Chapter 3: The Silent Guide

The cold air from the Zurich bank vault’s sub-basement crept up his ankles. Dorian rubbed the Ancient Talisman between his fingertips; the searing metal was a reminder that time was bleeding out. The deep vault was bathed in sickly white light that drained the temperature from the walls. The heavy gates’ dials turned slowly, their echo thrumming against the stone like a delayed warning.

Dorian didn’t look back at the safe. It had once held secrets capable of rewriting the fate of entire dynasties, but now he wouldn’t dare stay, not even for a breath.

A few dry logs sat stacked by the stove, buried under a layer of dust. Staring at the gray fragments, Dorian realized this cabin hadn’t been properly heated in a long time. Hans seemed used to living in the cold, as well as erasing every trace of his presence.

There were no photos, no books, no objects that hinted at the owner’s past—just essential tools and a way out ready to be abandoned at a moment’s notice.

Hans stayed silent for a long while, then folded up the map and stood to check his gear. He confirmed Dorian was qualified to accompany him, but warned that the laws of wilderness silence must be observed. The stove inside was cold, yet the equipment was arranged neatly against the wall: ropes, folding shovels, water filters, thermal-shielding cloth, and several unmarked metal devices.

Hans checked the latches and battery levels one by one, his movements concise, without unnecessary pauses.

Hans lightly tapped the doorframe with his ice axe, then pointed toward the back of the hut. A narrow door, hidden behind wooden crates, led to a drainage ditch in the forest. Dorian walked over and shifted the crates; the hinges had been pre-oiled, so the door opened with almost no sound. Hans took the rope from his back, secured one end to the iron ring inside the doorway, and tucked the rest into his waist pouch.

Every move was sharp and efficient, without a trace of hesitation.

Dorian paused outside the Zurich bank vault, the Ancient Talisman’s heat urging him that time was short. He turned and vanished into the mist at the foot of the Alps. He hiked to a remote cabin near Interlaken, where Hans was wiping down an old ice axe. He didn’t look up when he heard movement.

Dorian pushed the door open; the cold air mixed with the scents of pine and whiskey. Hans finally stopped, his gaze appraising like a blade.

He turned and merged into the mist at the foot of the Alps, his figure quickly dissolving into the gray-white light of the sky. Mountain wind carried shards of ice that lashed across his cheeks; his skin lost sensation quickly. Dorian followed the abandoned supply trail, his footprints in the snow leaving shallow marks that the wind swiftly erased.

The Ancient Talisman against his chest pulsed with alternating heat and cold, as if reminding him that little time was left for him.

Dorian leaned in to examine the map. The route first followed an old mine tunnel beneath the glacier, then cut through a forest area with no signal coverage, and finally moved east along a nighttime freight line. Every turn meant a choice, and also a chance to be exposed.

He didn’t ask if the route was safe, because if Hans had drawn it, it was implied that safety never existed.

He placed the empty cup back on the table; the rim hit the wood with a soft clink. His fingers didn’t tremble, only the knuckles turned white from gripping hard. Dorian knew Hans wasn’t looking at his tolerance for alcohol, but at whether he could still maintain judgment in the face of pain. The things he’d held together with reason were gradually peeling away; he had to finish the final leg of the road before they completely vanished.

Dorian gripped the Ancient Talisman, suppressing his body’s instinctive rejection of the alcohol’s burn. He drank it down in one go, his face pale. The strong liquor exploded in his throat; Dorian held back, refusing to vomit. Hans stared into his eyes and saw a cold, wild sheen. Hans nodded in approval, pulled a folded hand-drawn map from a drawer, and indicated the hidden path to the Northern Forbidden Zone.

This time, Dorian didn’t ask about the specific meaning of the curse. He tightened his fingers, pressing the Ancient Talisman against his chest through his clothes. The warmth of the runes had stabilized, like a piece of charcoal sinking into his flesh. That power no longer terrified him; instead, it became his only reliable sense of direction. As long as it stayed hot, he knew he hadn’t been completely swallowed by the Contract.

They didn’t speak again. Any plan could change with a single accident; any promise was less reliable than the snow underfoot. Dorian took one last look at the dim cabin; the empty glass on the table was still in place, a light ring of residue at the bottom. It was the last trace he would leave behind, and Hans would wipe it clean before dawn.

The mist outside was blown apart by the wind, revealing the blurred outline of a distant ridge. That outline looked like a gray wall, separating the cabin from the city on the other side. Dorian knew that once he crossed this mountain range, it would be hard to return as an ordinary person. Banks, streets, lights, and crowds would become things of the past, and he would have to keep moving forward with only the Ancient Talisman.

Dorian lowered his eyes and checked the time on his wrist terminal. The screen’s glow reflected on his expressionless face before he instantly shut it off. Any light source could mark his position; any unnecessary sound could carry far across the snow. Hans clearly had these rules etched into his body; even his breathing was pressed to a whisper.

Dorian pressed for details. Hans pointed to the Vienna marker on the map: “The meeting point is in the underground archives of the Vienna City Hall. That’s where the key fragment of the will is hidden—the only key to breaking the family curse. If Matilda gets there first, the historical structure of all Europe will be rewritten, and you won’t even have ashes left.”

His gaze fell on the map, but he didn’t really see the lines. The so-called warmth was no longer a physical sensation, but a vague, old object in memory. He had tried to grasp it once, but only touched cold metal and a receding voice. Now he no longer asked about the cost; he only cared whether the Contract could get him to the end.

