Wes concentrated on running, scanning his surroundings, and reaching inside himself to touch his Astral Core. It was getting easier. He was still fatigued, but not too bad at the moment. However, Jorn was struggling.

  As the younger man ran, he'd occasionally flicker, his form starting to change, before becoming fully human again. With that method, he was keeping up...barely.

  The quarry road stretched on, its uneven surface treacherous in the dim moonlight. Wes adjusted his pace to match Jorn's pace as he pushed himself, breathing ragged. Both men were not exactly being stealthy with how loudly they were running and panting. Wes scanned the darkness ahead for any sign of lanterns…or monsters. The horse-drawn cart would be slow—especially if the Crostliks were being cautious—but they'd already had a significant head start.

  Jorn stumbled over a rutted stone, catching himself with one hand before hitting the ground. His breath came in harsh gasps. Wes jerked him upright and started running again.

  The pace he was setting was brutal, but if they didn't rescue Jorn's family, all of this was pointless anyway. Jorn seemed intimately aware of the brutal reality of their situation as well. He didn’t speak, didn’t complain. Jorn's chest had to be burning with each breath, his legs trembling from exertion, but he forced himself forward. His breath grew more strained, his face slick with sweat as they pushed onward. The flicker of his transformation came and went in bursts—just enough to keep his muscles from failing, but not enough to drain him completely. The road stretched endlessly before them, moonlit ruts cutting through the plains like scars.

  During the run, Wes’ adrenaline was so peaked it felt like his eyeballs were shaking. He had to keep careful vigilance for any monsters, still not sure of the rules of this world, or how common rift wolves were...or any other creatures in the dark. He notices houses, farms, and small settlements to the side of the road, the area was so flat, the lights make them easy to spot in the night.

  Another farmhouse loomed in the distance, its windows dark. Wes slowed just enough to scan the area. No movement. No lanterns. He narrowed his eyes, then pressed forward again. He scanned each area of interest this way.

  About fifteen minutes later, he almost ran past something important. At the last moment, the Astral Core enhancements to his entire body allowed his eyes to see in the dark just well enough to spot the tracks. He immediately slowed, put his flashlight to its absolute lowest setting, and checked.

  Sure enough, it looked like tracks from a cart being pulled by men. On the road itself, it'd been too hard packed to really spot individual tracks, but now it was obvious what he was seeing.

  This path off the main road led into the hills, and he could spot a glow behind one of them, an obvious building or homestead. He softly said, "I think this is it."

  Jorn doubled over, hands on his knees as he sucked in desperate breaths. His transformation flickered—bone plating rippling beneath his skin before receding again. Wes had not seen the full transformation yet, but he got the impression is was monstrous.

  When Jorn straightened, his eyes gleamed with hope and murderous fury in the dim light. "That's...the old Harkin stead," he panted. "Abandoned. Sickness. Was used as a schoolhouse for a while before.” He sucked in a breath. “Another school was built in the city. Nobody has lived here in 10 years. Everyone thought it was cursed."

  Wes was working on getting his own breathing under control. He said, "Alright, let's head in. The closer we get to all the lights, the less chance we'll be bothered by rift wolves or anything else, right?"

  Jorn wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. His breathing had steadied slightly, unnaturally fast, but his pupils were still blown wide with exhaustion and adrenaline. "Usually, yeah. Rift wolves want to kill people but they hate light, so they usually stay away from civilization completely. And we're close enough. Still usually a bad idea to go running around in the dark like we have. Lucky we’re not dead."

  "Noted. Let's go."

  Wes led Jorn down the road, then cut through the prairie and over the hill to oversee the homestead, or former school. Once he saw the building, he realized it was sort of both. Some history of the place was obvious. At one point in the past there had been a barn somewhat near a small house. Then at another point, another barn had been added, connecting the original barn to the house, and now both barns had windows; two stories. Most of the windows had light, and there were torches and burn barrels scattered around the property, presumably so people could walk around or work at night without fear of getting their heads bitten off in the dark.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  …Or drag in captives.

  "That's the cart!" whispered Jorn. He pointed. "Right over there! It's still outside the new barn! The draft horse is over there, too!”

