The corrupted earth elemental's emergence shattered their brief respite after the rat horde, plunging them into deadlier peril! The colossal stone fist, trailing a wave of loamy stench and debris, aimed to crush Fenrir!
"GRRRAAHH—!" Fenrir's eyes blazed with feral fury. Instead of retreating, he embraced the violence! Exploiting his werewolf agility and explosive power, he lunged sideways in the nick of time!
CRUNCH-BOOM!!!
The concrete fist obliterated the spot he'd occupied! Solid ground shattered like brittle biscuit, collapsing inward! Shrapnel-like debris sprayed everywhere! The entire tunnel shuddered violently!
"Flank! Target the joints! It's slow!" Lena barked, darting like a phantom towards the elemental's flank. Her shock baton flared with intense blue-white arcs, aimed at the "elbow" joint—a tangle of thick pipes and roots connecting the massive stone fist to the torso.
Alan staggered, nearly falling. He fought down nausea and terror, forcing focus. Perception! Against this physical behemoth, his harmonizing power seemed useless. He could "see" the elemental's core—a vast, sluggish, ochre mass of earthen Anima—but it was ensnared, driven by chaotic, thorn-like tendrils of black corruption radiating destructive fury! This energy felt immovable, like bedrock!
"Simon! Disrupt its core energy field!" Lena ordered, dodging a ponderous, sweeping blow.
"T-trying!" Simon's voice quavered, fingers flying over his tablet. He activated the scanner beacons' energy jamming mode, invisible beams lancing towards the elemental.
Hum!
The elemental's earthen surface vibrated slightly. Its burning red fissure swiveled towards Simon, angered by the buzzing nuisance! It abandoned Fenrir, turning ponderously, raising its other massive fist to smash Simon's position!
"Oi! Ugly! Over here!" Fenrir seized the opening! He charged like a battering ram from the side! Alloy claws shrieked through the air, aimed at the elemental's supporting "knee" joint—another vulnerable nexus of pipe, brick, and root!
CRACK-SQUELCH!
Razor claws bit deep! Shattered bricks, snapped pipes, and torn roots flew! A torrent of viscous, foul-smelling black fluid, like crude oil, gushed from the wound!
The elemental emitted a deep, subterranean groan of agony (Anima shockwave), its massive frame lurching! The fist aimed at Simon went wide, crashing into the tunnel wall, opening another gaping hole!
"It works! Hit the joints!" Lena saw her chance. She closed in like lightning! Her shock baton, set to maximum, stabbed viciously into the gaping wound Fenrir had created on the knee!
ZZZZAAP—!!!
Blinding arcs of electricity erupted inside the wound! The black fluid sizzled and vaporized with an acrid stench! The corrupting black thorns binding the core spasmed violently!
The elemental reeled, staggering badly, emitting grinding groans of agony. Its red fissure pulsed erratically, primal fury warring with overwhelming pain.
"Alan! Sense its core! Weakness? Control node?" Lena's voice was urgent. Alan's power was limited physically, but perhaps…
Gritting his teeth against the dizzying assault of the elemental's wild Anima, Alan focused his perception solely on the corrupted core. He stopped trying to change the immovable energy and instead *observed* the connection between the corruption (black thorns) and the core (ochre).
He saw it! Near the core's base-left, the black thorns converged into an incredibly dense, complex knot—a pulsating nexus of corruption! It was the most concentrated, most unstable point—the "brain" driving the beast, or the lock's keyhole!
"Core! Lower left quadrant! A hyper-concentrated corruption node! Like… tangled black serpents!" Alan yelled. "Hit that! Or disrupt it!"
"Roger!" Lena's eyes flashed. Physical attacks couldn't reach the core through rock, but energy might! "Simon! Focus all jammers! Max power! Target: Core lower left! Alan guides!"
"On it! Full burn!" Simon complied, fingers flying. All scanner beacons screamed at peak frequency, their invisible beams converging like needles on the "serpent node"!
HUM-SCREAM!!!
The intense disruption speared the vulnerable corruption nexus!
"SKREEEEE—!!!" The elemental froze! Its red fissure gaped wide in a silent shriek of agony! The black thorns binding its core convulsed, spasmed, writhed as if mortally wounded! Its earthen shell began shedding chunks; its movements became jerky, spasmodic. Rage was eclipsed by excruciating pain!
