Arcane: Sea of ​​blood

Abel took a step forward, feeling the sticky surface of the pavement beneath his feet. His companions, two smugglers, walked slightly behind, chatting among themselves. One of them, a tall man with a scar across his left eyebrow, turned to Abel.

"The chem-baron isn't far," he said, nodding toward a narrow alley that led deeper into the district. "Just a couple of blocks, no more. But first, we need to stop by a friend's place. My partner," he pointed to the second smuggler, a short, stocky man, "got a dose of radiation on the last run. We need to drop him off at the doctor's, and then we'll head to the baron. We'll report on the order, and then you can do whatever you want."

Abel nodded without saying a word. His attention was drawn to the flickering lights in the distance. As they moved forward, the street grew livelier with each step. The Middle Zaun market sprawled before them like a living organism, pulsating with neon flashes. Shops selling chemicals, underground pharmacies, weapons dealers, and vendors of strange mechanisms—all blended into a single stream of sounds, smells, and light. The air was thick, saturated with a mix of chemical fumes and human sweat. Neon signs flickered, reflecting in puddles of unknown liquid underfoot.

Abel walked, lost in his thoughts. His glowing eyes, like two cold lanterns, attracted attention whenever they met the gaze of passersby, but he tried not to look at them directly. His scars, pulsing red, were a reminder that he was no longer entirely human. He could feel his body reacting to the environment, the chemicals in the air mixing with his blood, inducing a strange, almost hypnotic state.

But as they walked, he noticed people turning to look at them more frequently. At first, it was just occasional glances, but the further they went, the more people stopped to stare at him. Their eyes watered, likely from the chemical fog—the fog he exhaled—but their gazes held more confusion and curiosity than fear or disgust. Abel locked eyes with one of them, a man in a tattered cloak. The man instantly looked away, quickly turning his head and coughing. The same thing happened with a woman standing by a chemical stall. She stared at his scars, at his eyes, but as soon as their gazes met, she abruptly lowered her head, pretending to be busy with her own affairs.

At first, Abel thought it was because of his appearance—his patchwork clothes and the toxic air he exhaled with every breath. But it turned out to be simpler: people didn't want to get involved in what might be another local gang affair, especially with the two shady figures walking ahead of him.

"Hey," the scarred smuggler said quietly, "don't pay attention. You're new here, and in Zaun, anything new always draws attention. Especially if it's... not entirely ordinary." He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "But don't worry, it's not uncommon here."

As time went on, the stares became more frequent, and it started to make the smugglers nervous.

"Let's move faster," the smuggler muttered, quickening his pace. "The sooner we get this over with, the better."

Abel didn't respond. He could feel the tension building. People around them continued to cough, their eyes watering, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was because of the fog that accumulated in the air after each of his breaths.

"Turn into an alley," he ordered, trying to sound as firm as possible. "Now."

The scarred smuggler frowned but nodded. They turned into the nearest narrow passage between buildings, where the neon light barely penetrated through the piles of garbage that clogged the alley. Abel turned to the injured smuggler, who, by all appearances, was barely standing.

"Your protective suit and gas mask. Take them off," Abel demanded, holding out his hand.

The stocky smuggler froze, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Hey, wait," he began, but Abel cut him off.

"You won't be able to use it anyway until the doctor treats you. I need it now. Take it off."

"But it's expensive gear," the second smuggler, the tall man with the scar, tried to argue. "We can't just—"

"Take it off," Abel repeated, his voice quieter but laced with threat. His scars glowed brighter, and the smugglers exchanged glances. The injured man, without a word, began unfastening the clasps on his suit. A couple of minutes later, Abel was donning the protective gear, tightening the straps and checking the seal of the gas mask. The white fog no longer escaped.

"Happy?" the injured man grumbled, clearly irritated, now standing in just a T-shirt and underwear.

"Not yet," Abel replied, not looking at him. "Take me to the doctor. Quickly."

