Silence after the carnage had weight. No cries, no wind—only the black drip of the ravine and the too-loud pounding of their hearts.
— Stand, Ash repeated, spear low, voice breathless.
Kaelen rose with the stiffness of a cracked pillar. His frost brace was shattered, flesh beneath opening in red layers. Mira trembled on her knees, her skin ashen with exhaustion, eyes wide from strain. Tovan had sat down too quickly and paid for it with a white haze before his vision; he clawed himself back by gripping basalt with his one good hand. Darian bent double, laughing through bloody coughs—a laugh that held pain at bay just enough to stay upright.
The ink-black lake at the bottom of the ravine drew in a breath. A cold shiver licked their scorched skin. The cavern's red light seemed to shrink.
Something was rising.
At first a shadow—long, drifting beneath the surface like a continent unmoored. Then a head surfaced, stone and flesh fused: a flat snout, cartilage lips, obsidian plates embedded in slate-gray skin. Two pale slits opened—not eyes, but siphons. The air chilled further; vapor clouded from their mouths.
Ravine Salamander — Rank C (mid). Amphibious predator of mana-saturated gorges. Basalt plating on its back (resistant to blades), thermal siphon (drains ambient heat → fatigue and cramps), barbed harpoon tongue, mace-tail. Weakness: prolonged fire—though it adapts quickly.
— Back up, Kaelen muttered, shield raised.
They staggered three steps on the slick stone. The salamander planted webbed claws—five fingers tipped with glass nails—onto the bank and hauled itself up. Its bulk bent the rock. Its tail dragged behind like a chain.
The air lost a shade of warmth. The cold wasn't wind—it was the world deciding to hold less heat.
— Siphon, Ash said. Breathe shallow. Tighten muscles slowly.
Mira clenched her teeth. Her fingers tingled, magic leaking from her pores. Kaelen felt his calves knot. Tovan bit his lip till it bled to keep focus. Darian tried to flex his injured leg: instant cramp, pain like a blade.
The salamander opened its jaws. No roar—just suction, like a tide being ripped from shore. Vapor ahead of them vanished.
— Cover! Kaelen barked.
He raised his shield. Mira cast the last of her Clear Lantern—a thin filter of light that trapped dust and crystal; against the cold, nearly useless. Tovan tried raising a stone ridge at the bank's edge to block the charge—nothing came. His dead runic gloves gave only the echo of his weakness.
— I'm dry, he growled, shame and rage mingling.
— Then you anchor our feet, Kaelen snapped. Keep us from sliding.
The salamander leapt.
It didn't seem to move—space bent, and suddenly it was there, harpoon tongue snapping forward, barbed tip glinting. Kaelen raised his shield; the tongue struck and recoiled, but hooks remained. A violent tug dragged him half a step, his arm screaming.
Ash struck the shaft sideways, snapping the barbs free from the shield. The salamander retaliated with its tail—a black timber beam sweeping wide. Ash pivoted a quarter turn; it missed his ribs by a finger and hammered Darian's torn thigh. Darian's roar was raw as he collapsed to a knee, vision blurred.
— Up, Darian, Kaelen growled.
— Go to hell, Darian spat, but he stood.
— Soft points: throat, limb joints, underside of the tail, Ash said clearly, low. Avoid the plates.
He struck low, spear flickering in rapid thrusts—its tip wrapped in a faint veil of shadow mana. (Shadow-Edge [E]: a thin dark film hardening the spearhead; short-lived, low-cost, fragile, but enough to bite flesh.)
The point slid between two plates, sinking an inch. The salamander twisted, tongue whipping in a fan. Ash intercepted with the shaft, catching the barb in the runed wood—it groaned but held.
Kaelen aimed for the throat. His blade had lost its fire, but residual heat from earlier strikes left faint cauterization. The steel sank shallow, resisted with the wet creak of leather.
— Darian, left flank. Jab and out!
Darian obeyed. His sword cut through skin, then jolted against a vitrified rib. He still ripped free a strip of flesh; gray blood hissed, steaming in the air. The stench of scorched stone hit them.
The salamander flattened its belly. The cold deepened. Mira's hands shook so badly she nearly dropped her staff. She clenched it, knuckles bone-white. Her Clear Lantern flickered but held.
— It's draining our muscles, Tovan hissed, jaw tight. Pulling heat inside us.
— Then we move slower, Ash replied. Against the current.
He set the pace—short steps, feet sliding low, spear loose. He fought as if underwater. The salamander darted in jagged bursts—sudden surges, stone-hard halts.
It dipped its head, inhaled—longer this time. Mira's veil cracked. Frost bloomed across Kaelen's shield—not ice, but a black desiccation.
— I won't hold a third, Mira gasped, chest tearing.
— You'll hold until the third. Then cut it, Ash ordered.
The third came. The siphon yawned, air ripping toward it. Mira dropped to her knees, palms flat, giving everything: her Lantern flared dirty white. Metallic dust rattled on the light and fell like beads.
