Chapter 7: One Against Ten
Lately, Quicksand had been trapped in a recurring dream.
In the dream, he was climbing a massive, vertical staircase. The stone steps extended into a void, flanked by tens of thousands of floating shards of ice. Glinting across the frozen surfaces were kaleidoscopic reflections—countless fragments of time, overlapping and intersecting to form a labyrinthine vortex.
He sprinted through the maze, but the steps were endless. It was only after a prolonged struggle that he realized with a jolt of horror that he was running atop a Penrose staircase: forward meant backward, ascending led to descending, the past was the future, and the entire structure was a localized, eternal temporal loop.
Gradually, his consciousness drifted upward, observing the scene from a bird’s-eye view. The Penrose staircase flattened into a schematic drawing, which then transformed into a low-relief engraving on the face of a metallic coin. The coin flipped through the air before falling squarely into the palm of a portly gentleman—Bumblebee. Yet as he watched, Bumblebee’s features began to fade and dissolve, eventually reshaping into the cunning, smirking face of Diamonds.
Quicksand bolted upright in bed, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He had no understanding of what triggered the nightmare, nor who he had been before the amnesia. The erratic blue glow of a neon sign pulsed through the window, flickering against the walls like a broken television screen switching channels.
Turning his head, he glanced toward the corner of the small room. Diamonds was curled tightly inside a cardboard box, sweat pooling on his forehead, his face pale and his sleep heavily disturbed. It was Diamonds’s turn to occupy the box tonight. Outside, the neon glow shifted into a harsh, dawn-like crimson; it was exactly seven in the morning.
A shrill, piercing alarm shattered the silence. Diamonds knit his brows tightly, reaching out a hand to slap the terminal quiet before slowly dragging himself out of the box. His eyes remained heavily closed, moving like a reanimated corpse.
“Morning, Boss,” Quicksand deadpanned, efficiently changing into his bartender attire. He had been assisting at the Poker Bar for some time now, quickly becoming a favorite among Lady Spades and the regular patrons, handling the continuous influx of customers throughout the day.
Diamonds offered a muffled grunt, staggering into the adjacent washroom. Moments later, the sound of violent coughing and dry-heaving echoed through the door, eventually masked by the rush of running water. When he finally emerged, Quicksand noticed his face was as white as parchment, a faint, unwashed trace of crimson blood clinging to the corner of his damp lips. Diamonds stumbled over to the edge of the bed, dumping a colorful assortment of pharmaceuticals from a prescription bottle into his palm before swallowing them whole.
“What’s wrong? Morning sickness?” Quicksand inquired flatly.
Diamonds downed a glass of water, dismissing the provocative joke with an indifferent shrug. “Yeah, it’s yours. You had a bit too much to drink last night and lost control. You need to take responsibility.”
“I know exactly how much I drink. Besides, I only consumed Wahaha milk last night,” Quicksand countered. Over the course of their cohabitation, he had noticed that Diamonds’s physical condition was remarkably poor. Yet the moment the man stepped through the bedroom door, he transformed into a vibrant, charismatic social butterfly among the patrons, making it impossible to determine which face was the true mask.
The two descended the stairs. Diamonds slipped into the kitchen with a weary yawn, returning moments later with a cup of black coffee, a plate of heavily charred bacon, and sausages that resembled solid charcoal. Quicksand consumed the meal without complaint, the crunching sound from his jaw resembling someone chewing through dry sawdust. Once he finished, he remarked:
“Remarkably unpalatable.”
Diamonds tapped him over the head with a spoon. “If it’s unpalatable, don’t eat it.”
“The Boss explicitly promised room and board. Even if it’s terrible, I will finish it. I intend to squeeze every ounce of value out of my employer,” Quicksand replied, his cheeks moving rhythmically.
Following breakfast, Diamonds lazily retreated upstairs to catch up on his sleep. Hearts materialized near the counter, patting Quicksand on the shoulder with a mysterious wink, gesturing for the youth to follow him into his private quarters.
Quicksand complied silently. The moment he stepped across the threshold, he was thoroughly astonished by the room’s interior design, which practically radiated pink bubbles. Hearts stood over nine feet tall with a rugged, mountain-like build, yet his quarters resembled a whimsical fairy-tale kingdom. At the center of this pink ocean, a semi-circular glass reservoir rested against the wall, a beautiful porcelain doll’s head floating gently amid a cluster of aquatic flora and fresh blossoms. Hearts chuckled warmly:
“That boy Diamonds is remarkably stingy with his coin; it appears he hasn’t purchased a single set of proper attire for you. Walking around the establishment in pajamas is hardly appropriate. This old man’s wardrobe contains abundance—feel free to take whatever catches your eye.”
Quicksand stared into a closet packed with floral chiffon skirts and puff-sleeve dresses, his voice caught in his throat. Ultimately, he reluctantly selected a plain pink apron. Just as he prepared to exit the room, a large poster pinned to the wall caught his attention.
