Master Tormond was dead. The man who had carved discipline, fear, and respect into every moment of their lives was gone, his body lying still like a final reminder of what power and knowledge could not prevent: death.
Yuhan's chest tightened painfully. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to scream, to do anything that could undo the finality of that moment. He's gone… we're truly alone… Panic gripped him, and his hands trembled. He wanted to shout, to cry, to do something—anything—but the footsteps outside reminded him of the impossible reality: danger was closing in. They didn't have time to mourn properly.
Ivan's jaw clenched until his teeth ached. Rage boiled in his chest, hot and suffocating. "Why… why now?" he muttered under his breath, almost angrily, almost in denial. He had relied on Master Tormond, on his strength, his lessons, his sheer presence. Now the anchor of their lives was gone, and everything felt unsteady. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and angry at the unfairness of it all.
Marco's eyes swept over the hall, precise and calculating, though beneath the surface the weight of fear pressed against his calm exterior. He could feel the approaching threat in his gut. We can't stay here. If they come… we're done. His hand ached, throbbing from the injury he hadn't dared check in the chaos, a reminder that even he had limits. And yet, despite the pain, his mind raced: one choice, one decision, could mean survival—or death—for them all.
Mikayle's chest burned, a mixture of grief, guilt, and anger twisting together. Memories flashed before him in rapid, colorless visions: fire tearing through a village, screams splitting the night, a woman in the corner of a wooden house—the woman whose life had ended in horror. And the child, terrified, clawing at the ground, himself. Master Tormond had been there, blade in hand, and had done nothing. He didn't save her… but why did he save me? The question had no answer, only a hollow ache that had never left him.
The distant footsteps outside echoed like a storm approaching. They grew louder, heavier, closer. Time had become a predator, chasing them, reminding them that every second spent frozen in grief could cost lives.
Mikayle hurried backward, every step echoing in the silent hall. He made his way to the room where the solemn stone lion figure stood. His heart thudded—not with fear, but with the weight of a decision he could no longer avoid. He knew what had to be done.
He didn't hate Master Tormond—not fully. He had known, even now, that much of what Tormond said was lies, manipulations woven into lessons. But still… the memory of that night refused to leave him. The corner of that wooden house flashed in his mind, colorless and jagged, a scene burned into his memory. A woman, pinned and screaming, devoured by a beast. And a figure resembling a man, standing silently, watching. That figure held a blade. That figure was Tormond. He hadn't moved. He hadn't saved her.
Possibly, Tormond had set that village on fire. But then… why had he saved Mikayle? Why, after all the cruelty and neglect, had he spared him? The question lingered, unanswerable, but there was no time for it now. Living—surviving—was all Mikayle could think of.
"I can't risk my friends' lives. I refuse to be weak all the time. I will save my loved ones now. I won't depend on anyone anymore."
He shouted toward the window where the others could see the aftermath of Tormond's demise.
All four of them gathered in front of the stone lion figure. Mikayle knew its history: a souvenir bought by Tormond from the high city, familiar to all except him. But in the past few moments, he understood its secret.
With a strong push, Mikayle shifted the statue. A door opened beneath it, revealing a tunnel that descended into darkness so complete it seemed to swallow the light whole. None of them could see where it led. It didn't matter. This was the only escape route.
From outside, a sound cut through the tense silence—footsteps. Not one intruder, not a single person—but many. They were coming. Now.
The four of them exchanged a glance. Fear, confusion, and the instinct to survive collided in that brief instant.
Yuhan spoke first, his voice tense but controlled. "Guys… someone has to pull this statue back, or the hidden door will be discovered."
The realization sank in—they were trapped between urgency and impossible choices.
"I'll stay. You guys leave," Mikayle said, his voice resolute, heavy with determination.
The others froze, unwilling to move. Their eyes locked on him, each processing the danger differently.
"Go!" Mikayle shouted, the desperation clear. "Or we'll die! We don't know how long Master has been dead. They'll come out here any moment. Just go!"
Yuhan's hands shook as he glanced at Marco and Ivan. We can't leave him… not like this…
Ivan's jaw clenched. "No… I can't…" His voice was a ragged whisper of defiance and panic, filled with guilt and fear.
Marco stepped forward, his injured hand throbbing with every movement. His gaze hardened, his jaw set. "I won't leave you behind, Mikayle. I'm staying."
Mikayle's eyes filled with tears, frustration mixing with fear. "No! I can't run and leave you all! I'll hold them off myself!"
Yuhan's voice rose, stern and pleading at the same time. "Then we all stay! We survive together! There's no other choice!"
