa, Aunt Roberta, and Uncle Julius used to tell him about The Syndicate.
They had affiliations — deep ones.
He had heard the tales, but one thing always stood out. One unspoken rule.
They won't touch you… if you didn't ask for a beating.
Cain grinned.
"Guess I won't ask, then."