The black residue of slain miasma-bound soldiers stained the ground in patches, their grotesque forms long since dissipated into smoke and ash. With the final corridors cleared and the threat subdued, Belial and Toren moved with weary but victorious steps, their swords sheathed, their breaths heavy.
Belial favored his right side, a bloodied cloth bound tight around his ribs where the glaive had grazed him. Toren walked beside him, not limping but slower than usual, the exhaustion in his shoulders telling more than any words could. Behind them, the surviving squad regrouped, one of the among them, her return from the camp swift but haunted. She'd passed along Garen to Xin and Lira, who were, by her account, knee-deep in triage, battling time and failing lungs.
The climb back through the tunnels was long, but this time, the silence was a reprieve, not a threat.
As they emerged into the camp's fringes, the change was immediate. The flickering glow of makeshift braziers lit the inner cavern, casting shadows across rows of cots, makeshift operating tables, and supply crates. The air, though still thick with tension and the sour tang of blood, had a hint of order to it—a battlefield turned into a healing ground.
Belial stopped just short of the main triage zone, eyes scanning the scene. Xin moved between patients with swift, precise efficiency, his hands glowing faintly as he stabilized wounds and soothed shattered nerves. But what drew Belial's attention most wasn't the magic. It was the strange masks strapped to the soldiers' faces—crafted from bones, cloth, and hollowed tubes, clearly taken from scavenged remains. Primitive, yet effective.
Shun stood nearby, handing off vials of stabilized ether to another healer. He looked up as the southern team approached, relief washing over his weary features. His silver hair, matted with sweat, clung to his forehead, and his eyes had dark circles beneath them—but they were sharp.
"You actually came back alive," Shun said, stepping toward them. He gave Toren a nod, then turned to Belial, one eyebrow raised. "With fewer holes than I expected."
"Didn't give the bastards a chance to finish the job," Belial replied with a smirk, though his voice rasped from effort. "Toren kept me alive. Guess he's more than a mere scout."
Toren rolled his eyes but didn't dispute it. Instead, he moved to help unload supplies they had recovered from the southern tunnel caches.
Shun gestured for Belial to follow him, leading him through the crowded maze of wounded. "Xin's been working nonstop. Haven't seen him sleep. I told him to rest, but..."
Belial caught sight of Xin again—still on his feet, despite the sweat pouring down his temples and the fatigue heavy in his movements. He was adjusting the bone mask on a soldier's face, whispering softly as he ran a tube from a small vented bottle into the soldier's mask. The wounded man's breathing steadied almost instantly.
"These masks," Shun said, watching the same scene, "he made them from the bones of Hollow beasts. Cleaned them out, used the marrow tubes as filters. Fitted cloth soaked in binding ether to catch airborne toxins. Crude, but... genius."
Belial raised a brow. "Xin always did know how to make something out of nothing."
Shun laughed softly, a sound more exhausted than amused. "You don't get it, do you? In this caveman hell world, as you love to call it, he's doing more than survive. He's innovating. No manuals. No labs. Just instinct."
Belial's eyes narrowed with something like pride. "Guess I landed the jackpot for a companion."
They approached Xin as he finished tying the last bandage on a woman whose leg had been stitched nearly from knee to hip. Her breathing steadied as she faded into unconsciousness, and Xin finally sat back, his hands trembling slightly.
He looked up as Belial stepped forward. Relief washed over his face. "You made it back."
Belial crouched beside him. "You doubted me?"
Xin gave a tired smile. "Always do."
Belial chuckled, then winced as the motion pulled at his side. Xin's expression changed instantly, his healer's instincts kicking in. "You're hurt. Show me."
Belial sighed but didn't argue. He pulled up his tunic to reveal the makeshift bandage and the still-seeping wound beneath. Xin frowned, already reaching for his supplies.
"You should've said something earlier. This could've torn deeper."
"Wasn't exactly the time for a tea break," Belial replied.
As Xin worked, Shun moved to a raised platform, using the vantage point to speak to the camp. "Everyone, listen! We have cleared the southern tunnels. This base is no longer under immediate threat."
Cheers didn't erupt. There was no strength left for celebration. But the ripple of tension that passed through the wounded and weary was unmistakable. Hope.
Shun looked toward Xin and Belial, his voice lowering. "Once everyone is stable, we're returning to the main base. This isn't over. That thing in the ruins... the madwoman... she's still gathering power."
Belial's smirk returned, but there was no humor in it. "Then it's time we stopped gathering scars and started gathering answers."
Toren returned, his arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet resolve. "And this time," he said, "we do it as a unit. Not fragments."
Belial looked between them—Xin, Shun, Toren. Different backgrounds. Different paths. But in this cracked world, held together with bones and breath and a refusal to die, they were all he had.
He stood slowly, nodding to Xin, who finished tying off the bandage. "Then let's get everyone on their feet. We've got a reckoning to attend."
...
A few days passed by.
Belial's boots crunched against the rocky ground as he crossed the makeshift campsite, the dim cavern light casting jagged shadows across his path.
He moved like someone used to warzones, not just navigating them, but thriving in them. Around him, tired soldiers huddled near flickering fires, some tending wounds, others caught in silent stares. His gaze wandered over them, unreadable.
These poor bastards look sorry, he thought, lips curling into a grim line.
He didn't slow his pace as he approached a tent near the cavern wall—larger than the others, its canvas flaps swaying slightly with the constant draft. Shun's tent. Without hesitation, Belial slipped inside, movements silent as a shadow.
Inside, the air was cooler, quieter. A single luminescent stone cast a pale glow, illuminating Shun seated on a low stool, elbows on knees, fingers laced. His silver hair shimmered faintly in the low light. His face was unreadable, still and calm, but Belial saw what others might miss—fatigue behind the eyes, tension in the jaw, the heavy weight of command pressing down on him.
Shun's head snapped up as Belial entered, instincts sharp as ever. His eyes locked onto the intruder. Surprise flickered, then vanished beneath his usual control. "You move like a ghost," he said evenly. "How did you get in without a sound?"
Belial smirked, leaning casually against the central pole of the tent. "Wow, it's like looking at a statue," he drawled.
Shun's brow creased, but he didn't bite. He sat straighter, posture subtly shifting into something more guarded. "Do you need something, nero?"
The smirk faded from Belial's face, replaced by a cooler expression. "You're the captain, right?"
The question dropped like a stone. Shun's expression hardened. "You know I am," he said slowly. "Why ask?"
"Just confirming," Belial said with a shrug, though there was intent behind his eyes. He stepped forward, voice dropping to a low murmur. "I've got some valuable information for you."
Shun didn't speak, just gave a nod
"go on."
Belial began to move again, pacing the interior of the tent in a slow, circling prowl. His presence filled the space, subtle and suffocating. "Your soldiers," he said, his tone casual, but sharp underneath, "I'm guessing only you and a few others have passed the First Stage?"
Shun didn't answer, but his silence said enough. Belial stopped pacing.
The First Stage a brutal and transformative. A gauntlet of pain and awakening, one that marked the beginning of true power for those who survived. For a unit tasked with surviving this world's chaos, most of Shun's people were still in the shallow end.
"That being said," Belial continued, now standing directly in front of him, "I have a proposition."
The words hung in the dim space. The flickering light danced across Shun's face as he studied Belial.
"What kind of proposition?" he asked, quiet but firm.
Belial let the silence linger, calculating. Then he leaned in, voice low and deliberate.
"What if we take your soldiers to the First Stage?"