When they reached their destination, they found themselves in front of a small shop cluttered with strange vials and mechanisms. Above the entrance hung a sign with a frog emblem, but the letters were worn away by time and chemical fumes. Inside, they were greeted by a humanoid amphibian, tall and slender, with skin covered in fine scales and large, expressive eyes. She resembled the shopkeeper from the original series, but unlike him, her face showed no trace of a smile. She was bustling around an alchemy table, sorting through vials and muttering to herself.

"Hey, Doc," the scarred smuggler called out, "my partner here got himself irradiated. Needs some help."

The amphibian raised her head, her eyes scanning each of them, lingering on Abel a moment longer than the others. She didn't say a word, merely nodding and gesturing toward a door to a side room. The injured smuggler, supported by his partner, followed her.

Abel remained in the main room, looking around. The shelves were packed with strange substances, some glowing in the dark, others pulsating as if alive. The air was thick, smelling not only of chemicals but also something organic, almost swamp-like.

A few minutes later, the scarred smuggler returned, leaving his partner in the room with the other wounded.

"Done," he said. "Now to the baron."

The amphibian, having finished her work at the table, looked at Abel again. Her gaze was heavy, scrutinizing, but she didn't utter a word. He didn't like her silent attention.

"Let's go," he said sharply, heading for the exit. The scarred smuggler followed but turned back to the amphibian before leaving.

"Thanks, Doc. You're the best, as always."

The amphibian merely nodded, her eyes still fixed on Abel. When they stepped outside, Abel felt the tension ease slightly.

Abel walked, lost in his thoughts. His mind was focused on one goal—finding what he was looking for. The baron might be one option. He had connections, information, resources. Finding Dr. Singed through his network likely wouldn't be a problem.

Moreover, now that his adaptation had begun to adjust to the environment, he needed exotic materials or rare alchemical technologies—things that were likely within the capabilities of the chem-barons. Abel knew that on his own, it would be nearly impossible to obtain these things. It would take too much time and effort.

The return journey indeed took much less time. The streets, which had once seemed like a labyrinth of shadows and dangers, now rushed by as if propelled by an invisible force. Abel could feel the tension in his body growing with each step. The closer they got to the baron's territory, the more he felt like they were being watched, even though there seemed to be no one around. After a couple of blocks, they reached the edge of the chem-baron's domain. The noise of the streets gradually faded, replaced by an oppressive silence broken only by the sound of footsteps and the clanking of metal.

Here and there, people in bulky suits made of scrap metal and roughly treated leather began to appear. Their silhouettes seemed unnatural, and their faces were hidden behind thick goggles and gas masks, making their breathing sound hoarse and menacing. They stood like sentinels, their gazes, hidden behind glass, tracking every move Abel and his companion made. The scarred smuggler walked confidently, but Abel noticed how his hand occasionally twitched toward the grip of his pistol.

"Don't look at them," the smuggler whispered without turning his head. "They like it when people are afraid. Don't give them the satisfaction."

Abel nodded, trying to remain calm. They passed another group of guards, and one of them, tall and broad-shouldered, with a gas mask adorned with rusty spikes, stepped forward, blocking their path.

"Who are you?" a raspy voice came from behind the mask.

"We're with him," the smuggler replied sharply, pulling a small metal token from his pocket. "We're here for the baron. Urgent business."

The guard examined the token carefully, then nodded and stepped aside, letting them pass. Abel felt a chill run down his spine. He knew that every step here could be his last.

Finally, they reached their destination. Before them stood the chem-baron, surrounded by his people. He was dressed in a long coat made of leather and metal plates, and his eyes, barely visible behind the glass, glowed with a cold, calculating gleam. He slowly approached them, his steps heavy, each one echoing in the air.

"Randel," he introduced himself, his voice low and raspy, like a mix of metal and ash. "And what brings our young guest to me? Or rather, what does our young guest have that makes my subordinate fear you more than me... enough to bring you here?"

The scarred smuggler stepped back, and Abel noticed his hand trembling again.

"We've got trouble," the smuggler began, but Abel raised his hand, cutting him off.

"Trouble?" His voice grew even quieter, but that only made it more dangerous. "I don't have trouble. I have business to settle."

Abel felt the air around him grow thicker, as if filled with toxic fumes. He knew that every word here carried weight, and one wrong move could lead to disaster.