Tarrin didn't sleep a second the rest of the night.
Not for lack of trying—the bed was uncomfortable, the bandages were tight, and the pain came flooding back the moment the numbing effect wore off.
But more than that, it was the thoughts. The ones that clawed at him like rats in a locked room.
Eventually, after what felt like hours of tossing and turning, he gave up.
Careful not to jostle his arm, now cradled in a sling, he dragged himself out of bed and stepped into the cold corridor.
The air was sharp, biting—like it had fangs of its own—but it helped clear his head.
He didn't know why he was out here. Walking around the fortress with half a working arm wasn't exactly doctor's orders. But ignoring advice from professionals always seemed like a good idea.
Besides, it wasn't like sleep was coming anytime soon.
The Bastion was quiet at this hour. Eerily so.
His footsteps echoed faintly through the stone halls as he wandered, the chill of the ancient stone pressing against his bare feet through the soles of his standard-issue shoes.
He hated to admit it, but the place had a certain majesty. Regal in a brutal, archaic kind of way.
The high archways, the reinforced columns, the flickering glow of crystal-lit sconces—it was medieval, sure, but it carried weight. Authority.
Still, he'd trade the whole thing for a lakeside villa and a bottle of Lunar Gold any day.
He stopped in front of one of the massive outer doors and pushed it open. It creaked slightly, but the hinges were well-oiled and the steel gave way without too much resistance.
An auxiliary soldier might've struggled—but Tarrin had supernatural strength on his side now, even if it didn't feel like it.
Especially tonight.
His mind, as it had all night, drifted again—to his saturation.
He'd run the numbers in his head at least a hundred times. His last reading showed 43%.
Coupled with the ramblings of the doctor about his explosive gene at his evaluation, he should stand somewhere above the 50% mark for the normal Scarred.
So why did he feel so damn weak?
Why had one attack from that creature nearly taken his arm clean off?
He clenched his jaw, frustration rising like bile. He was stronger than he'd ever been. Stronger than he ever thought he'd be.
His body was sharper, faster, harder. His progress was steady. If a Legacy chose him, he'd climb even faster.
But none of that mattered—not if he couldn't survive.
And tonight proved it.
Because whatever this was… it wasn't a fluke. It wasn't a malfunction. It was a plan.
Deliberate. Calculated. Executed.
Someone had wanted that barrier down. Someone with the clearance—and the power—to make it happen.
He remembered his training, the theory classes back at camp. The barrier systems were airtight. Always-on.
Redundant fail-safes. Alert systems. Physical overrides. A dozen protocols meant to prevent exactly what had happened.
So how?
How had it failed without anyone noticing?
Unless someone wanted it to.
He stared out into the darkness beyond the walls, wind tugging at his hair, the cold numbing his fingers.
'Fuck,' he thought, a pit settling in his gut. 'Who is it? Who's trying to kill us? And why now?'
Second day at the base, and he already had a hole in his arm.
Whatever this was—it was just getting started.
He stood beneath the night sky, alone with his thoughts, wrapped in silence and shadows.
Then came the sound—distant voices cutting through the quiet. Gruff, low, masculine. Familiar in a way that made his muscles tense.
He moved, cutting across corners with practiced ease until he reached a tucked-away section of the Bastion. A place he was certain remained deserted even during the day.
The voices grew clearer now. And with them, recognition.
James's friends. Irene's old-timers. The seasoned crew that always moved like they owned the walls.
They noticed him as he approached—gave him a quick once-over out of habit, then went back to their conversation. If they cared, they didn't show it. Maybe they were too deep in grief. Or maybe he just didn't matter.
Still, he kept walking.
His steps were light, but lacked the casual swagger they usually carried. Tonight, there was no confidence to fake.
Their voices died as he reached them. A subtle shift in posture. All eyes turned his way. No words. Just silence and stares.
He opened his mouth slowly, his tone level. Calm, but tired.
"Hey," he said, "can you lend me a smoke? Had a really shit day."
They looked him over again—this time not out of protocol, but pity. The one who had sparred with him yesterday cracked a small, humorless chuckle and reached into his coat.
"Sure. Here you go."
Tarrin took the cigarette like it was an old friend he hadn't seen in years. His lips twitched at the sight of it.
'Damn. Haven't touched one since I was fourteen.'
He lit it with a quiet flick, drew in the smoke, let it burn its way down.