The backpack straps clicked into place, the weight spreading rapidly across his spine. He adjusted the position to ensure it wouldn’t hinder running. Hans didn’t answer immediately; instead, he slipped a spare battery into a side pocket and zipped it tight. This brief action made the silence in the cabin feel even longer, as if the answer itself carried a danger that wasn’t touched lightly.

The wind suddenly picked up outside, snow granules hitting the glass with a dense rustling sound. Dorian looked toward the window; a thin layer of frost had formed, the patterns looking like countless intersecting cracks. Hans raised a hand to pull back the curtain slightly, observed for a moment, then let it drop. No lights, no figures, just the forest undulating slowly in the snowstorm.

The remote cabin near Interlaken was hidden deep in the spruce forest. Dorian hiked to the front door and heard the sound of metal scraping inside. He stopped outside, first checking the light leaking under the door, then listening to confirm there was no second breath nearby. Only the muffled sound of snow settling in the woods, and the occasional short caw of a crow in the distance.

When the map was unfolded, a few dried mud spots were visible on the paper. Dorian pressed the edge with his hand, feeling the dampness left by the mountain wind beneath the paper. Hans didn’t explain the origin of the markings, nor did he say how many people had vanished on those routes. Both knew that the map could guide direction, but couldn’t guarantee arrival.

The pen tip stopped in the blank space, not continuing to fall. That blank looked like an unhealed wound, marking neither the endpoint nor the way back. Hans’s voice remained steady, but his hand holding the pen tightened slightly, clearly aware that the changes weren’t rumors, but facts that had happened to someone.

Hans stopped what he was doing, took a glass cup from a wooden shelf in the corner, poured amber-colored liquid into it, and pushed it toward Dorian. The wooden table was covered in knife marks; the base of the cup made a light sound as it slid. The liquor was extremely strong, an oily sheen on the surface, the pungent smell of alcohol evaporating in the enclosed space.

“Life or death is on you.” Hans stated briefly, handing him the backpack. “The Viktor Conglomerate has set up a surveillance net at the border; sensor density is extremely high. Any abnormal heat signal will trigger alarms. This trip is walking on eggs—if you’re exposed, the cleanup squad will arrive within thirty minutes.”

“The meeting point is in the underground archives of the Vienna City Hall. That’s where the key fragment of the will is hidden—the only key to breaking the family curse. If Matilda gets there first, the historical structure of all Europe will be rewritten, and you won’t even have ashes left.”

Hans didn’t answer whether the backpack weight was suitable; he just looked down and checked the ice axe’s fixing straps. Dorian didn’t rush him. He had grown used to finding answers in silence; the more cautious Hans was, the more it showed that what was hidden in the forbidden zone was far more complex than just a fragment of a will.

“The Viktor Conglomerate has set up a surveillance net at the border.” Hans fastened the backpack buckle. “Sensor density is extremely high; any abnormal heat signal will trigger alarms. This trip is walking on eggs—if you’re exposed, the cleanup squad will arrive within thirty minutes.”

Dorian candidly stated that he had lost warmth and only sought the right to survive. Hans remained silent for a long time, then packed away the map. He stood to check equipment, confirmed Dorian’s qualification to accompany him, and demanded that he follow the wilderness silence laws; life or death was on him.

“Do you want to know the cost?” Hans didn’t look up; his pen tip tapped the blank space on the map. “Every time the Contract upgrades, a layer of humanity peels away. Pain deepens, temperature perception disappears, empathy deteriorates.”

The sky darkened; Hans blew out the oil lamp. The cabin fell into dead silence, save for the sound of snow and wind pounding the window frames. Dorian stood in the shadows, hearing the low rumble of an engine from the distant forest, hinting that trackers were near.

“Old Man Matilda is using old family connections to penetrate the upper echelons of the EU Parliament.” Hans tightened the buckle, his gaze cold and sharp. “The time window is extremely short; he needs to gain the upper hand before it closes.”

“Old Man Matilda is using old family connections to penetrate the upper echelons of the EU Parliament.” Hans’s gaze was cold and sharp. “The time window is extremely short; he needs to gain the upper hand before it closes.”

Dorian took the backpack, feeling the heavy tactical modules pressing on his shoulders. “Why are they watching this forbidden zone? Is the will fragment here, or is it something else?”

Dorian remained silent for a moment, his fingertips resting on the edge of the table. “I’ve lost my sense of warmth; I only seek the right to survive. Just tell me the path. The rest is irrelevant.”

Hans stared into his eyes and saw the cold, wild sheen there—the survival instinct granted by the Ancient Talisman, stripped of vulnerability.

“Do you want to know the cost?” Hans didn’t look up. “Every time the Contract upgrades, a layer of humanity peels away, and pain will deepen.”

“Drink it.” Hans’s voice was low, like a grindstone rubbing against a rough surface. “If you tremble, go back to the city.”

“Why are they watching this forbidden zone? Is the will fragment here, or is it something else?”

Hans handed over a glass of extremely strong liquor, his voice low like a grindstone:

Dorian took the backpack, feeling the heavy tactical modules press on his shoulders:

Dorian pressed for details. Hans pointed to the Vienna marker on the map:

“Drink it. If you tremble, go back to the city.”

Hans turned and pushed the door open, storming out into the gale that rushed snow into the hut. The oil lamp went out completely. Dorian followed closely behind; his footsteps were swallowed by the wind and snow.