The aesthetic of the poster clashed violently with the whimsical decor. Rendered in stark black and crimson, it depicted the silhouette of a colossal fighter driving a devastating fist forward, sweat spraying through the air. Written beneath the image in exaggerated, stylized typography was the caption: The Superstar Anvil, Sweeping the Arena!
Noticing Quicksand’s fixated gaze, Hearts offered an embarrassed chuckle. “Ah. That’s a promotional poster from my younger years. It’s quite aged by now.”
Quicksand turned to look at him, a fragment of an unmapped memory sparking behind his eyes. He asked, a rare note of astonishment creeping into his voice, “You are Anvil, the King of Boxers?”
Anvil, the King of Boxers, was the legendary, undefeated champion of the Chrono-Entropy Corporation’s colosseum circuit, boasting an astronomical net worth of 288 years of lifespan. Rumors dictated that his build was unbreakable, his fists carried the weight of solid iron, and his defensive guard was flawless. Every strike he executed was akin to a cataclysmic shockwave, making him a highly coveted superstar among Spiral City’s elite upper echelons.
“Yes. But that’s all ancient history now. This old man has no desire to entertain the highborn anymore; I am perfectly content operating as a humble bartender here,” Hearts smiled gently.
To think a former idol of the upper district has reduced himself to leading a resistance faction in the gutter, possessing a humble, soft-spoken demeanor while hoarding frilly dresses, Quicksand mused. He held out the pink apron toward the giant.
Hearts blinked in confusion. “What is it?”
“Autograph,” Quicksand stated, appearing slightly self-conscious.
“Haha! To think you were actually a fan of this old man? But you intend to wear that apron for work; an autograph will merely wash away in the laundry.”
“Then I will fetch my pajamas…”
Hearts let out another booming laugh, pulling open a desk drawer to retrieve a vintage promotional print. He signed it with a flourish before handing it over. Quicksand cradled the print as if it were a priceless relic. Observing the rare spark of excitement in the youth’s eyes, Hearts added:
“Diamonds mentioned that your combat reflexes are exceptional. Not only did you systematically dismantle those unruly patrons, but you also neutralized a corporate Time Scavenger with a single strike. What do you say to joining the Clepsydra resistance?”
The headquarters of the Clepsydra resistance was situated within the southwestern quadrant of the lower district, embedded inside the ruins of a dilapidated church. The structure had been heavily bombarded during past conflicts, leaving behind nothing but scorched, crumbling walls. Amid the debris stood a fractured marble monument of Chronos, the three-headed dragon god of time. A raucous crowd of youths sporting copper-clepsydra tattoos on their forearms were gathered across the floor, clad in reflective, high-visibility outerwear that resembled vibrant, splashed graffiti.
Hearts ushered Quicksand into the ruined nave, offering a concise introduction to the assembly. The Clepsydra operatives were scattered across the remaining pews, locked in an intense debate regarding an upcoming raid on the primary elevator terminal. Listening from the periphery, Quicksand gathered that the elevator shafts ascended directly into the upper echelons of Spiral City, terminating at the Chrono-Entropy Corporation’s “2030 branch.”
Chrono-Entropy established a localized branch facility along the timeline at fixed five-year intervals. The sector possessing the tightest operational ties to the lower district—and consequently inflicting the deepest layer of systemic oppression upon its residents—was the 2030 branch. Intelligence dictated that the facility had been engineered into a savage colosseum, forcing desperate lower-district debtors into a continuous cycle of mutual slaughter. They spilled their blood on the canvas merely to secure the favor and financial tips of the masked elite, hoping against hope to wipe out their crushing liabilities.
Yet the arena was a psychological trap; many of the combatants were ordinary civilians who had been intentionally ensnared by corporate schemes, forced into artificial debts before being thrown into a literal slaughterhouse dripping with blood and tears.
Quicksand looked down at the signed print he had just received from Hearts, his gaze turning complex. Beneath the majestic, all-powerful silhouette of the superstar Anvil, a line of minuscule typography was stamped into the bottom corner:
Sponsored by the Chrono-Entropy Corporation, 2030 Branch.
Quicksand fell silent, the tiny characters searing his eyes like a branding iron. Hearts—the legendary King of Boxers—had been forged inside that very slaughterhouse. He had been a superstar revered by thousands, yet fundamentally remained nothing more than a glorified plaything for the highborn elite.
“What’s on your mind?” Hearts asked, taking a seat beside him. The ancient wooden pew groaned heavily under his massive weight.
Quicksand questioned softly, “Is Clepsydra’s immediate objective to launch an assault against this 2030 branch?”