No buzz. No rush of dopamine. Just smoke in his lungs and a bitter taste in his mouth. It felt... hollow.
Empty.
One of the old-timers finally broke the silence. Voice low, like it was weighed down by something heavy.
"Is it true?" he asked. "That you saw James die?"
Tarrin locked eyes with the speaker. The man looked to be in his fifties—short, weathered, the kind of veteran who'd seen too much and learned to live with it. Tarrin gave a short nod.
"Yeah," he said. "He saved my life. Twice. Fought like those ugly bastards owed him money."
The words landed heavy. He paused, letting the silence settle.
"But he died... just like the rest. One hit from the alpha. That's all it took."
Then something unexpected happened.
Laughter.
Rough, dry, and grim—but not mocking. Not even sad. It was something else. Something proud.
They were proud.
Proud that James had gone out on his feet, weapon in hand, defiant till the end. Not whimpering. Not begging. Just fighting.
The men raised their cigarettes, holding them high. Then their eyes shifted—every one of them looking at Tarrin.
He didn't know why, but instinct took over. He lifted his left hand and joined them, his cigarette meeting theirs in the center of the circle.
And then they began to chant.
"To the Hall of the Unbroken! Bless James of House Jakhar—He died spear in hand, Laughing in Death's face."
Tarrin felt strange mouthing the words of a ritual meant for a man he barely knew. But something about the weight in their voices, the conviction behind it, stirred something inside him.
The second verse followed, and this time, Tarrin spoke the words with them.
"May his cup overflow, his enemies tremble when he rises again at the Final Battle's dawn."
The cigarettes dropped to their lips, each man taking a long, slow drag—silent and steady.
Then, without a word, someone passed Tarrin a bottle. It smelled like someone had bottled fire and bad decisions, but he didn't hesitate. He raised it, tilted it back, and swallowed deep.
It burned. Harsh and raw. But he drank it like it was water.
The others nodded approvingly, eyes flickering with a quiet respect, and passed the bottle around the circle.
A beat passed before Tarrin spoke, voice laced with dry humor. "Did I just join a cult?"
The men turned to him, faces deadpan with exaggerated seriousness. The guy next to him didn't miss a beat.
"Yes," he said solemnly. "Next sacrifice is Monday."
A few chuckles rumbled through the group, lightening the mood again. But then the one Tarrin had sparred with—Josh, if he remembered correctly—stepped forward, tone dropping back into something firmer.
"From now on, you're one of us," Josh said. "We're brothers here. So if you want something… we want it too. Understood?"
Tarrin nodded, slowly, expression unreadable.'Who are these lunatics? I've known them for a day and suddenly we're brothers. Still… it might come in handy someday.'
They exchanged a few more parting words before the gathering dissolved.
The others drifted away into the waking dark, leaving Tarrin alone again beneath the black sky. He shook his head, half in disbelief, half in amusement.
Back inside, he checked his Telcom. Almost dawn.
He hesitated for a moment. Then turned on his heel and headed straight for the training grounds.
The place was silent, the world caught between night and day. Tarrin found a discarded training sword—standard issue, slightly worn—and picked it up with his left hand. His right arm rested in its sling, useless for now.
He stepped into a stance. Calm. Measured. Careful.
The weapon felt alien in his off-hand, the balance all wrong. But not impossible. He adjusted his grip, shifted his weight. Searching for the rhythm, the balance, the quiet flow he had always found with his dominant hand.
Six full minutes passed.
Not a single strike. Just breathing, stillness, and trying to feel.
Then, without warning, his arm snapped forward. One clean, precise motion. The blade sliced the air and returned to form.
To the untrained eye, it might've seemed sharp. Solid. Even elegant.
But Tarrin frowned.
His lip curled slightly, as if he'd just tasted rot.
As if what he'd done wasn't a strike—but a sin.
His eyes narrowed. The disgust didn't fade.
So he struck again. And again. And again.
Steel hissed through the early morning air, over and over, until his left arm trembled from the strain, until the dull throb in his wounded right arm flared with sharp, wet pain. He kept going anyway.
He didn't count the strikes, but by the time his body finally refused to lift the sword, his breathing had turned ragged, his muscles shaking, his vision dimming at the edges.
And still—the disgust on his face lingered.
Like a stain he couldn't scrub away. No matter how many times he tried.