The aftermath of the third raid was not a storm; it was a suffocating silence.
The barracks of Unit 17, once full of whispered sermons and frantic hope, was now a tomb. The survivors sat apart, nursing wounds, staring at walls, avoiding each other's eyes.
Maria, who had once burned like a prophet, now sat motionless on her bunk for hours. Her shield rested across her lap like a coffin lid, her lips muttering broken prayers to no one. The light in her eyes had dimmed, but it was not gone it flickered with a brittle, dangerous fanaticism, like a cracked blade waiting to snap.
Jack's interface confirmed what his instincts already knew.
[Tenant Group Morale: Fractured. Status – Splintering.]
This was a problem. A herd consumed by despair was manageable. A herd splintering into factions was a liability.
The first crack appeared that afternoon.
A lanky boy, one of those who had stayed behind during the last raid, cornered Maria near the mess hall. His voice wasn't loud, but in the silence of the unit, it cut like a knife.
"You promised survival," he said, trembling with grief and fury. "You promised loot. A way out. But more die every time. You're not a savior you're a butcher leading lambs to slaughter."
Whispers erupted. Heads turned. The seeds of doubt had found soil.
Maria snapped. Her lips peeled back, eyes wide, feverish. She lunged, hands clawing at the boy's collar. "They died for something!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "It takes courage! Sacrifice! Cowards like you don't deserve"
Jack was already moving. He stepped between them smoothly, hands raised. His face was concern itself.
"Maria. Stop." His voice was quiet, steady. The kind of voice that made people listen. He eased her back a step, then turned to the skeptic. "She's just trying to find a way for us to fight back. We're all scared. But fear is what kills you in a dungeon. Only the brave see the rewards."
He had taken no side. To the skeptic, he was a reasonable mediator. To Maria's followers, he had defended the core belief that bravery equaled reward. The fragile balance held. For now.
Inside, Jack felt nothing but calm calculation. Dissent was useful. Too much zealotry created collapse, but too much doubt created paralysis. The tension kept them unstable, and instability kept them dependent on him the quiet axis their broken world spun around.
Later, in the privacy of the latrines, Jack tested the secret that made him uneasy.
[Minor Regeneration (F-Rank) – Passive]
A constant hum of life force, knitting him back together.
He pricked his finger on a nail. The blood welled, then stopped, the wound sealing at a pace no normal F-rank could achieve. His stamina recovered faster during drills. His body no longer ached like the others.
It was a gift. And a curse.
Too much durability in a disposable asset was an anomaly. Vale might notice. Worse the Bureau might.
So Jack adapted. He sliced his arm with a shard of glass, then left the cut open before roll call. He forced limps after runs, feigned exhaustion, and let sweat drip from his forehead even when his body didn't demand it. Camouflage required layers now. If the System had given him an advantage, he would smother it under masks until the time was right.
Miles away, the file marked Pattern Anomaly climbed another rung up the Bureau's ladder. It landed on the desk of Level 2 Auditor Eva Rostova, a sharp-eyed woman who did not believe in "noise."
Her gaze swept the data. Three identical energy spikes in Sector 7, in less than a week. Each lasting the same duration. Each following the same pattern. Random surges didn't schedule themselves.
She flagged the file for escalation. But before she could send it, her superior leaned over, sighing. "Another anomaly? Rostova, you know how many false positives we log every week? Waste surges, refinery dumps, kids throwing fireballs in alleys"
"This isn't noise," Eva interrupted flatly. "It's structured. Repeating. That means intent."
Her superior groaned. "Fine. File it. But don't expect anyone upstairs to care."
Eva's report went through. Stamped, logged, and forwarded. It now carried a new designation:
Pattern Anomaly – Level 3 Review Pending.
Back in the barracks, Maria tried to preach again that night. It was a disaster.
Only half the orphans bothered to sit near her bunk. Her words cracked, her voice hollow. A few stood up and left, muttering, "She'll get us all killed." Leo tried to defend her, but his [Glow] flickered weakly, his own faith nearly extinguished.
Jack watched the collapse with predatory calm. This was the moment.
He waited for silence. Then he spoke, his tone steady, carrying through the barracks.
"Maybe…" he said, and every head turned. "Maybe it's not about survival anymore. Maybe it's about choosing how we die."
The words struck deep. Not hope. Not faith. But choice the only agency left to the disposable.
Faces hardened. The despair bent itself into resolve. The culvert was no longer salvation. It was meaning.
And Jack, as always, adjusted the narrative to his liking. He let the silence stretch before adding, just enough to plant a seed:
"And maybe… if we take enough from it, the Bureau won't matter anymore."
The room breathed as one, broken souls clinging to a new justification.
[Tenant Return Probability: 91%]
Jack lay back in his bunk, the violet and yellow alerts pulsing faintly at the edges of his vision.
[External Interest Escalating: Risk of Exposure – Moderate.]
The Bureau was closing in. His herd was returning willingly to the pen.
Perfect symmetry.
Miles away, in a sterile office, the Level 3 escalation was stamped with finality:
"Possible Unregistered Dungeon. Sector Sweep Authorized – 14 Days."
Jack's farm, his perfect factory of despair, was now on a ticking clock.