  Sure enough, a smaller, newer barn, maybe built by the Crostliks, was open, a lantern shining light on inside. Wes didn't see any people, though. Tone businesslike, he said, "Jorn, get closer to the buildings. The one hill to the left, set up a shooting position there. Have both crossbows loaded and ready. Don't shoot until you have clear shots, but if you do, shoot both crossbows really fast so they think there are more people surrounding them and it causes more chaos. And don't hesitate. Killing isn't easy, but if we are going to get your father and sister back, we need to move fast. Got it?"

  Jorn's fingers tightened around his weapon, his newly gained power making his eyes shine in the dark. He gave a sharp nod. "Understood." His voice was rougher than usual—whether from exhaustion or the lingering effects of the elixir, Wes couldn't tell.

  Without another word, Jorn melted into the tall grass. Wes felt bad watching him go. Before the end of the night, whether the two of them lived or died, another young man was going to have blood on his hands.

  He shook his head, dismissing the unnecessary thoughts, and took his backpack off. Then he got closer to the barm, caching the backpack in a natural hole in the prairie. Wes dumped one box of bullets in his pocket plus a few, maybe sixty rounds, already heavy, and took everything else bulky or fragile out of his pockets, putting it all into the backpack. Then he drew his pistol before approaching the open barn. After a moment's thought, he paused, then put the pistol back in his pocket, walking naturally, figuring he'd be less suspicious that way if someone saw him in the distance. He wished he was wearing local clothing.

  Faint sounds carried from the main building this far away, but nothing he could entirely make out.

  Wes rounded the bend into the interior of the open barn and stopped dead in his tracks.

  The lantern light flickered over bloodstained wooden blocks and rusted cleavers left carelessly on a crude table. Dark stains soaked into the packed earth floor, older spills layered with fresh. Hooks dangled from the rafters, some still glistening with wetness where meat had recently been removed. A pile of discarded clothing lay in one corner—tunics, trousers, a child's small dress crusted with dirt and something darker. "Holy shit," whispered Wes in English. The stench of blood and old meat clung to the air inside the barn. His stomach twisted as he took in the butchery tools—this wasn't just a slaughterhouse for livestock. The Crostliks had turned this place into something far worse.

  As he held down his gorge, little details stood out to him as if highlighted for his attention.

  A rusted cleaver lay embedded in one of the wooden blocks, its edge notched from hacking through bone. Nearby, a bucket held scraps of flesh floating in murky water.

  Another bucket held organs, some of which Wes could recognize. There were a few sides of meat hanging up...and an arm. He did not have a weak stomach these days, quite the opposite, but he still needed to close his eyes and breathe deeply.

  After a moment, he got himself under control and explored the barn as quickly as he dared. He learned several things fairly fast. For one, the human-processing area was not very large, and it didn't make sense to leave so much meat outside overnight like this unless the Crostliks didn't care if it got eaten by something else. This meant that from the perspective of thinking about meat as meat, they were being wasteful, which meant they weren't cannibals for sustenance.

  Maybe it’s ritual? thought Wes.

  With a hard heart and a decent amount of disassociation, he checked the...parts, and the clothing he could see. Wes breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing so far looked like it was...Lissa or Harken’s.

  Then he peaked around the side of the barn, checking on the main house, studying it.

  The old schoolhouse was a sprawling structure, its original walls reinforced with rough timber and patched with scavenged stone at the base. Light spilled from most of the windows, revealing shadows moving inside—figures passing between rooms. A Crostlik sentry leaned against the porch railing, his face obscured by a ragged scarf, but the glint of a weapon at his belt was unmistakable.

  Wes ducked back into the barn's shadow, calculating. The sentry would spot him if he approached directly. Then again, in this world, if he didn't have his blade out or a bow in hand, he'd be seen as far less threatening. Wes glanced around the barn again, and with a look of distaste, he took a wide brim hat from the pile of clothing discarded from dead people. He hoped the bit of normalcy compared to other clothing of this world would make it take longer for the locals to notice his outlandish clothing. It was probably wishful thinking.

  Then with a deep breath, his pistol in hand but hidden, he approached the sentry boldly, acting short tempered, his steps brisk like he belonged there.