After leaving the healer behind, Gil returned to Kuro, Greg, and the others.
With a slightly heavy heart, he had to admit his disappointment.
Despite himself, after what had happened yesterday, he had formed a decent first impression of the healer, thinking that perhaps—since the man didn't seem entirely corrupted by the foul atmosphere of this place—they might have formed some kind of alliance.
It would have been invaluable to have someone on the inside, whether for information or subtle support.
But... as long as he keeps thinking and acting like a willing tool, we have no business together, Gil thought, his gaze turning cold.
Returning to his comrades, he found Kuro and Greg already on their feet.
He was relieved to see that they looked fine and that the beating they took didn't seem to have affected them too much.
Kuro seemed lost in thought, likely replaying the flow of their recent clash. As Gil approached, she raised her head and scrutinized him for a brief moment.
Noticing the bruise on his face, she displayed her characteristic tact and asked no questions, simply giving him a single, understanding nod.
Greg, on the other hand, possessed no such restraint.
For a while now, as Gil walked toward them, Greg had been practically vibrating with impatience, barely holding back from demanding to know how Gil had managed to transmit instructions directly into their minds.
But the second he saw the fresh mark on Gil's face, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening with worry.
"What happened to you?"
"Just a run-in with our dear instructor," Gil replied dryly.
Greg blinked, still lost. "Wait... didn't he heal you?"
"Let's just say he didn't appreciate my choice of words."
Finally connecting the dots, Greg let out a heavy sigh, looking at Gil with a strange mix of surprise, resignation, and utter helplessness.
You could practically read the words stamped across his expression: You actually managed to get on the healer's bad side?
With his heightened emotional perception, Gil could read the boy's unspoken exasperation perfectly.
He offered only a low grunt in reply before taking stock of the rest of their small circle.
Hugo, ever since his defeat, had been sitting in a dazed quiet, staring at the healer with an itching desire to fight. Clearly, the giant wasn't taking his loss well and was eager for a second round.
Well, at least he isn't lacking energy, Gil noted.
Finally, focusing on a certain enigmatic teammate, Gil felt his mood sour further.
"Hey. You there, Orphée."
The young man offered a light, unbothered smile, tilting his head with a silent what's up? expression.
"How come you're the only one who didn't take a single hit?" Gil asked, narrowing his eyes.
Still smiling, Orphée gestured toward Gil's face. "Well, aren't you looking all that pristine yourself?"
"And what about this?" Gil pointed to the bruise on his cheek. True, compared to the brutal beatdowns Kuro, Greg, and Hugo had endured, it was minor—but at least they had actually engaged in combat, even if not in a conventional way.
"Thinking back to the arena test... it seems to me you got off pretty much scot-free back then, too. How?"
Orphée chuckled softly, a mysterious glint in his eyes. "You see, even beasts and ruthless men can't bear the thought of damaging my magnificent face," he said, shamelessness dripping from every word.
Gil didn't push the matter. It was obvious Orphée had no intention of answering truthfully, and he respected privacy—for whatever that was worth in a pit like this.
"Well, I'm going for a walk," Gil muttered.
Taking advantage of the wide training grounds, he decided to move around and continue adapting to his altered balance.
Beside him, Greg shifted energetically for a moment before asking, "Do you need help?"
"No," Gil replied immediately. "I'm injured, not dead or useless. I need to learn how to manage my balance on my own... and I need some time to think."
He began pacing back and forth near the perimeter of the hall, but his mind refused to quiet down.
Very well, let's assess our current situation, he thought.
For the immediate future, we should be relatively safe during these training sessions.
He had to admit there was a calculated method behind their captors' madness. After forcing prisoners through a meat grinder like the arena, pushing them immediately into another lethal trial would break everyone before they could yield results.
As bloodthirsty and unreasonable as the organization was, they ultimately wanted capable soldiers—if Mao's deductions held any truth.
This short grace period will likely be the quietest window we get.
We need to make it count.
His thoughts drifted to the astonishing prowess displayed by Hector and the miraculous white glow the healer-turned-instructor now used—a force capable of mending shattered bones in seconds or blasting opponents with sheer strength.
