Chapter Three: The Ferocious Tiger of the Jungle

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I search for redemption in hell, but is redemption truly found in heaven?
I watched as the sparks leapt and danced, changing with every moment. I asked, “Friend, why are you looking for those two people?”
Lamia replied, “I actually set out with them, but we got separated along the way.”
I said, “Bringing an old man and a child on the road is hardly wise.”
Lamia answered, “When we first left the Black Coffin, we had an entire squad of guards.”
“And the others?”
“They’re all dead,” Lamia replied.
I felt a burst of energy and said, “Even the rangers can’t survive the Age of Sorrow, but I have lived alone for months. I believe I’m fit to be a ranger.”
Lamia frowned. That look made my heart skip—I realized I’d spoken out of turn. She said, “It was just bad luck. We ran into terrible weather.”
I quickly added, “I’m lucky, because I met you, my friend.”
Lamia gave a small smile and turned to gaze into the night.
I’d seen ancient maps. We were in what was once called San Francisco, though the sign now named the area Pacifica. This place was once prosperous, teeming with people, the traffic on the streets ceaseless, lights burning as bright as the stars even in the depths of night.
But all that was gone.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. I swiftly smothered our fire. Lamia donned her helmet and goggles. The clattering steps came and went, unevenly. Lamia whispered, “Bandits.”
I said, “They’ve found us.”
“Why did you light a fire?” she asked.
I had no rebuttal. Lighting a fire was foolish, especially when the situation was unclear. Excitement had clouded my judgment. But how could I have known there were bandits here?
The bandits shouted, “Come out, come out! We’re all civilized folks here, we’ll treat you well!”
They called again, “Little lambs, sweethearts, whatever you need, we’ll give you. There’s no one kinder than us in all the world!”
Their laughter was anything but friendly.
Lamia tossed a small sphere that rolled away with a metallic clatter, then exploded. The bandits shrieked in terror; someone fell.
“Take cover! Damn it, they’re ruthless!” one yelled. Lamia took the chance to fire a few shots, felling two more.
“There are fifteen in total!” she said.
I whispered, “My gun can’t reach that far, and I’m out of ammo.”
“You’re not needed,” Lamia replied.
The bandits unleashed a barrage that instantly shredded the makeshift barricades. Such firepower—where had they found these weapons? Wasn’t this supposed to be an office building?
Lamia signaled for us to fall back. She fired over her shoulder, taking out two more as we retreated. Enemy bullets flew in response. I saw Lamia stumble and hear her grunt, but it didn’t slow her down.
We should have headed downstairs, but I glanced out the window and saw demons below—one a towering, crimson, horned beast, at least three meters tall. Had the gunfire drawn them?
What dreadful luck, and still some hours before dawn.
I gestured downstairs, mimed the demon’s horns. Lamia understood.
“Upstairs!” she said.
The bandits couldn’t see us. We raced for the stairway. Suddenly, I pushed Lamia’s head down and crouched myself just in time—a rain of glass shattered above us as the long-horned demon’s head broke through, searching left and right. Thankfully, it didn’t realize we were just beneath it.
Its heavy breathing filled the air, carrying a foul stench.
At that moment, the bandits opened fire on the demon. It howled, withdrew its head, and I peered outside: the crimson demon was climbing the wall toward the bandits, three other white demons close behind.
“Downstairs?” I asked. It should be safe now.
Gritting her teeth, Lamia said, “No—upstairs.”
We ran up one floor and ducked into an office to hide. I saw Lamia’s left arm bleeding.
“The bullet went through, didn’t stay inside. Bandage me,” she said.