The veil cracked… but held.
— Cut it, Ash commanded.
Mira let it drop. The cold bit harder instantly, but they had gained half a breath—the margin they needed. The salamander had not.
— Now!
Ash, Kaelen, and Darian struck in a triangle: one at the throat, two beneath the forelimb, three at the tail's base. Their blades carved an invisible X across its motion nerves. The beast froze half a beat—enough for Tovan, drained, to topple a stone chip beneath its paw. A micro-shift. Enough.
The tail-mace slammed low, sparking across stone instead of bodies. The shriek rattled their skulls.
The salamander pushed harder.
They broke left, skimming the wall. The lake gaped below. Kaelen led, shield angled to scrape plating. Darian scored the same spot, deepening the line. Ash levered beneath, prying. Three passes at the same point. The plate rang differently. A crack.
— Two more, Ash said. Same place.
The salamander realized. It rolled, impossibly fast for its mass. The world turned. Kaelen was crushed into the wall—his shoulder cracked. Darian skidded across rock, skin shredded. Ash vaulted, planting the spear like a pole to clear the snapping tongue.
The tongue caught… Mira.
The barb punched through her sleeve, piercing flesh, sinking to muscle. Mira screamed—small, broken, like a snapped string. The salamander yanked.
Kaelen jammed his shield beneath the tether, wedging it. Ash struck the stalk at its joint—not strength, but angle. A hook cracked. The barb slipped free, ripping a long red groove but sparing her shoulder.
Mira gasped, body shuddering. Her hands shook too hard for a spell. She nearly fell—Darian caught her, growling as his torn thigh flared. He set her against the wall.
— Don't move, he muttered. Just breathe.
The salamander feinted, coiling. Ash read the twitch—but it struck with its tail instead. White pain exploded. Kaelen took the half-blow on his shield. Half was enough. His shoulder gave completely. He dropped, a strangled cry in his throat.
— Kaelen!
The salamander slammed its head to the wall, siphon gaping at close range. The air in their lungs tried to flee. Ash locked his glottis by soldier's reflex, holding breath through his skin somehow, absurd but it bought two beats. Darian lost half a lungful—black spots crowding his sight.
— Flux-Break! Ash barked.
Mira understood. Not power—disruption. A pinprick of light across the siphon's current, enough to kink the flow. (Flux-Break [E]: a transverse ripple of light that interrupts laminar mana streams. Useless against impact—perfect against suction.)
She lifted a trembling finger. A white tic struck the siphon's mouth. The suction stuttered. Kaelen drank half a breath. Darian crawled sideways, out of line.
Ash surged in close: one to the throat, two at the joint, three at the cracked plate. This time the spear sank deep, severing something vital. The salamander's scream was soundless, its skull slamming stone, dust showering.
— One more! Ash shouted.
Kaelen tried. His dead arm failed. Tovan stepped in without thought, slamming his shoulder into the wound, tearing it wider. He roared in agony but pried it open.
Darian, half-lame, dove into the slit like a starving dog, sword burying to the hilt. He levered. Metal barbs screeched.
Mira, kneeling, pressed her palm to the beast's gray hide, whispering a Day-Needle—just a pinprick of light. The pulse faltered.
Ash hooked his spear and tore. Crack. The plate split.
The salamander convulsed, collapsing half on the bank, half in the water. Its tail lashed reflexively, smashing Tovan across the chest and hurling him to the brink. His heels dangled over void.
— Tovan! Mira cried, strangled.
He clawed stone with bare fingers. Nothing to grip. His good hand groped for purchase. Smooth rock betrayed him.
Ash hurled his rope.
— Take it!
Tovan seized it. His fingers slipped on wet hemp. A jolt nearly tore his shoulder. He squeezed till his nails pierced his palm. Ash hauled, arms on fire. Kaelen braced with his good arm, shield jammed like a tombstone. Darian planted his boot against a piton, heaving with the ragged strength left in his thigh.
Tovan rose—agonizing centimeter by centimeter.
— More… Ash hissed.
The salamander returned, half in the water, flooding the bank with cold—not water, but a tide of chill. Mira's veil was gone. Their teeth clattered. Ash's fingers numbed; the rope slipped half a finger. He screamed silently and gripped harder.
Kaelen tore skin from his knuckles. Darian's vision blurred, but he held.
Tovan scrambled onto stone, vomiting breath, laughing hoarsely.
— Still here.
— Stand, Ash commanded, voice a chasm.
The salamander refused to die. Its wound pulsed like a volcano, yet its limbs held. The siphon drew again—air fleeing their lungs. Mira had no veil left. Kaelen had no fire. Tovan no mana. Darian no leg.
— We strangle it, Ash said. With the world.
They blinked in brief confusion. Ash slammed his spear shaft against the warped cold, marking geometry: a rope, two pitons, a column. Not high magic—just leverage and cunning.