"Now! Fenrir! Break the wounded leg! Bring it down!" Lena seized the moment.
"BREAK!" Fenrir roared, muscles bulging, launching himself like a missile at the damaged support leg! Alloy claws descended with every ounce of his strength and fury! Total annihilation!
CRUNCH-THUNDER!!!
The sound of rending stone and collapsing earth filled the tunnel! The grievously wounded leg shattered at the joint under Fenrir's assault! A geyser of black fluid erupted! The unbalanced giant toppled like a felled redwood, crashing into the waist-deep sludge of the cistern!
KER-SPLOOSH!!!
A tidal wave of filthy water and muck drenched the team! The elemental's massive form hit the sludge, its red fissure flickering wildly before dimming completely. The earthen body slumped, dissolved, merging with the foul water, leaving only scattered debris bobbing on the surface. The oppressive, corrupted Anima presence vanished.
Only ragged breathing, the slosh of disturbed water, and the overpowering stench of loam and char remained.
"Target… neutralized." Simon gasped, slumping to the wet ground, tablet nearly slipping.
Fenrir stood in the muck, chest heaving, shaking gore from his claws. "Tch. Stinking mud."
Lena quickly assessed the team—exhausted, filthy, but no critical injuries. She looked at Alan. "Critical intel. Noted, Consultant Shaw." Her tone was flat, but held acknowledgment.
Alan leaned against the cold wall, gasping, vision swimming from mental and physical strain. The suppressor cuff on his wrist felt warm from the effort. But his focus was ahead. "The Mole… is he close?"
"Last signals and traces put him nearby! That racket must have spooked him!" Simon scrambled up, frantically working his tablet. Signals clustered near a narrow side passage. "This way! Hurry!"
Ignoring fatigue and filth, they pursued. The passage was lower, forcing them to crouch, air thick with decay and cheap tobacco.
Fifty meters in, a crude "shack" made of salvaged pipes and rotten planks was wedged into a recess. Dried rodent carcasses and rusty metal trinkets hung by the entrance. Flickering lamplight leaked out.
"Energy match! Here!" Simon whispered, pointing.
Fenrir lunged to the rickety door. No preamble. His heavy boot slammed forward!
CRASH!!!
The rotten wood splintered!
"Freeze! London Wardens!" Lena surged in behind, shock baton crackling. Simon and Alan's headlamps flooded the cramped, filthy space.
The shack was a midden heap: rusted parts, moldy paper, dirty bottles, desiccated plants (herbs? poison?). Cowering on a nest of filthy rags in the corner was a figure.
He was grotesque. Small, hunched, barely chest-high to Alan. A ragged, indeterminate robe covered sparse, greasy grey-black fur. His head was disproportionate—pointed snout, twitching pink nose like a rat's, small black eyes darting with fear and cunning. Oversized, membranous ears poked from matted fur, and prominent, yellowed incisors protruded. He reeked of sewer and sharp opportunism—The Mole, a half-rat, half-human Animate!
"Oi! Me door! Me stuff!" The Mole shrieked, voice like a rusty saw. "Bloody thieves! Bandits! What'd ol' Mole ever do t'you?!"
"Shut it!" Fenrir filled the doorway, his massive form and aura of blood and death overwhelming. He glared down at the cringing creature, amber eyes blazing with predatory menace. He brandished his tactical display showing the Entropy Gel signature. "'The Mole'! Recognize this?"
The Mole's beady eyes flickered to the display, pupils contracting. Feigned ignorance followed. "Wh-what gel? Ol' Mole's legit! Bits 'n bobs, odds 'n ends! Nothin' fancy! Wrong bloke, sirs!"
"Wrong?" Lena's voice was glacial steel. She stepped beside Fenrir, her baton's arc harsh in the gloom. "Deepnet ID 'MoleOnTheMove, GenuineGoods'. Fortnight ago, you confirmed a 'Blackwater Paste' (Entropy Gel slang) trade on the 'Underground Market'. Paid in 'old gold'. Need your laundered antique coin transfer records? Or…" Her gaze landed on a small, snake-etched metal box in the corner. "…discuss your 'side ventures' with Ouroboros' fringe?"