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She handed me a roll of bandage and a vial of medicine. I dressed her wound, and she said, “It’ll heal in an hour.”
“That quickly? Is it because of the medicine?” I asked.
She nodded, eyes as sharp as blades.
“The bandits will be killed by the demons, then the demons will leave; we should escape as soon as possible,” I said.
She answered, “I’ve never failed.”
“That doesn’t matter, as long as you survive—”
“This is one of the bandits’ strongholds. When the demons come, the bandits will hide in their stash, and at dawn, any survivors will reappear.”
She bared her teeth in a wolfish grin. “We’ll kill them all.”
I couldn’t dissuade her, nor did she speak again. She leaned her head back against the wall, breathing fast, sweat running down her cheek and slender neck. There was no pain or hesitation on her face.
Softly, I recited:
“So what if the war is lost?
We are not wholly defeated,
That unyielding will,
That urgent thirst for vengeance,
That immortal hatred,
That courage never to submit or yield—
What else remains unconquered?
This glory, even God’s wrath cannot strip from me.”
Lamia opened her eyes and looked at me. “John Milton’s Paradise Lost.”
I said, “I don’t know where those words came from—my foster father often recited them.”
She said, “Thank you. The poem fits the moment. I feel much better now.”
Half an hour later, dawn broke. The demons were about to return to their nests, but evil men would still walk the earth.
Lamia said, “Stay here. Don’t move.”
I replied, “I have my own way of doing things.”
“Suit yourself,” she said.
Like a ghost, she slipped out.
I drank a potion called Odin’s Eye. My senses magnified many times over, allowing me to perceive the layout of enemies in the building.
Then I smeared my dagger with a salve called Viper’s Blood—so deadly it could even kill demons.
I took out another potion, my own creation. I called it “Amon’s Water.” Amon, some sun god from a forgotten pantheon, but at night he becomes invisible. I drank it; a freezing chill invaded my stomach. Anyone else would have died of endless diarrhea after drinking it, but I was the exception.
Sweat began to pour from me, not ordinary sweat but an elixir that rendered me invisible—my clothes too, soaked in the potion, vanished from sight.
I was ready. I stepped outside. I sensed Lamia was already engaging the bandits—eight of them, on the second floor. Things seemed to be going well on her end.
I headed up to the top floor. Once luxuriously decorated, it was now even more dilapidated than the lower levels. As the saying goes, “Great truths are simple.” The simpler a thing, the longer it endures.
This was the manager’s office; above it, an attic. Six bandits, split into pairs, were guarding the entrances.

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I spun my dagger and killed two. The rest shouted in panic, but saw nothing. I sprinted forward, stabbing a female bandit who glimpsed a faint reflection and tried to retreat, but my blade still cut her face—no matter, she’d soon be dead.
As she fell convulsing, I drove my dagger through the foreheads of two male bandits. The last one fired blindly, nearly hitting me, but it was like swatting mosquitoes in a dark room—his chance was gone in an instant. I stabbed him from behind, ending him.
In the attic was the bandits’ leader, a muscular brute, on edge, firing at the slightest noise until all the glass around him was shattered. I threw my dagger, piercing his eye socket. He staggered; the poison reached his brain, and he died.
All three potions wore off almost at once, their effects seemingly canceling each other. I began to cough blood, but that was better than dying outright—better than being trapped in hell, unable to ascend the skyscraper, to reach heaven.
Lamia appeared at the attic door. I looked at her; she looked at me.
After a moment, she smiled softly and recited:
“Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”
“Who wrote that?” I asked.
“They say it was William Blake, a poet from centuries ago,” Lamia replied.
I picked up a bandit’s gun and smashed open a hidden door. Inside were the old man and the child—both alive. The old man was terrified, but the girl… was not truly a girl.
I hadn’t looked closely before, but now I noticed her peculiarities: seventy percent of her face was metal, leaving only a small patch around her right eye, which was strikingly clear. Her body was the same—her right hand intact, her left arm of silver-black metal.
What was she?
Lamia tore the tape from the old man’s mouth. He shouted, “In the name of the Archon, Lamia, you’ve finally come!”
“You’re in luck, Old Will,” said Lamia. “You should buy a lottery ticket when we get back. You have no idea how slim your chances of survival were.”
“Buy a ticket from those crooked merchants at the Black Coffin? Waste of money!” Old Will burst into laughter, but the “girl” remained silent.
Lamia and I untied them. Old Will said, “I told them, ‘I’m an important man at the Black Coffin!’ As soon as they heard that, they wanted ransom. They even made sure I was fed so I wouldn’t starve—but the food was disgusting. I suspect it was dog meat.”
I touched the dog meat in my pack, sighing inwardly.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Will, my name is Fishbone.”
I didn’t know Old Will’s position. If he outranked Lamia, I couldn’t tell. If he was lower, Lamia wouldn’t have risked so much to save him.
If the former, I’d have to flatter Lamia and serve Old Will as well.
If the latter, I’d still flatter Lamia, but couldn’t afford to offend this man.
In short, I had to watch my words and actions.
Old Will laughed. “What a strange name—Fishbone, what’s that supposed to mean?”
Lamia said, “Fishbone killed half the bandits; I killed the other half. He found where you were.”
Old Will grew solemn. “I hardly know how to thank you. But I don’t recall any ranger named Fishbone leaving with us.”
“He wasn’t before, but he is now,” Lamia replied.
It sounded like a promise. I seemed to have gotten what I wanted.