Ivan's trembling voice joined the argument. "We can't all stay! It'll be suicide! Mikayle… Marco… we can't!"
The sound of footsteps outside grew louder, pounding like war drums. The walls seemed to vibrate with the inevitability of danger.
"I don't care what I feel!" Mikayle shouted, tears streaming down his face. "You have to go! NOW! Before it's too late!"
Marco's eyes softened for a brief second, and then hardened with resolve. Pain lanced through his injured hand as he pressed it against Mikayle's shoulders. "ENOUGH!" he roared. And with that, he shoved Mikayle into the yawning darkness of the tunnel.
Mikayle's scream echoed as he tumbled, a second of weightless terror before he landed on the soft cotton that lined the bottom. The impact was softened, but the panic in his chest wasn't.
Ivan and Yuhan followed, propelled after him by Marco's push. Ivan's leg twisted painfully as he fell; Yuhan landed face-first, the breath knocked out of him, scraping slightly against the cotton.
From above, Marco pressed the statue back into its original position, sealing the tunnel. His breathing was ragged. Pain shot through his hand, but his eyes glimmered with determination and fear. I can't protect them all. But I can make sure they survive.
In the darkness, Mikayle forced himself to stand. His chest heaved. His eyes searched upward for the faint light from the hall above.
Marco's voice came from above, trembling slightly despite his attempt at steadiness. "Stick together… don't separate…" His words were barely audible, but they carried every ounce of desperation, worry, and unspoken apology. He could see Mikayle and the others disappear into the black void of the tunnel, and every fiber of his being screamed that he wanted to reach them, to hold them close, to protect them all—but he couldn't. Not without dooming them.
Marco's voice rang back up the tunnel, breaking the oppressive silence: "I love you guys… I'll love you always… goodbye!" The words cut through Mikayle's chest like knives. Every laugh, every shared moment, every bond they had forged flashed through his mind. The boy he had watched grow, the friend he had vowed to protect, was now slipping away—not just physically, but emotionally, from the life they had known together.
Marco's hands shook as he pressed the statue back into its place, sealing the tunnel. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, each inhale a struggle against the pain in his injured hand, each exhale a fight to keep his composure. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin, the taste of failure bitter in his mouth.
I can't protect them all… the thought hammered at him, sharp and unrelenting. His heart ached at the knowledge that he had to let them go, that the only way to save them was to push them into danger without him.
But beneath the crushing weight of guilt, a fragile spark of hope remained. But I can make sure they survive… somehow…
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, imagining Mikayle's trembling hands, Yuhan's fear, Ivan's silent rage. He whispered to himself, barely audible: "Live… survive… come back to me…"
Every heartbeat pounded with regret, love, and fear. Marco stood there, alone above the darkness, while below, the four of them vanished into the pitch-black unknown, leaving him with nothing but the sound of their fleeing footsteps and his own desperate prayers.
The tunnel was their future. The hall was their past. And Marco—Marco was the last tether to everything they had lost, everything they could still fight to hold onto.
Yuhan whispered, voice trembling. "Mikayle… ivan…"
Ivan's hands clenched the cotton beneath him. "We… we all survive… somehow…"
Pitch black consumed them. They couldn't see each other. They couldn't touch each other. They were all together, yet completely alone.
The tunnel pressed in on all sides, damp, suffocating. Every breath carried the taste of panic, every step trembled with fear. Yuhan's hand brushed against Ivan, then Mikayle, a faint reminder that they were still physically together. Somehow… still together…
Ivan muttered under his breath, trembling. "I just want us all to make it… alive…"
Mikayle's voice trembled in the dark, but his words burned with fire.
"We will. All of us. Including Marco."
He clenched his fists, his breath ragged, his throat raw from shouting.
"I refuse to be saved by others! I refuse!"
The declaration echoed through the tunnel, crashing against the stone walls like a heartbeat. His voice carried everything—rage, sorrow, and the unbearable ache of helplessness.
Yuhan turned to him, eyes wide with fear and grief. "Mikayle, stop! You'll—"
But Mikayle wasn't listening. His chest rose and fell in violent rhythm. "I'm not leaving him behind again! Not Marco! Not anyone!" His words cracked mid-sentence, breaking under the weight of his emotion.
A faint clatter echoed from deeper in the tunnel. Every instinct screamed danger. Footsteps? Or something else?
They huddled close, inching forward. Every step was deafening in the oppressive black. Each heartbeat carried the weight of love, loyalty, and fear.
The hall they left behind faded into memory. Ahead stretched only darkness.
And in that darkness, none of them could see what awaited.