"Ouroboros!" The Mole flinched, fur seeming to bristle. His feeble defense crumbled under the precision intel and Lena's icy presence. His eyes darted, seeking escape. "G-guv'nor! Just a middleman! Tryin' t'eat! Some clients… they don't show face! Rules o' the game…"
"Rules?" Fenrir lost patience. He surged forward, his shadow engulfing the Mole! A massive, gore-streaked, death-scented hand shot out, grabbing the Mole's ragged robe, hoisting him off his feet like a sack! The Mole squealed, limbs flailing helplessly.
Fenrir's masked face, monstrous in the light, leaned close. Fangs gleamed. Hot, blood-tinged breath washed over the Mole. "My rules! Spill who bought the 'Blackwater Paste'! Or…" His free hand, alloy claws extending with a menacing snick, slowly brought the razor tip to rest against the Mole's twitching, pink nose. "…I peel that stinking hide off ya bit by bit! See what secrets ya got! Might even fix them ugly teeth!"
The cold metal touch and raw death threat shattered the Mole. He screamed, urine soaking his rags, the sharp tang of fear-piss filling the shack.
"I'll talk! I'll talk! Don't kill me! Please!" he wailed, limbs thrashing. "Someone bought it! Big order! Paid… paid in proper old gold! Real antiques!"
"Who?" Lena's voice was an ice pick.
"Dunno, guv'nor! Swear!" the Mole sobbed. "All wrapped in thick black robes! Not a finger showed! Voice… voice was weird! Like talkin' through water! Buzzin'! Definitely scrambled! Couldn't tell man, woman, nothin'! Contact… only by burner comms!"
"Location?" Fenrir's claw pressed harder, drawing a bead of blood.
"East End! St. Clare's! The crypts under the old church!" The Mole babbled, words tumbling out. "Edge o' the docks! Ghost town! Safe! He… he took the stuff, dropped the gold, gone! Not a word! That's all! Mercy!"
St. Clare's abandoned church! Alan's heart lurched. He knew it! Near the edge of Chinatown! Close to Grandfather's shop… No coincidence.
Lena and Fenrir exchanged a glance. Black robes, voice scrambler, antique coins, abandoned church… Classic Ouroboros tradecraft.
"Build? Gait? Anything left behind?" Lena pressed for details.
"Average! Medium build! Walked… walked steady, nothin' special! Left nothin'!" the Mole sniffled, tears and snot mixing. "Oh! Wait! When he left… dropped somethin'! Tiny! Blackish… like burnt moss? I was scared! Didn't look close! Went back later… wind blew it away!"
Burnt moss? Alan instantly recalled the "glowing moss sample" Simon found at the abandoned church attack site!
"Good." Lena signaled Fenrir to release him. The Mole collapsed in a filthy heap, gasping like a landed fish.
Lena crouched, her masked gaze pinning the trembling creature. "Listen, 'Mole'. Your intel… has limited value. But for your cooperation, the Wardens offer a… position."
A flicker of hope lit the Mole's beady eyes.
"Effective immediately, you are Warden informant, codename 'Burrow'." Lena's tone brooked no argument. "You'll receive an encrypted channel. Report anything on the 'Robe', Ouroboros, forbidden alchemy, antique coin trades—especially near St. Clare's. Valuable intel…" She paused, pulling a small, sealed bag containing a few shimmering blue crystals (pure Anima shards? High-grade stim?) from her suit. "…earns this. Comfortable living. Lie, omit, flee…" She left the threat hanging, glancing meaningfully at Fenrir.
The Mole stared at the crystals, greed warring with fear. He bobbed his head frantically. "Yes! Yes, Guv'nor! Ol' Mole—Burrow! On it! Anything fishy, straight to ya! Swear!" He forced a ghastly, ingratiating smile.
"Remember your oath." Lena stood, tossing the bag. The Mole scrabbled for it, clutching it like a lifeline.
"Primary objective secured. Exfiltrate." Lena turned, done with the informant.
They swiftly left the stinking den, retracing their path through the carnage and filth.
Emerging from the pump house into the fading twilight felt like surfacing from a nightmare. The relatively cleaner air was a balm.
"St. Clare's…" Alan removed his mask, taking a deep breath of the cool, grimy air. He looked towards the East End skyline, Chinatown a shadow in the dusk. The Robe, the gold, Grandfather's attackers… The trail led there. He clenched his fist, a desperate resolve hardening: He had to go there. Before the Wardens descended. Grandfather's secret might lie in that church's shadowed crypts.