— Rope across its spine. Pulley on the column. Back through the shield. Now.
They bound the beast like a swollen log. The rope screeched, pitons groaned. The siphon whined new notes. The salamander arched—exactly what Ash wanted: exposing its throat.
— Cut! he barked at Kaelen.
Kaelen lifted a blade that wanted to fall from his hand. He still cut, low where Ash's spear indicated. Darian stabbed as well, twisting the jaw. Tovan, broken, pressed his torso against the rope, adding weight. Mira placed her palm to its exposed throat, whispering a Day-Point [E]—a grain of light in the right spot.
The rope creaked. The throat bent against basalt. Gray blood fumed into the air, burning their throats.
The salamander struck one last time. Its tail shattered a column; shards of black glass rained. Mira shielded her head with weak arms. Kaelen hunched beneath his shield, skin shredding under falling stone.
— Hold! Ash roared.
They held.
The rope cut deeper. Plates groaned. The siphon gaped—air refused. The beast slid in its own blood, half into the lake. Slowly, it stopped.
They stayed taut long after, hands trembling on rope, until Ash loosened inch by inch.
The cold lifted by a shade. The lake's sound returned. Proof they weren't dead.
Tovan slumped against a column, laughing breathlessly. Kaelen rested his brow on his shield's rim, pulling away before sleep took him. Darian sat back, sword flat, breaths shredded. Mira pressed her bleeding shoulder, tears washing stone-dust from her cheeks.
Ash still held his spear, eyes fixed as if the world hadn't heard the end.
Then came a sound they hadn't heard today: scratching. Multiple, faint, from the walls—like thin fingers tasting stone.
Kaelen lifted his head, pupils narrowing.
— Tell me it's the rock cracking, Ash.
The scratching answered with a silky unfurling.
On the cornice above, beneath obsidian fringes, something folded like a screen: limbs too long, elbows bent backward, dangling filaments. Two flat eyes lit in filthy orange.
Web-Snatcher — Rank C (mid). Corrupted cavern arachnid. Spits mana-soaked filaments (stick to weapons, clot poorly on flesh). Silent leaps. Prefers the wounded. Sensitive to direct flashes—but adapts fast.
— We've no Lantern left, Mira whispered.
— We still have eyes, Ash replied. And three pitons.
The Web-Snatcher slid down like a hanging sheet. Its strands hummed soft, deceptively clean.
— Form up, Ash ordered. And breathe. We're not done.
The Web-Snatcher glided from the wall, eight limbs bending at impossible angles, elbows reversed. Each step made a dry, silken sound, like a thread pulled to breaking.
Its first strike came fast—a filament of mana-white silk snapping against Ash's spear. The runed wood stuck, vibrating under the glue. Ash yanked. The thread resisted, then snapped, sparking. Where it had touched, the shaft was crusted with hardened resin.
— It sticks our weapons, Ash muttered. Don't engage without angle.
Kaelen grunted, shifting his broken shield.
— Let it try on this.
Another filament lashed—this time wrapping around steel. It didn't slip; it bound tight, pulling. Kaelen staggered half a step, his ruined arm screaming.
— Cut it! he barked.
Darian, half-limping, slashed sideways. His blade bounced—the filament was mana-hardened. Ash stepped in, spear slicing at the precise joint. The line severed in a sharp crack. Kaelen stumbled back, gasping but upright.
The Snatcher leapt. Not heavy—but silent, arc fluid. Its claws caught ceiling stone, dropping twin strands like traps.
Mira raised her staff. A wavering light burst—Flux-Break [E], a brief ripple that bent one filament aside. The other struck, binding her left arm tight against her body.
— Mira!
Kaelen lunged to pull her free, but the Snatcher descended. A hooked leg slashed down at her head.
Ash's spear intercepted. The shaft quivered like a bow about to snap. The shock numbed his hands, but he diverted the blow—claws screeched stone instead of Mira's face.
Tovan snarled, raising a gauntlet. A basalt spike [E] jutted from the floor, piercing one leg. The Snatcher shrieked, a high sound that rattled the cavern.
But instead of retreating, it ripped itself free—black ichor spilling—and scrambled higher, clinging to walls like gravity meant nothing.
Ash studied it.
— It hunts the weakest. Mira. Darian. Kaelen.
— Like a scavenger, Darian spat, gripping his broken sword, blood soaking his thigh.
The Snatcher struck again—this time slamming Kaelen full on. His shield caught part, but its limbs wrapped tight, barbs biting exposed flesh. Kaelen roared, pinned against a column.
— Hold! he bellowed.
Ash lunged, spear driving at its underside. The point rebounded off plated belly. He shifted, thrusting into a limb joint. Crack—the leg split halfway.
Tovan forced a stone slab up beneath Kaelen, lifting both man and monster a meter. The jolt tore the Snatcher loose. It screeched, scuttling back along the ceiling.
