Wolf eats deer.
Tiger eats horse.
Eagle eats snake.
The logic is almost elegant in its brutality.
Without a moment's hesitation, Havel flips his lighter open and starts working down the line of braziers in the correct order, flame kissing wick one by one.
The nearly dried-out oil catches as soon as the fire licks it.
"Fssht—"
Each basin flares to life in sequence, a chain of low golden flames slowly brightening the chamber.
Shadows peel back from the carved animals.
The underground gloom retreats a little.
Rebecca and Billy exchange a look, helpless little smiles tugging at their mouths.
Of course he cracked it before anyone could even say "puzzle."
It's infuriating and convenient in equal measure.
"Rumble—!"
"Clack, clack—!"
The stone underfoot vibrates as something heavy grinds inside the wall.
A section of masonry slides aside, revealing a hidden stone door that rolls away like a vault seal.
Another entrance.
Another "new map."
"Shuo yi si… easily—"
Havel mangles his faux-Chinese-English with a straight face, then waves them on.
"Let's move. See what else this place wants to throw at us."
They've already spent too long in this mansion and its attached facility.
The Ecliptic Express derailed around 8 p.m., Raccoon City time.
S.T.A.R.S. arrived in the Arklay Mountains by helicopter around 10.
Now, it's pushing two in the morning.
If they keep dragging this out, dawn will find them still underground—and by then, the situation topside could be unraveling fast.
Bravo Team going dark in the woods would set off every alarm in Raccoon's police department and stir up rumors among civilians.
Worse, it would make Umbrella look more closely at what, exactly, S.T.A.R.S. is doing out here.
If Umbrella realizes they're poking around its research sites, "heroic commendations" won't be on the table.
A nice, quiet prison cell and a rigged trial would be more their style.
When a corporation will engineer citywide outbreaks, throwing three inconvenient survivors in a hole is trivial.
They need to stay ahead of Umbrella's attention.
Finish first, disappear first.
This time, though, the room beyond the door actually surprises him.
No damp stone.
No iron maidens.
No chained skeletons.
Instead, they step into something that looks like a half-finished military training complex.
The rough stone gives way to concrete walls, the edges of the corridors fitted with red alarm beacons.
Dust still coats everything, but compared to the dungeon it feels practically civilized.
Below them sprawls a wide combat zone.
Wooden crates lie stacked in clusters, metal railings break up sightlines, and concrete barriers jut from the floor like artificial cover.
Viewed from above, the layout resembles a maze of choke points and blind corners.
Honestly, it looks like a deathmatch map.
And that's exactly what it is.
This is Umbrella's training facility in the literal sense: a live-fire B.O.W. test arena built under the school.residentevil.fandom+1
Narrow corridors, barricades, and crates aren't decoration; they're meant to be cover, letting "participants" dodge and weave while something hungry chases them.[residentevil.fandom]
Following the suspended metal catwalk along the wall, the trio reaches the control booth.
The boxy iron room hangs over the arena like a referee's tower.
From here, they can see the entire training ground spread out below.
Banks of switches and buttons line the front console.
Some are labeled with worn identifiers for gates, obstacles, and—judging by the layout—B.O.W. release mechanisms.
Even more surprising is what waits in the side room connected to the booth.
Weapons.
A full storage rack of them, orderly as a police armory: assault rifles, shotguns, even a few long rifles with scopes.
For a second, all three just stare.
Then the details register.
Every metal surface is speckled with rust.
Receivers are corroded, bolts frozen, magazines swollen.
Most of them look like they've been bathed in humidity and B.O.W. collateral damage for a decade.[residentevil.fandom]
A weapon rack full of ghosts.
"This is a crime," Havel mutters under his breath.
If this room were fresh, it'd be a dream.
Fully stocked armory on the eve of a boss fight.
With three people, each loaded with a couple of rifles and shotguns, they could stroll through most of this facility sideways.
Billy, former Marine officer and lifelong gun lover, steps up to the wall display almost reverently.
His hands trace the contours of an assault rifle, fingers curling around the grip as he works the action by habit.
The bolt barely moves.
Metal grinds, resisting.
Rust has welded the mechanism in place.
He lets out a slow breath and sets it back.
Too far gone.
His current weapon—a battered Winchester M1887, an old lever-action compared to these designs—suddenly feels even more antique in his hands.
Against the sleek silhouettes on the rack, it's the definition of "old-timer."
If he had the tools and time, he'd strip and restore these, make them sing again.
But down here, with monsters and time pressure, they're just dead weight.
He finally understands what Havel meant about "firepower anxiety."
With a simple pistol and an aging shotgun, facing down Umbrella's roster of nightmares, anyone would start wishing for something bigger.
"Still," Havel says, breaking the silence, "the guns are trash, but the ammo's a different story. Cartridges age better than receivers. We can still strip this place for supplies."
"My shells are getting low. Perfect time to restock. Come on—don't just stand there. Even scraps are still meat. Better than walking in empty-handed."
He draws his tactical knife, the blade catching the light with a brief, cold gleam.
Then he jams it down into the lid of a white wooden crate beneath the weapon racks and levers hard.
The old wood, already softened by time and moisture, splinters with a crack and collapses inward.
