The ghouls stood in a ragged line. Twitching. Shuddering. Silent—except for the scrape of claws dragging across stone.
Then the ground beside Tarrin exploded.
A burst of dirt and dust tore through the air. Nicolas shot forward like a lit fuse—three steps, a leap, then gone.
He landed behind the front line before the first clod hit the floor.
Twin blades unspooled from his wrists, tethered by threads of raw essence. They didn't whirl—they danced. Controlled. Measured. Arcs of fire cut clean through the dark, each one perfectly placed.
"Ten of them is yours!" came Nicolas' clipped bark—already fading as he dove deeper into the horde.
Tarrin didn't get the chance to curse.
Celith was already in motion.
She didn't run. She launched. Kinetic energy surged through her legs, the ground cracking beneath her as she blasted forward like a rail shot.
Her sword snapped free, slicing the air with a gleam that promised blood.
Tarrin's blade was in his grip before he realized. His aura stirred—slow and heavy, dread leaking out like cold fog.
The ghouls turned, drawn by the pull of something they couldn't name.
Too late.
Celith struck first.
Steel met rotted flesh. One clean slice—fast, brutal, efficient. The first ghoul collapsed in pieces.
Tarrin was already moving.
The nearest ghoul lunged, claws aimed at his throat.
He ducked. Close—too close—but meaningless. He surged forward, driving his sword through the creature's gut in one smooth motion.
Before it could recover, he slammed into it with his full weight.
The thing staggered.
His blade slipped free, slick with whatever passed for blood.
Then he let his aura pulse—hard and fast. A wave of dread, crashing directly into the twisted thing in front of him.
It froze. Just for a breath. A half-second.
But that was enough.
Tarrin wasn't normal. Not anymore.
He pivoted, blade flashing—faster than before—cleaving straight through the thing's skull.
It let out a gurgled screech. Then silence.
Dead. Again.
Tarrin yanked his sword free just in time to meet another body barreling toward him.
Clang. Steel caught bone. He shoved the attacker back—
Looking over the ghoul, he managed to see the perpetrator of this little ping-pong.
Nick.
The bastard stood there, grinning like a kid who'd just set off fireworks under a teacher's desk.
Tarrin narrowed his eyes.
'These kids are going to get me killed someday. Just wait, you smug little shit.'
Tarrin looked ahead—his eyes catching on Nicolas.
The Sergeant stood alone, motionless amidst the carnage of ten fallen ghouls, his blades slick and dripping. He didn't look victorious. He looked watchful. His cold gaze tracked the squad's movements like a hawk monitoring cubs in a storm.
Tarrin turned, scanning the rest of the field.
Olivia had just loosed an arrow—clean, calculated—right through a ghoul's eye socket. The thing toppled backward, twitching once before going still.
Jayden, though rattled, was still standing. His movements were shaky, but his spear was raised, his focus narrowing as he prepared to finish one of the last ghouls standing.
Riko, unsurprisingly, was mid-swing—his gauntlets cracking open a skull with the kind of brute force that echoed. Tarrin smirked.
'Classic Riko.'
Then there was Nick.
Quick, nimble, and smug as ever—making short work of the ghoul in front of him.
Tarrin saw an opportunity. And there was no way he'd let Nick have the last word.
With a few fast strides, Tarrin closed the distance—silent, efficient. He slipped behind the ghoul before it even noticed him.
One swift kick to the back of the knee sent the creature buckling forward.
It dropped—exposed. Before Nick could react, Tarrin's blade swept down in a clean, merciless arc.
Schk— The head separated cleanly from the shoulders, bouncing once…twice…before rolling to a stop at Nick's boots.
Tarrin stood over it, calm, composed, eyes locked with Nick's.
His aura leaked out, subtle and cold, the kind of dread that crawled beneath the skin.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
His lips moved slowly, deliberately:
"Know your place."
Nick's smirk faltered.
For a moment, he looked like a kid who got caught lighting the match before the fuse. His brows twitched. His jaw clenched. But beneath the frustration… there was something else.
A flicker of unease.
Or was it respect?
Hard to say.
Tarrin turned his head, just slightly.
Celith stood off to the side, her blade planted in the ground, one hand resting casually atop it. Her face was unreadable—almost.
But then her lips twitched upward. A faint smile. Barely there.
'Huh,' Tarrin thought, chest tightening just a little. 'She's smiling? Rare sight these days.'
And for once, the battlefield didn't feel so cold.
The last ghoul let out a final screech as Noah brought his shield down like a guillotine. Bone cracked. Flesh gave way. Then—silence.
The tunnel went still.
Only the sound of ragged breathing remained, echoing off stone walls slick with blood. The copper tang in the air felt thicker now—heavy, clinging.
Then, from the shadows, Sergeant Nicolas stepped into view. His face wasn't calm. It wasn't proud.
He looked furious.