But Kaelen dropped to one knee, bleeding heavily, arm useless.
The creature retreated a beat—then spat a barrage. Four filaments cracked like whips.
One bound Darian's leg. He slashed it—but it clung, dragging at his blade.
Another clamped Kaelen's shield, yanking him sideways.
A third caught Mira's staff, pinning it to stone.
The last glued Ash's spear to a column.
For a heartbeat, the squad was trapped.
— It wants to divide us, Ash hissed.
He pulled hard. The runes on his spear shaft glowed faintly. A breath of shadow hissed, corrosive. The thread crackled, disintegrating to dust.
— Runes can eat its silk, Ash said, low.
Mira's eyes widened, still pinned.
— Then—hurry.
The Snatcher dove, claws raised for Darian's chest. Darian lifted his sword half-broken. The impact shattered it into shards. The claw slashed deep across his flank. Darian's scream tore the air, blood spraying.
— Darian! Mira cried.
Ash freed his weapon, leaping. His spear plunged into the beast's abdomen. Chitin cracked, ichor dripped, but the creature shrieked and skittered back onto stone, circling.
Kaelen was bleeding out. Darian staggered, weaponless. Mira was trembling, drained. Tovan barely stood.
The Web-Snatcher prowled the walls, limbs whispering, eyes glowing orange. Every step made stone creak.
Ash lifted his spear, cold eyes steady.
— We trap it, he said. Or we don't leave alive.
Kaelen nodded, voice gravel.
— Then we pin it.
Tovan spat blood, grinning through pain.
— Give me… an angle. I can raise one last stone cross. Only once.
Ash inclined his head.
— Then we make it fall. And break it.
As if it understood, the Snatcher spiraled down, all limbs outstretched.
The fight resumed, more brutal than ever.
— We trap it, Ash repeated. Tovan, your cross. Kaelen, close the angle. Darian, cut its anchors. Mira… save a flash for time zero.
Tovan nodded, pale.
— Stone Cross [D-high]… I can force four short arms in opposition. But only once. If it misses, it's over.
— Then we don't miss, Ash said, calm as laying a stone on a grave.
The Snatcher spiraled down, silk threads singing. Its coppery eyes blinked off-beat—learning, adapting. Instead of dropping straight, it twisted, breaking their rhythm.
— It spirals against shields, Kaelen warned. If I lift, it'll rip my arm out.
— Don't lift, Ash said. Pull.
Kaelen dragged his shield low, scraping stone. Sparks spat. His arm shook, but he carved a line of space just enough to guard Mira.
The Snatcher spat three strands in a fan. One wrapped Kaelen's hip. Another bound Ash's wrist. The third snagged Mira's staff. All three tightened.
— Runes! Ash barked.
The glyphs on his spear flared—Absorption [E]. Mana drained from the thread, eating its glue. It shriveled, crumbling to ash.
— Now! Ash roared. Tovan!
The terramancer planted palms to stone. His body strained, ribs creaking. Four arms of basalt burst:
At twelve o'clock, a short pillar to catch a limb.
At three, a jagged blade.
At six, a wide slab to break the fall.
At nine, a crooked fang of rock.
— Cross! Tovan gasped, mouth bloody.
The Snatcher dropped—then slowed, silk anchoring to the cornice. It pivoted, avoiding the trap.
— It's braking from behind! Kaelen realized.
— Cut the rear! Ash snapped.
The squad's rope was still hooked in pitons. Darian, limping, dragged himself toward the anchor. A strand whipped—he blocked with half a blade. The silk clung, eating metal. Darian snarled, drove his ruined leg, and cut through. Steel shortened again.
— Cut! Again! Ash barked.
The threads snapped—pang, pang, pang. The Snatcher lurched. Its foreleg slammed into the nine o'clock fang—joint pierced. Another limb scraped the three o'clock blade—tendon cut.
— Not enough, Tovan wheezed.
— Force it, Kaelen growled.
He rammed his shield under the twelve-o'clock limb and heaved. His body screamed, his vision whited, but the claw slipped into the pillar's grip. Clack. Locked.
— Mira! Now!
Mira raised her staff, voice raw.
— Pivot Flash [D-low]!
Light burst, stabbing the creature's flat eyes. It recoiled, exposing its sternum.
Ash lunged. He didn't throw—he shoved, two hands driving the spear like a pin. It rammed beneath overlapping plates. A dull crunch.
The Snatcher thrashed, firing silk behind Ash to glue his feet. His boots stuck.
— Mine, Darian hissed.
He staggered in, ripping the crust free with his bare palm—skin tearing, blood mixing with glue. He laughed madly through the pain.
The Snatcher reeled, spitting a heavy cocoon at Ash's spear, trying to rip it from his grip. Ash shrouded the shaft in a Shadow-Razor [D-low]—a sleeve of dark mana. The cocoon split, falling heavy.
— One breath left, Ash gritted.