“Correct. Beyond the 2030 facility, there are several key nodes across the corporate grid that act like the trunk of a massive tree, anchoring all the branches extending from them,” Hearts explained patiently. “There is the 1805 branch, the sole remaining facility capable of handling operations prior to the year 2026. The Scavengers stationed there are absolute zealots, remaining embedded deep within the past. Then there is the 2050 branch, which commands terrifying, next-generation weapon matrices; if they deploy their primary vanguard, they could reduce the lower districts to absolute ash. Finally, there is the 2175 headquarters, situated 149 years into the future—the absolute core of Chrono-Entropy where the founders reside. That remains our ultimate strategic objective.”
Listening to the grand plan, Quicksand felt the group was entirely delusional. Wagging a war against corporate forces situated over a century into the future? It was akin to charging a nuclear silo with a bayonet. Right then, Hearts continued:
“Furthermore, there is the 2035 branch—the primary garrison for the Corporation’s Time Scavengers. The Chief Scavenger, ‘Quicksand,’ operates directly out of that sector.”
Suddenly, Quicksand’s heart skipped a violent beat.
He couldn’t comprehend the source of the sudden, sharp palpitation. Hearts scratched his jaw, murmuring thoughtfully, “This old man crossed swords with that ‘Quicksand’ once before. He was a remarkably formidable adversary. Unfortunately, he vanished into thin air before I could properly measure the full extent of his capabilities.”
“The Scavenger ‘Quicksand’? He is completely insignificant.”
An amused voice drifted over their shoulders from behind. The two turned to see the trickster Diamonds leaning casually against the back of the pew, offering a charming smile. Sunlight fractured through the shattered dome of the chapel, illuminating him against the backdrop of the ruined frescoes like a prophet receiving divine revelation. As Hearts blinked in surprise, Diamonds continued smoothly:
“Big Brother shouldn’t elevate the opposition while diminishing our own prowess. That Scavenger fled like a dog after we broke his squad, and he hasn’t shown his face for weeks. He’s clearly a spineless coward who tucked his tail and ran.”
Though Quicksand’s expression remained perfectly wooden, the localized temperature surrounding his position seemed to plummet by several degrees. Hearts offered a wry smile. “Do not underestimate him. This old man cannot verify if he is a coward, but I know for a fact that he holds the rank of Chief Scavenger.”
Diamonds waved a dismissive hand. “Chief Scavenger? What of it? I am entirely confident that our dear underpaid bartender here could crush him using nothing more than a pinky finger.” Hearing the praise, Quicksand’s brow smoothed over slightly, a strange, unprompted note of satisfaction surfacing deep within him.
As they conversed, a tight perimeter of Clepsydra operatives converged on their position. Their hair was dyed in a loud assortment of neon reds and purples, resembling the pom-poms used by sports cheerleaders. They directed highly skeptical glares toward Quicksand, who looked entirely ridiculous standing inside the ruined church wearing a frilly pink apron over his slender build, resembling an uninvited party-crasher. Someone questioned:
“Boss Hearts, is this the individual you brought in?”
Hearts nodded firmly. “Yes. You may place your absolute trust in him. He commands exceptional combat reflexes; both Diamonds and I have witnessed his capabilities firsthand.”
One of the operatives hesitated, countering, “We naturally trust anyone you vouch for, Boss. However, our deployment window is closing fast, and we are guaranteed to engage in a brutal, bloody conflict against the 2030 branch. Introducing an untested rookie into the vanguard at the eleventh hour… we’re worried he’ll merely end up as body bag material.”
Diamonds chuckled, stepping into the fray. “If you refuse to trust Big Brother Hearts, you can at least extend a modicum of faith to me. His physical capabilities are genuinely extraordinary; there is absolutely no need to worry over his form.”
The Clepsydra operative shot a venomous glare at Diamonds. “No. You are significantly less trustworthy than the Boss.”
Hearts let out a soft laugh, patting Quicksand on the shoulder. “Since that is the consensus, we shall let our fists do the talking! My young friend, why don’t you demonstrate a fraction of your skills to settle the room?”
The crowd systematically pulled back, clearing a wide perimeter within the center of the nave. A heavily built operative sporting a silver-gray mohawk and a wicked, centipede-like scar tearing across his features stepped forward, revving a heavy chainsword. Quicksand remained perfectly unphased, stepping into the clearance to face his opponent bare-handed.
“Rookie, what weapon do you intend to deploy?”
“I don’t require a weapon,” Quicksand stated flatly. “My primary specialty is catching bare blades completely empty-handed.”
A wave of raucous, mocking laughter erupted from the Clepsydra ranks. The mohawk-sporting operative flushed a deep crimson, feeling thoroughly insulted as he roared, “Blades carry no eyes, boy! If you end up mangled in a second, don’t go blaming this old hand!”
Quicksand merely tilted his head slightly, his gray eyes entirely devoid of human emotion as he scanned the room.
“Are the rest of you simply going to watch? Step forward together—I intend to dismantle ten of you simultaneously.”