"Is this what they're teaching you at Centauri?" he growled, voice low but sharp. "If so, maybe we need to rethink where we send our taxes."
The squad froze. Blindsided. Most had assumed they'd done well—they were still standing, weren't they? But the Sergeant's glare stripped that illusion bare.
"You keep fighting like you're individuals." He pointed a bloodied sword toward them, disgust curling his lips. "There's no such thing anymore. You're not ten soldiers. You're one unit. Ten limbs. One body."
He took a step closer, voice rising.
"If even one of you forgets that, you all die. If there'd been an Anchored among those ghouls, you'd be corpses already—sloppy, twitching piles of failure before I could even blink."
He turned to pace in front of them, boots squelching in the blood-soaked dirt.
"And tell me," he snapped, "out of every battle formation drilled into your skulls, why choose swing and pray? Use your heads. You have them for a reason."
Tarrin barely had time to process the words before a low rumble echoed from behind.
Engines.
He turned. Headlights pierced the darkness, growing larger by the second. Two trucks barreled toward them, tires screeching as they ground to a halt.
Doors slammed open.
Twenty soldiers poured out—armor on, weapons drawn, eyes scanning for threats.
But the fight was already over.
All they found was a bloodied field, a group of exhausted rookies... and a visibly disappointed Sergeant.
Two officers from the new unit stepped forward, glancing around at the carnage with unreadable expressions.
"This is it?" one asked, voice flat.
Nicolas gave a terse nod. "For now. But the A12 tunnel's still unguarded. More could come."
The two leaders exchanged a glance, then pulled out their Telcoms. A quick signal was sent—cleaning crews cleared for approach.
A few more quiet words passed between them and Nicolas. Then it was over.
The Sergeant turned back toward the truck without a word. The squad followed.
Tarrin climbed in first, body still humming with tension. Celith followed, silent. One by one, the others filed in behind them.
A long minute passed. No one spoke.
The truck doors slammed shut.
Bang. Bang.
The engine growled to life.
And once again, the wheels rolled on—dragging them forward through tunnels and shadow, toward death's doorstep all over again.
The rest of the ride was tense—but silent.
No more ghouls crawling from the walls. No more screeches or bone-splitting sounds. Just the soft hum of the engine and the occasional clink of armor shifting.
The only danger now came from inside—the mind.
Some wore smirks, drunk on how easily they'd dispatched the undead. Others weren't so quick to celebrate. The Sergeant's words had lodged themselves deep, chewing through the ego and bravado. This wasn't some Academy simulation. This was the mainland. Real soil. Real blood. Millions had died here before them.
No one was coming to save them.They had only themselves—their blades, their minds, their will.
Eventually, the truck shuddered to a stop.
But this time, no monsters were waiting in the dark. No howling echoes or twitching corpses. Just stillness.
Tarrin's stomach sank. That only meant one thing.
The ride was over. From here on out—it was all on foot.
One by one, they jumped down, boots hitting the stone with heavy thuds. Nicolas didn't waste a second. He motioned for them to follow, his movements tighter now, sharper. He was switching modes—drill sergeant gone, field commander on.
"Playtime's over," he said without turning around. "Once we're outside, you follow every word I say. No debate. No questions. You mess up, we die."
His tone left no room for argument. Cold. Deadly. Real.
"Out there, you're not predators. You're prey. Snacks, not threats. Act like it."
No one responded. What could they even say?
They entered a side tunnel, barely wide enough to fit a single vehicle. The walls were rough, unmarked—intentionally unlit. It stretched on for about a thousand feet before ending in a metal gate that loomed like a final warning.
Nicolas stepped up, scanned his eye, then slid in his ID. The first door hissed open with a hydraulic whoosh, revealing yet another one.
Tarrin raised a brow. How secure.
Nicolas exhaled quietly, then walked up to a second terminal. His fingers danced across the screen, inputting a password.
Tarrin made sure to peek over, catching the digits just as the Sergeant glanced at him sideways.
He said nothing.
'142857?' Tarrin frowned. A cyclic number? How painfully uncreative.
The system beeped. A smooth female voice rang out from the intercom:
"Sergeant Nicolas Maron. Request to open Gate B8. Biometric scan complete. Access granted."
A live feed flickered onto the screen. Nothing moved outside. No Bane. No figures. No signs of death—yet.
Nicolas wasted no time. He pressed the green button.
The door slid open fast.
"Gate B8 open. Thirty seconds until automatic closure."
The squad followed him out, eyes adjusting to the sudden natural light.
And then they stopped.
The landscape hit them like a slap to the senses.
Below the cliffside—green, Tarrin had to double-take, because even with his enhanced vision, he could barely see it. Endless stretches of trees, grass, and thick brush. Nature, untamed and wild. Nothing like the dead stone tunnels behind them.
Tarrin's brow furrowed.
'Wait... wasn't this supposed to be a mountain region?'