— One is enough, Kaelen rasped.
The trap held by threads, but it held. Pinned limbs squealed, anchors snapped. The monster writhed.
— Cut its anchors! Ash barked.
Darian looped the squad's rope around the glowing threads behind. He braced against a column, hauling. His ruined thigh screamed. The silk strained—then snapped in three cracks.
Ash drove the spear deeper, seeking the thoracic ganglion—the C-rank's true core. The tip kissed it. Not enough.
The beast's claw slashed sideways. The shaft bent, fibers screaming.
— No! Mira cried—not prayer, just defiance.
She hurled her last speck: a Day-Point [E] into the bending wood—not at the beast, but at Ash's weapon. For a heartbeat, light braced the shaft like a splint.
— Now! she screamed.
Ash roared. The spear slid another inch—then another. The soundless crack of a severed core.
The Web-Snatcher froze, like a wet sheet hardened in ice. Its flat eyes guttered out.
It collapsed.
Ash ripped his spear free, shaft warped but whole. Kaelen slumped by his shield. Darian sat back, half-blind with pain, half-blade gone. Tovan gasped in short barks, ribs rattling. Mira clutched her pierced arm, tears streaking dust from her cheeks.
— That… was ugly, Darian rasped. But did you see? I was glorious.
Kaelen laughed, a shaking sound.
— You were useful. That's enough.
Ash didn't answer. He listened—no scratching, no ferric breath. Only the echo of their blood.
His lips cracked, barely whispering:
— Move.
— Yes, Kaelen breathed. The word broke in his mouth, but it was real.
Ash turned his spear. A copper-veined mana core rolled from the Snatcher's chest. He shoved it into the cloth pouch. (C-insectoid core: unstable, filament-heavy; useful for runework, dangerous barehanded.)
— No contact, he reminded automatically.
Tovan chuckled weakly.
— I left a rib in your ropes.
— I'll make you a new one. Out of stone, Darian coughed, grinning through blood.
Mira tried to cast a bandage of light, but her hand shook. Kaelen guided her palm.
— There. Not there. A thread of glow sealed her wound by a fraction.
Kaelen's voice dropped.
— Ash… how much longer can you stand?
Ash looked at his hands. Gray tremors lined his palms. His spear weighed like iron. His eyes stayed gray.
— Enough to leave, he said.
It wasn't a boast. Just fact.
Leaving wasn't a march—it was dragging broken bodies on the fiction of legs. They skirted the chamber, hugging walls to avoid the ravine. Kaelen still led, shield lifted like a ramp against stray shards. Tovan scattered pebbles to break slips. Mira stitched tiny Day-Points, just enough to keep the world from turning against them. Darian limped last, groaning at every step.
At the chimney where they'd fled the blood wolves, Ash halted, listening. Only water, distant.
— One at a time, he said. Same order. If it scratches, you run. No heroics.
They crawled through. The crawlspace received their fatigue like moss receives steps. Narrower now—because bruises made them larger. Their breath rasped against stone.
On the last climb, Ash's spear scraped a ridge. He pressed his palm to turn it—accidentally touching the rune of Absorption. A stream of cold bled into his arm. He pulled back fast. A gray mark lingered under his skin, like stone's kiss.
— You okay? Mira asked, not knowing why the words still existed between them.
— Yes, Ash said.
Not a lie. Not the truth either. Just a path.
They emerged at last into the corridor where the first salamander had fallen. Their luminous markers still glimmered, faithful.
— Marks held, Kaelen muttered. Thanks, little one.
Mira half-smiled through pain.
When the red veil of the portal shimmered ahead, the world's curve seemed to straighten. You don't call it hope when you're still inside. You call it an exit.
— Stay tight to the end, Ash said. If something jumps, we bluff what's left.
— We've nothing left, Darian grumbled.
— Then we make them believe we do, Kaelen said. That's what we're best at.
They stepped through the veil.
The cold released their throats. Tier 4's stone courtyard caught their weight, refusing to drop them. Students froze mid-step. The stench of sweat, iron, and thin soup returned like a tepid blanket.
Corven stood waiting, cloak runes dark, eyes clear. His gaze swept them: shredded shield, warped spear, empty stones, blood everywhere.
— Report, he said.
Ash set his spear upright, fingers loosening reluctantly.
— Gate II. D-pack neutralized en route. Two C (Blood Wolves) eliminated. One C (Gate-Warden) neutralized. One C (Ravine Salamander) neutralized. One C (Web-Snatcher) neutralized. Three cores recovered. Squad alive. Combat capacity: nearly none.
He added, because it mattered:
— No heroics. Just exit.
Silence fell on the courtyard. Not respect—something barer: acknowledgment of fact.
Corven nodded once.
— Infirmary. Then written report.
He turned away. His cloak swept a line none dared cross.