Gil would be lying if he said he didn't crave that kind of power.
If it can be learned, mastering it would give us a decisive edge...
"How could you act like this—"
Bits of overlapping voices snapped him out of his head.
Distracted by the spiraling thoughts and suddenly startled, Gil lost his footing on his missing side, stumbling forward and nearly hitting the stone floor before hastily catching his balance.
Shaking off the dizziness, he realized his aimless pacing had brought him near Mao's sub-group, from which a sharp dispute seemed to be escalating.
Tensions were clearly beginning to fracture the Scholar's faction.
It was one thing back in the arena, where they had managed to pull themselves together just enough to display a semblance of competence under pressure. But after the relentless brutality of the latest training session—even with the healer mending their broken bodies afterward—the dam had finally burst.
Frustrated, battered, and disillusioned, the members of his group were openly questioning his leadership and his true capabilities.
With his usual well-thought-out speeches, Mao was doing everything he could to soothe their tempers and maintain his grip over them.
But this time around, mere words were no longer enough to patch the cracks.
Serves you right, you bastard, Gil thought with quiet mirth.
Yet, as satisfying as it was to watch the Scholar's influence crumble, Gil knew better than to celebrate.
In a place like this, a desperate manipulator whose authority was slipping would only become more erratic—and far more dangerous.
Wanting nothing to do with the Scholar's mess, Gil turned to step away, but before long he froze mid-step, his brow furrowing as a dark, intrusive realization struck him like a bucket of ice water.
Wait. How do they keep control?
His expression turned deadly serious as the thought unraveled.
If they need soldiers—if they're actively training us to unleash extraordinary, supernatural feats—how do they keep everyone on a leash?
After all, keeping defenseless, disoriented kids under control is one thing. Keeping a grip on trained soldiers, living weapons that they built and taught to wield supernatural forces?
That's an entirely different story.
So it comes back to my question: what are they relying on? How do they actually plan to pull that off, and more importantly...
Sure, some captives might submit voluntarily out of a desperate craving for power— Mao's opportunistic face flashed briefly through his mind —but others? Given this kind of strength, most survivors would turn it against their jailers at the very first opportunity.
At least, that's what I would do in a heartbeat.
Yet the organization wasn't worried. They handed down strength without hesitation, showing no fear of a rebellion.
They can't possibly be that arrogant. They've thought this through. So what gives them such total confidence? What lever do they hold over someone, even after making them strong enough to shatter stone?
Gil felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He was on the very precipice of uncovering something crucial—something that might explain the healer's hidden resignation despite his formidable strength.
I don't like this. I really don't like where this is heading...
Once more lost in his thoughts, he surprisingly found himself face-to-face with Arya.
"Hey, Gil—"
Clap.
Before any more words could be exchanged, a sharp, resounding clap echoed across the hall.
The healer stood in the center of the arena, having composed himself after their earlier confrontation.
He was now gesturing for all the captives to assemble.
Nodding to Arya in greeting, Gil walked past.
Following the command, Gil regrouped with Greg, Kuro, and Hugo, stepping closer to the center ring.
The healer's gaze lingered on him for a beat before refocusing on the task at hand.
"Alright. Now that I have a clear assessment of your current skill levels," the healer announced, his voice carrying clearly across the stone chamber, "we will divide you into three distinct groups."
He swiftly assigned the captives:
The First Group: Composed of the vast majority—those who had performed the worst during the initial bouts and possessed zero basic foundation in combat. They would be starting entirely from scratch. (To Gil's subtle amusement, Mao was unceremoniously placed here).
The Second Group: Made up of those who lacked formal training but demonstrated raw athletic talent or instinctual combat experience.
The Third Group: Consisting of Gil's inner circle (Kuro, Greg, Hugo, and himself), along with Helena, Arya, and a select few promising fighters from the other factions.
"Over the next few months, I will instill the fundamentals into each of you," the healer continued, his eyes sweeping over the gathered crowd. "But before we begin physical conditioning..."
He paused, letting his gaze settle heavily on the group.
"...we are going to test your predispositions. We will see if any of you possess what it takes to wield the same forces as me."