Tarrin lay beneath the corpse of his poker buddy, the weight pressing down on him like a final gesture of loyalty.
Blood oozed from the wound in his thigh, soaking into the stone beneath. He grit his teeth, eyes locked on the familiar tower to his left—the same one they'd been laughing in just minutes ago.
One door was shut tight. The other hung open, revealing the carnage inside: twisted bodies, blood-slicked floors, and shattered walls. A nightmare.
And yet… it felt like safety.
It looked like home—or at least, the closest thing to it in this hell. A sanctuary behind crumbling stone that might buy him just enough cover to live through this.
The timing had to be perfect.
Tarrin counted the seconds between the Graveshrike's shots, teeth grinding with each tick of imagined time.
Six seconds.
That was the gap.
Six seconds to run, dodge, and pray the lesser banes didn't tear him apart on the way.
Now.
He shoved James's body aside and surged to his feet.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Two seconds left. Just a few meters more. His boots pounded against the stone.
He risked a glance back at the Anchored—and froze mid-step.
His eyes widened.
From behind the Graveshrike, a wave of purple fire rolled across the sky like a burning tide. A wall of elemental fury aimed straight for the beast.
'What the fuck took so long?' he thought, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
The Graveshrike noticed it too, twisting in midair. It didn't flee. It welcomed the attack, raising its claws with eerie calm. Black energy spiraled into its hands like smoke being inhaled by the void.
Then—snap—its hand flicked forward.
A beam of concentrated darkness tore through the air.
BOOM.
The world convulsed. Fire and shadow clashed in midair with a deafening explosion that rocked the Bastion to its bones.
Tarrin stumbled, the shockwave hammering against his chest like a battering ram. His legs nearly gave out. His face turned pale.
That… that thing wasn't just Anchored.
Its attack had been obliterated, sure—but the force behind it? That wasn't normal.
The Graveshrike howled in fury as it spiraled toward the ground, still reeling from the impact. Meanwhile, the violet inferno kept moving, incinerating every Spawned in its path. Screams filled the sky—shrill, monstrous, dying.
Tarrin didn't waste it.
He pushed forward, limping the last few steps toward the open door.
Then—touch.
He nearly screamed as something cold brushed his leg.
He looked down.
A dying Graveshrike, barely clinging to life, its claws twitching weakly as it reached for him.
Tarrin's eyes narrowed.
He stomped down—hard.
Once. Bone cracked.
Twice. Skull caved.
Thrice.
The head burst like fruit underfoot.
Breathing hard, he spat on the corpse and limped into the darkness.
With ragged breaths, Tarrin slid down the wall and let himself fall into a sitting position, back pressed against cold stone.
Blood soaked his leg, trickling from the gash torn through his thigh, and his right forearm throbbed with every heartbeat—a hole punched clean through it.
The pain was catching up fast now, adrenaline fading like a dying ember.
He clenched his jaw and focused, summoning a bandage from his Cerevault with a thought. A flicker of light, a brief pulse near his temple, and it appeared in his good hand.
'Thank the bloody gods I packed this thing…'
He went to work immediately, trying to wrap the torn limb one-handed. His movements were slow, clumsy.
Every twitch of his injured arm shot lightning through his nerves.
He braced the roll of bandage against his leg and pulled it tight with his teeth, sweat beading along his brow as he worked.
Colonel Dio was out there now—he'd seen it. That meant the worst was probably over. Probably.
Still, he set his gun beside him. Close. Ready.
He glanced at the hole in his forearm once the wrap was done. It was far from clean. Torn flesh. Shredded muscle. 'How close was that to just ripping the whole thing off?'
He didn't know. And he wasn't sure if this place had the kind of healers who could fix something like that. Especially not for someone like him.
Finally, with the bleeding slowed, he allowed himself to look around.
The lantern in the corner had gone out, leaving the room in deep shadow. But the scar on his wrist sharpened his senses just enough.
He could make out shapes—enough to know exactly what he was surrounded by.
It wasn't pretty.
Bodies lay scattered in heaps. Some were his comrades—faces he knew, faces that had been laughing with him ten minutes ago over cards and regretted bets.
Others were the Graveshrikes—twisted, broken things, their wings crumpled like shattered bones.
Blood pooled across the stone floor, human and monster alike, dark and still. The stink of iron and death thickened with every breath.
He gagged.
Hard.
The bile crawled up before he could stop it. He tried. Gods, he tried. But the moment he saw a familiar boot sticking out from beneath a pile of flesh, he lost it.
He doubled over and vomited, the contents of his stomach splattering onto the blood-soaked floor.
Again.
And again.
When it was over, he wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and stared forward, hollow.
There was no forgetting this.
Not the blood.
Not the smell.
Not the corpses.
Not the laughter that came before it.
Not for something like this.
But the worst part?
He knew this wouldn't be the last time.
Scenes like this—blood-drenched floors, mangled corpses, the smell of roasted flesh—would only grow more familiar the longer he stayed here.