Kaelen leaned on Ash for two breaths, walking without limp. Mira followed, staff light as a mountain. Tovan counted his ribs aloud, laughing at the missing number. Darian dropped his half-sword into a bin with a metallic thud.
Ash picked it back up, pressed it into his hand.
— Keep it. We don't discard what held.
Darian stared, no smirk.
— You… talk like an old man.
— I'm tired, Ash said.
They passed through the infirmary doors. Blue crystals cast paper-pale light. Thick hands stripped them of blood. The walls swallowed their words.
The battle was over.
The price had only begun.
Tier 4's infirmary was no sanctuary. Just a stone hangar divided by coarse curtains, rickety beds, and iron cages holding faint blue crystals. The air stank of iron, ointment, and dust. Here, healing was fast—not good.
— Lie down, said the duty healer without looking up. Her name was Sanaa: broad-shouldered, hands more craftsman than priest. — And don't die on my sheets. I've no more runic detergent.
Kaelen collapsed onto the first free bed. His frost brace shattered completely. Sanaa sighed, pressed fingers to the wound.
— Immobilization by Light Ligature [D-low], she said for the apprentice scribe. (Ligature: bands of clear mana wrapping flesh, cooling and stabilizing without regeneration.) — You'll keep that arm raised. Try heroics and you'll end with a bone elbow.
— It was protection, Kaelen groaned. Not heroics.
— You'll protect humanity tomorrow. Today, you sleep.
Darian still laughed—the kind that bled into sobs. His thigh gaped wide.
— I've seen worse, he lied.
— Not in my hall, Sanaa shot back. Runic Suture [E], three points.(Suture: micro-glyphs pulling wound edges together. Needs real rest or it tears.) — Act tough and I'll nail you to the mattress.
Three sparks drew his flesh together. Darian hissed through teeth—not quite a scream. Sanaa nodded, satisfied.
— Keeping that half-sword? she asked, nodding at the broken steel by his bed.
— We don't throw away what held, Darian muttered, glancing at Ash with a faint smile.
— Good. We don't repair much here. We reuse.
Mira sat clutching her staff, fingers trembling. Blood seeped from the harpoon wound in her shoulder.
— Clear Salt wash [E], then Day Bandage [E], Sanaa recited. (Salt: basic light solution for sterilization; Bandage: a thin luminous film that calms pain, maintains healing.) — You held a veil against a siphon? Not bad. You planning to faint before or after this burns?
— After, Mira said gravely.
— Glad we speak the same tongue.
Tovan, pale as washed stone, clutched his ribs. Sanaa palpated.
— Likely fracture. Stone Splint [E]? No, you're dry.(Splint: mana poured into mineral strips, fixed as rigid casing.) — So: rigid strap and forced rest. Breathe too hard and I'll break the other side for balance.
— You almost sound like you care, Tovan muttered.
— I save my scolding for favorites, Sanaa replied flatly.
Ash stood last, spear at his thigh. Sanaa finally glanced up.
— And you?
— Scratches. Warped shaft.
She turned his palms. Gray marks ran like stone beneath skin.
— You worked absorption runes barehand? she snapped. (Even E-grade Absorption eats the wielder when overused.) — Neutral balm, three coats. No new carving for three days. And that spear goes to the armory.
— It held, Ash said.
— That's the problem. Wood that holds too long snaps without warning. And that day, it'll be through your chest. Armory. Then sleep.
When she was done, Squad Eleven looked like wrecked survivors wrapped in makeshift bandages.
— Your mission report? she asked, knowing the answer.
— Observation Gate II, Darian muttered. Observed that dying comes in a thousand flavors.
— Perfect. You've learned the only lesson that matters.
She pulled a curtain.
— Three hours. No words. Then supplies and report.
The mission office was a narrow room behind the armory: oak counter, calibrated scales for mana cores, sealed boxes for valuables. Quartermaster Brusk—short beard, accountant's eyes—raised a brow at the wreck that was Squad Eleven.
— You reek of ravine. Cores?
Ash laid out the three cloth-wrapped shells: insectoid C, salamander C, fragment of blood wolf.
Brusk unwrapped them carefully with gloved hands, weighed, noted, resealed.
— Tier 4 regulation. Sixty percent academy, forty percent apportioned. Three C-ranks… ninety credits total. Half kept for your treatment. Leaves forty-five.
— So we live, and earn just enough to buy our bandages, Darian groaned. Glorious.
Brusk almost smiled.
— Tier 1 would take it all, then sell you a grin. Here we sell cheaper.
He slid gray bakelite tokens across.
— Plus risk bonus validated by Corven. Fifteen more. Doesn't buy an arm, but buys a shield.
Kaelen rolled a token between fingers.
— Does it buy a new arm?
— No. But it buys a chance not to lose the other.
— Then it's a good price, Ash said simply.
Brusk eyed his spear.
— We'll straighten the shaft. Runes wiped. You can carve E-grade?
Ash nodded.
— Absorption. Razor. Nothing higher.
