It was already evening of the second day.
Time flowed differently inside the dungeon — distorted, stretched, almost resentful of the world beyond its borders. Outside, scarcely six hours had passed since the tournament began. Spectators still shifted in their seats. Officials still debated scores and projections. The sun had not even completed its arc across the sky.
Inside, however, two full days had been endured.
Two days of blood.
Two days of exhaustion.
Two days of survival bought one breath at a time.
Itekan's group had been left in shambles after their unexpected encounter with hundreds of Night-Shrill Covet Blood Bats. The memory of the swarm still clung to the air like a stain — the shrill vibrations of their wings, the metallic tang of venom, the oppressive black cloud that had blotted out even the dungeon's dim light.
They had fought for two days and one night without pause.
There had been no true rest. No safety. No moment when the threat fully receded.
Only by the second night — when the final bat fell twitching to the cavern floor — had silence returned, heavy and unfamiliar.
Only then had they been allowed to breathe.
Thanks to Nuelle's leadership, they hadn't lost a single life.
But survival was not the same as victory.
And they had not emerged unscathed.
---
Bukanami sat with his back against a jagged stone outcrop, his breathing slow but shallow, as though each inhale required negotiation. His Spiritual Sea had been drained to the brink of fracture. Even now, faint tremors rippled through his arms — the aftershock of channeling more energy than his core had been meant to endure.
His black machete lay across his lap, its once-smooth edge now chipped and warped, the metal dulled by corrosive venom. Unlike his golden sword, it possessed no self-regenerative properties. It was a weapon that remembered every battle — and this one had nearly destroyed it.
He stared at the blade for a long time, jaw tight, as if measuring the cost of surviving.
---
Jokovik's injury was worse.
The deep gash across his arm had long since stopped bleeding, but that offered little comfort. The tear had severed nerves; the damage was final. His fingers lay limp, unresponsive to his will. A hand that had once moved with precise mechanical certainty now hung useless at his side.
Itekan had done what he could.
Shadow tendrils had threaded through torn flesh, sealing wounds, forcing tissue to reconnect, suppressing venom long enough to stabilize him.
But there were limits to what healing could reclaim.
The venom had already taken hold. The nerves had died.
The arm would never be the same.
Jokovik did not complain. He merely watched the darkness, eyes sharper than ever, as if refusing to surrender anything else.
---
Itoyea sat apart from the others, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. His breathing was measured, disciplined, but the tremor in his shoulders betrayed the strain he refused to acknowledge.
His leg had begun to hurt again.
An old injury, never fully healed, now awakened by two days of relentless combat. He had expended nearly all his Spiritual Sea and fought until the skin of his palms split open, until blood slicked the hilt of his sword and turned every grip into a test of endurance.
Of all five of them, he had killed the most bats.
Not out of glory.
Out of necessity.
Each strike had been another second purchased for the others to live.
---
Nuelle's condition was the most quietly alarming.
She had lost so much blood that her complexion had turned ashen, her lips drained of color. Even sitting upright required visible effort. Dark veins crept faintly beneath her skin — a sign of the venom working its slow, patient way through her system.
The Night-Shrill Covet Blood Bats were infamous for this.
Their poison coated wings, claws, and fangs alike. A single scratch could fester into paralysis. A deep wound could stop a heart.
And yet she had continued to lead.
Even now, her eyes moved constantly, scanning, measuring, calculating distances and threats that were no longer present.
Habit was the last defense against collapse.
---
And then there was Itekan.
Physically, he was untouched.
His Shadow Spirit granted accelerated healing and rapid Spiritual Energy recovery. Cuts closed before they could deepen. Bruises faded before they could bloom. His reserves refilled faster than he could deplete them.
To an outside observer, he might have appeared the least affected.
But his damage ran deeper.
The mental strain had accumulated far more heavily on him than anyone else.
He had been the anchor.
The only reason they had lasted two days.
He had rotated roles endlessly — healer, attacker, shield, decoy — moving wherever pressure mounted, reinforcing whoever began to falter. Continuous group healing. Continuous attacks. Continuous self-recovery. Continuous awareness of every heartbeat around him.
It had not broken his body.