That was what truly scared him. Not the fights. Not the gore. Not even the near-death moments.
No, it was the idea that one day… he'd stop reacting.
How long before one of the bodies was Riko? Jayden? Celith?
How long before it was him?
A sudden sound snapped him out of the spiral—rapid footsteps echoing from the outside. He tensed, hand twitching toward his gun.
Then he remembered—those monsters had wings. Whoever was coming didn't.
He fixed his eyes on the doorway, bracing for whoever would walk through.
Someone did.
A figure entered—a woman, her silhouette sharp against the low light. Faint red hair, shoulder insignia gleaming faintly: healer squad. Probably a senior, or at least Tarrin hoped.
She froze the moment she stepped inside. Her eyes widened. Her breath hitched as she scanned the carnage—bodies torn apart, blood staining the floor in dark pools.
She searched the mess with glassy eyes, trying to find someone still breathing.
And then her gaze landed on him.
She stared for a beat too long before snapping out of it, boots squelching as she stepped over the corpses and rushed toward him.
"Hey," she said, crouching beside him. "Are you conscious? Can you hear me?"
Tarrin gave a weak nod. "Alive and well... almost," he murmured with a dry chuckle—then broke into a painful cough.
She dropped to her knees beside him, already scanning him for wounds.
Her eyes locked onto the bandaged arm first.
"I'm going to remove this slowly, okay?"
He nodded again. He didn't trust his voice anymore—his head was starting to spin, blood loss catching up like a tidal wave.
She peeled back the wrap carefully. He hissed through gritted teeth.
And then she froze.
A clean hole, right through his forearm.
Her breath caught.
"How long have you had this?"
She sounded more shocked than panicked—but she'd definitely seen worse. Her hands didn't hesitate for long. The battlefield didn't allow it.
In seconds, she was at work—checking his vitals, stabilizing the wound, injecting a numbing serum that dulled the fire in his limbs. He slipped in and out of consciousness, blacking out more than once as she worked.
Ten minutes later, she exhaled and leaned back slightly, wiping her hands.
"You'll live," she said. "I've stopped the bleeding and numbed the area. You were lucky. No nerve damage. With time, it'll heal. No lasting injuries."
She stood, brushing off her knees, already turning toward the rest of the room.
Before she could leave, Tarrin raised his head slightly and croaked, "Thank you."
She paused in the doorway, glanced back.
She gave a small smile—tired, hollow. It didn't reach her eyes.
She nodded once, firm and silent, then stepped through the door and disappeared.
And just like that, Tarrin was alone again.
With a weary sigh, Tarrin forced himself to his feet, his right arm throbbing in spite of the numbing agent still working through his veins. Every step he took down the staircase sent a dull pulse up his leg, his thigh wound reminding him it wasn't quite done screaming yet.
He cursed under his breath—cursed the fortress, the gods, and whatever madman designed this place without elevators. Every stair was an insult.
But when his boots finally hit solid ground, a wave of relief washed over him. The cold night air cut across his face, carrying the faint scent of iron and ash. Better than the stench of that meat locker above. This, at least, smelled like war. Familiar. Clean, in a strange way.
He glanced back at the towering walls—silhouettes of senior soldiers moved with ruthless precision, sweeping the perimeter for anything that still dared to breathe.
He turned toward the main hall, his mind already halfway to his bunk. A soft bed. A dark corner. Sweet unconsciousness.
Nothing would stop him from collapsing into it.
Or so he thought.
The moment he stepped through the hall's massive doors, he was ambushed.
Not by banes, no—by a swarm of familiar faces.
One had long, flowing blond hair.
One stared at him with glassy, tear-brimmed eyes.
One just looked like he'd seen a ghost and was trying to pretend he hadn't.
Scarbanes. His squad.
'Shit,' Tarrin thought. 'Forgot these clowns were still here.'
Then came the voice—soft, worried, and somehow piercing straight through the noise of the crowded hall.
Celith.
"Are you okay? What happened? Was there an attack?" she fired off, barely breathing between questions, her hands already moving to check his bandaged arm like she expected it to fall off at any second.
She looked like a mother bear fussing over her cub.
A blonde mother bear.
Tarrin blinked.
'What the fuck is wrong with me? Did one of them hit me in the head when I wasn't looking?'
He sighed, long and tired, eyes drifting past Celith to the group behind her—Jayden, Riko, and the rest. All of them frozen in place, staring at him like he'd just risen from the dead.
Suddenly, his hands moved on instinct.
He gripped Celith's shoulders—not rough, not desperate. Just firm enough to make her pause.
She stilled, golden irises wide in the low light. She didn't pull away.
He offered a soft smile. The kind he used to win games, favors, and more than a few phone numbers back on B-4.
"Celith," he said, voice low. "I'm fine. The healer said there won't be any lasting damage."
And for the first time that night, he meant it.