— Deposit anyway. We'll check the lines.
The armory smelled of oil and iron. Racks bent beneath tired spears, dented shields, swords repaired too many times. Armorer Helgar—shaved head, crooked brow—hammered chainmail.
— You again, he grunted at Ash. Always bringing tools still alive.
— Not alive enough, Ash answered, showing the spear.
Helgar heated the wood gently, twisting it back. A crack here, a metal brace there.
— Your shaft has memory of battle. Fibers snap sooner the more you fix. Two missions left. Then replace.
— We've no new shafts, Tovan muttered, sinking on a bench.
— We've "better than nothing." Sometimes that's enough to live.
He handed Ash an amber vial.
— Rune ink [E]. Trace cleanly. And gloves—no spare hands stocked.
Ash bowed. Beside him, Darian laid his half-sword. Helgar eyed it.
— Keeping the stump?
— For memory.
Helgar smirked.
— Then I'll weld a hook. Make it a reverse knife. You'll cut yourself twice. By the third, you'll live with it.
Darian grinned through pain.
— Deal.
Word spread faster than they did. When Squad Eleven stepped out of the armory, more eyes followed than before. Whispers strung like threads between mouths.
— They brought back three C-cores.
— Lie.
— Maybe if they were Tier 1.
— Corven validated it.
— Then the gate must have been empty.
— They came back whole? Look at their legs.
— And the Om—
The word strangled before finishing "Omega." Kaelen turned his head. The mocking group lowered their eyes.
At their front: a tall boy with clean cloak, light gaze—Edrik (D-high), wind affinity, fauchon at his hip, and fond of showing it.
— Hey, Eleven, he called, grin demanding witnesses. Did you fight real monsters, or just kill stories?
Darian stepped forward.
— Want me to show you a story?
Kaelen pressed a fist on his shoulder.
— We've a report to write.
— Let him strut, Tovan muttered.
Edrik laughed lightly.
— Relax. I'll call you when we clear a Gate III. You can watch.
He had the bad taste to wink at Mira. Her fingers tightened on her staff.
— A fool on credit, Kaelen said flatly. He'll pay later.
— I hope he pays upfront, Darian growled.
Corven's debrief came at dusk, in a bare room with a runic board on the wall. It mapped squad formations with shifting magnetic stones.
He left them standing. No wasted words.
— Weaknesses: poor lateral coordination. Didn't cover Darian's leg well. Mira wastes mana on veils too wide. Tovan spends mana to cover his body, then his body to cover his mana. Kaelen blocks too early and misses angles. Ash…
He paused.
— Ash sees true. But carries for six.
Not compliment. Not condemnation. Just a stone on the table.
— Strengths: correct reaction to siphon. Geometry before magic. Good terrain usage: ravine, chimney, cross. (He tapped four marks on the board.) That's Tier 2 material. You learned it bleeding. Good.
His eyes lifted.
— From today, you enter Tactical Module.
(A cycle of drills on reading creatures: coordination, baited terrain, low mana, heavy bodywork.)
— Two weeks. Then another observation. Gate II again. No kills. You return with patterns.
— We'll kill if we must, Kaelen muttered.
— You'll live if you can, Corven corrected. That's enough.
He packed his stones. At the door:
— Ash. Stay.
The others filed out. Silence between them.
— Who taught you clean carving? Corven asked bluntly.
— No one. I copy what I see. Test till it holds.
— You have the eye for angles. That isn't taught. It's kept, or lost.
He gestured at the spear.
— Sleep. Recarve tomorrow. I want to see your lines at dawn, after stretches. If you tie a knot in the rune, I'll send you to shovel the courtyard.
— Understood.
— And Ash?
— Yes.
— Don't be the only one who knows where you're going. Show them. Not your secrets—your angles.
Ash inclined his head. Corven's way of saying teach them not to die.
Night fell. Tier 4 huddled in its worn stones. In the refectory, soup was served thicker than usual—return bonus—and a slice of F-rank beast meat that resisted teeth like an old promise.
Ash ate slowly. Kaelen kept his ligatured arm high, balancing spoon with the other. Tovan, strapped tight, calculated the steps from cot to latrine—the arithmetic of the injured. Mira poked her soup with the tip of her spoon, wary of too little hunger. Darian dipped bread in broth, eyeing his sutures as if the bread might steal them.
— We lived, Tovan said, to no one.
— It's a start, Kaelen answered.
— It's a habit to learn, Darian corrected. I'm willing to get used to it.
Mira lifted her eyes.
— I… I was afraid. A lot.
— Good, Ash said. Keep it. Fear looks where we forget.
She blinked, unsettled—then nodded, almost proud of her fear.
After the meal, Ash went to the students' rune workshop. A table, a lamp, gloves, Helgar's amber ink. He cleaned his shaft, scraped resin crusts, followed lines with humility. Absorption [E] down one groove. Shadow Razor [D-low] near the tip. (A sober rune breathes steady. Talkative runes explode.) He didn't invent. He carved straight.