"Clang… crack—!!"
The lid gives way.
Havel spins the knife in his fingers once, more for his own satisfaction than necessity, then slips it back into the sheath at his belt.
A knife is mandatory kit for Resident Evil protagonists.
When a magazine runs dry in a bad spot, that strip of steel is the difference between "close call" and "game over."
As for stabbing tyrants to death… that's for other heroes with sturdier plot armor.
He's not planning to reach that kind of enlightenment any time soon.
Especially not with Leon still waiting offstage, destined to one day walk into boss fights with nothing but a knife and swagger.
Havel's knife, by comparison, is nothing special—just a cheap police-issue piece that might have cost the department a few dozen dollars.
No noble last-gift from Marvin, no beloved blade from Krauser.
Just a mass-produced shard of steel marketed with a discount.
He'd like to think that, one day, it'll earn a story of its own.
Preferably without snapping in half first.
Because right now, after one crate, the tip is already starting to bend.
"Figures," he grumbles.
"Budget special, through and through."
Resigning himself to retiring the "legendary" dream for this particular knife, he turns his attention back to the opened crate.
Inside, loose rounds gleam dully in the dim light—pistol, rifle, and shotgun cartridges mixed in marked packets.
Some cases are slick with oil weeping through the metal, but they're intact and usable.
American manufacturing, at least, can be relied on to last.
Most of the visible rounds are brass- or copper-colored, their jackets a golden sheen.
Copper's flexibility and toughness make it perfect for bullet jackets: it shapes cleanly, grips rifling without tearing up barrels, and seals under heat without cracking.
A built-in lubricant, a built-in seal.
The downside?
Price tag.
Back home, nobody in their right mind uses solid copper jackets across the board.
You plate steel and call it a day.
Save the real copper for things that aren't meant to be fired downrange.
Umbrella, on the other hand, seems to have had no such qualms.
These crates are full of expensive rounds—7.62mm rifle and sniper rounds, 9mm handgun ammo, and a healthy supply of shotgun shells, everything a "training" detachment might need for extended exercises.
Magnum rounds, of course, are absent.
No sane instructor hands out monster-stopping hand-cannon cartridges for drills with live B.O.W.s.
Accidents happen.
Accidents with that kind of firepower erase test data.
By the time they're done looting, Havel's tactical pack is noticeably heavier, straps digging into his shoulders.
The psychological weight lifts, though.
Where his mental ammo counter had been hovering on empty, now it's comfortably deep in the green.
His "firepower insufficiency phobia" quiets a little.
Then another thought hits him, cold and sharp.
Big stockpiles before narrow corridors.
Boss fountain before the fog gate.
In any horror-action scenario worth its salt, a room like this means only one thing: something nasty is waiting up ahead.
He swallows once.
If this is the "last restock before the fight" room, what, exactly, are they supposed to be fighting?
A Tyrant, ahead of schedule?
A new B.O.W. variant?
Something Marcus cooked up off-book?
While he's spiraling through worst-case options, Rebecca's voice cuts in.
She's found something in the corner of the control room—a stack of papers half-buried under dust.
She lifts the top file and starts to read.
It's a usage guide for the facility.
This "training ground," the document explains, is nominally a soldier training site.
In reality, it's exactly what the layout suggests: a dedicated combat testing range for B.O.W.s.[residentevil.fandom]
They arm prisoners or selected soldiers, throw them into the maze below, then release monsters inside.
Biometric data, combat performance, behavioral logs—all recorded, all fed into Umbrella's research.
Whatever happens to the "test subjects" in the process is irrelevant.
As for which B.O.W.s they use here…
The file doesn't say.
One thing is certain, though.
To reach the next level of the facility, they have to pass through that arena.
The exit door sits on the far side of the training field.
There is no quiet route around the killing floor.
"Havel. Billy."
Rebecca's voice is tight as she waves them over, thrusting the document toward their hands.
She walks back to the consoles as they skim it, her eyes settling on the rows of toggles and buttons.
Her shoulders sink.
There are no "abort" or "safety" switches labeled anywhere.
Just mechanism controls.
Open. Close. Activate.
The monster deployment systems are wired directly into the course's progression.
No monsters, no door.
No door, no exit.
If they want out, they have to flip the switches.
"Look," she says, gesturing at the bank of controls.
"This isn't a training ground for soldiers. It's a live test range for B.O.W. combat data. They throw prisoners or troops in armed, then release whatever they're studying that week."
"If we want to get through, we have to activate the course. The next passage door is tied to it. There's no 'off' switch—only start."
"We can trigger the release from up here and pick them off from the high ground… or we go down first and wait to get swarmed. Either way, we're fighting whatever they kept here."
She looks from the console to them, frustration and grim resolve warring across her face.
"So… do we push the B.O.W. release? I don't see any way we avoid them. At least from up here, we have the advantage. If we wait until we're inside, we'll be surrounded."
Havel stares at the switches for a long moment in silence.
Then he smiles.
"Hit them," he says.
"All of them. I want to see what kind of 'boss' this place thinks it's hiding."
"And if it's feeling ambitious, we'll just see whether my blessed RPG banana can out-damage its early-game nonsense."
If Umbrella wants to put on a show, he's willing to sell tickets.