When he raised his head, the dorm was asleep. No whispers haunted him—just the heavy weight of a broken body mending slowly.
Morning brought different wheels: steel-banded, leather harness, a seal not from Tier 4. The Exchange Caravan from Tier 2 academies and civilian guilds arrived once a month, dropping crates of goods, leaving with cores, reports, and transfers.
The courtyard hushed as it rolled in. On the seat sat an Ælvari woman—pale skin, silver hair, plain cloak, cold eyes. Beside her, a Drakhen with a steel collar, bare arms, dark scales. Their presence cut murmurs in half.
— Exchange, called the Clerk. Ælvari runic textiles (E/D quality). Drakhen-forged steel (plates, points). Mana stones base D.(Ælvari cloth drinks rune-ink, Drakhen steel takes heat without cracking.)Tests this afternoon. Two squads will assist a mixed detachment in Gate II next week. Evaluations this morning. Tactical module reinforced for volunteers.
Eyes slid to Squad Eleven.
Darian showed his suture.
— We volunteer, he said, sincere and stupid.
— We're in module, Kaelen corrected. We'll see later.
The Ælvari's gaze lingered on them. Her eyes stopped a beat on Ash's spear, then his bandaged hands. She said nothing. The Drakhen blinked his slit pupils—faint amusement.
Corven appeared, cloak matte gray.
— Squad Eleven, he said. Stretch. Track. Trials.
He scanned them with knowing eyes.
— You're allowed fatigue. Not softness.
They lined up. Legs protested. Ribs cracked. Sutures pulled. Morning air scraped throats sharper than any shout. Their pace slowed the first lap, then settled into an ugly but steady rhythm.
On the third lap, Edrik (D-high) slid alongside Kaelen, fauchon at hip, smile polished.
— So, Eleven… running on one arm?
— We run with what we have, Kaelen replied without looking. You run with your pride. Careful of cramps.
Laughter rippled down the track. Edrik veered away, more stung than wounded.
Ash hadn't missed a step. Spear across his back, gloves tight, eyes forward. Tovan snorted like a sick ox but endured. Mira counted breaths under her voice to smother pain. Darian stomped each stride like a dare.
When they finished, Corven didn't say "good." He never did. He said:
— Again.
And they did.
By afternoon, the courtyard had turned into a strange bazaar: Drakhen armor plates gleaming oily black, Ælvari veils that seemed to drink light, D-grade opalescent mana stones strapped in harnesses. Students drifted between stalls, testing, touching—envy had its own scent.
The tests weren't glorious. Hold a veil under sand-rain. Shield stance against golems that pushed in rhythm. Track trajectories on targets swinging from the ceiling. (The Tactical Module judged eyes, not bravery.)
Ash traced his runes cleanly on a scrap of wood, under a tired runier's gaze. The Ælvari woman watched too, unreadable. When he finished, the runier tilted his head.
— Sober. Not pretty, but sober. It holds.
— It has to hold, Ash answered.
— We'll make it hold better if you ever reach an atelier.
— We'll see.
Kaelen, despite his bound arm, absorbed three golem charges without breaking stance. Mira, pale, managed three Day-Points placed exactly as told, no wider than a fingernail. Tovan looked half-shattered but read a projectile's curve like a mason reads rain. Darian, already proud of his half-knife, slashed rope dummies, cutting his fingers twice before learning.
By dusk, Corven read a list aloud.
— Selection for caravan assistance, Gate II observation next week: Squad Three… Squad Seven…
A hush spread.
— …and Squad Eleven, reserve.(Reserve = accompany prep, observe the observers, only step in if someone falls.)
Darian's eyes flared.
— Reserve?!
— Reserve, Corven repeated. That's where you learn faster.
Lower, only for them:
— And where you have a chance to all come back.
They didn't like it. They accepted.
The caravan's chests yawned open. Ash received a D-grade stone harness—thin reserves, but stable—and an Ælvari runic glove for his off-hand. Kaelen a Drakhen pavise, heavier but balanced. Mira a clear-threaded cape that carried light without leaking. Tovan, grinning despite ribs, a mineral frame-belt to channel his weak mana steadier. Darian had his half-sword hooked as promised; Helgar, smug, slipped him a charcoal sketch: "Don't put your thumb here."
In the fading light, Ash tested his straightened spear. The new runes breathed faintly, a low pulse in his palms. He lifted the tip, staring far—not to horizon, but to stone, track, the night courtyard where they would train tomorrow.
— What do you think? Kaelen asked.
— That we lived again, Ash said.
— And tomorrow?
Ash set the spear to his shoulder.
— Again.
The Academy's bell tolled end of day. Somewhere beyond its walls, a Gate breathed—one more, one less, the same promise. Tier 4 closed its gates like a fist. They slept poorly, but together.
End of Chapter 4.