It had burned his mind.
Thoughts came slower now, as though forced through thick fog. The silence after battle did not soothe him; it pressed inward, amplifying the echoes of every decision he had made and every mistake he might have overlooked.
Of all five, he had used the most heavy SE-draining abilities.
And though his reserves refilled, the cost lingered somewhere deeper — in the spaces between thoughts, in the weight behind his eyes.
---
Night settled around them like a held breath.
No one spoke.
Recovery, in such moments, was a solitary act.
Then—
Itekan and Nuelle sat upright at the same instant.
The movement was sharp. Instinctive.
The others tensed immediately. They trusted those two senses more than their own. Itekan's shadow tendrils extended his perception far beyond sight. Nuelle's hearing reached nearly two hundred meters, able to isolate a single footfall beneath layers of ambient noise.
For something to slip through their awareness until it was this close—
That meant they were truly exhausted.
Itoyea forced himself to his feet, knees buckling before he steadied. He reached for his sword and took stance. Bukanami rose as well, slower, but no less resolute.
Jokovik did not move far, but his eyes sharpened, and the faint hum of his tech signaled readiness.
If it was another horde—
They would not survive it.
—Crack.
Branches snapping.
The sound was unmistakable.
Itekan reacted first. Shadow tendrils shot toward the bushes, slicing through undergrowth in a silent arc—
And then—
Kutote stumbled out from behind them.
Behind him came Cheim Nell, a heavily injured Illiopo Sengares, and Konacho Ojoche.
All of them looked as battered as Itekan's group — clothes torn, armor fractured, faces drawn with fatigue and something heavier than exhaustion.
For a brief, fragile moment, relief washed through Itekan.
"Kutote…" he breathed, the word escaping before he could stop it. He had imagined something monstrous emerging from the brush — something that would demand the last of what they had left.
Seeing a familiar face felt like waking from a nightmare into a lesser one.
"It seems we're not the only ones having it rough," Itoyea muttered, tension easing by a fraction. His grip on his sword loosened, though he did not sheath it.
Kutote did not smile.
He did not look relieved.
He looked grim.
"They're here."
Two words.
Nothing more.
But Itekan and Itoyea understood immediately.
Their expressions darkened, relief evaporating as quickly as it had come.
"Are you certain?" Itekan asked quietly.
Kutote nodded once. "Senior Korimer is facing them right now. He was outnumbered… and they all looked strong. I doubt he'll last long."
Silence fell again — heavier this time.
"Then this tournament has gone far beyond its scope," Itekan said. His voice was steady, but something in it had hardened. "This isn't normal anymore."
"Wake up," Konacho snapped, her voice cutting through the air. "Senior Korimer might already be dead. Illiopo's barely holding on, Jokovik's out of commission, and the rest of us look like hell — because we are."
Her gaze swept over them, unflinching.
"There's no help coming. They would've stopped the tournament otherwise. Whatever this is… we handle it ourselves."
Cheim Nell nodded in grim agreement.
Bukanami's expression hardened, resolve settling where fatigue had been.
"She's right," Nuelle said calmly. "We're alone in here."
Then she added, with quiet precision, "Unlike you two, I couldn't decode the situation from just 'they're here.' If we're making a plan, I need details."
Kutote looked at Itekan and Itoyea.
They nodded.
With a slow breath, he began.
---
At the extreme end of the dungeon, near the boundary of the Red Zone, a small tear split the barrier separating it from the outside world.
On the dungeon side stood five trainees.
Each wore a different academy uniform.
All of them were female.
The tear widened as a dagger sliced through it.
It was no ordinary weapon. Imbued with Authority, it ignored standard SE-conditioned defenses and parted the barrier like fabric drawn across a blade.
From the widening breach emerged ten women dressed in assassin attire, each wearing a distinct animal mask. They rode in on black horses, leading five more by the reins.
"Well done, sisters. The King will not forget your service."
The one in front spoke. She wore a she-wolf mask.
Clearly the leader.
The five trainees bowed deeply.
"Yes. This was the personal force of King Quinnson Guel."
"The Night Wolvresses."
"It is an honor to serve His Majesty," the trainee who wielded the dagger said, speaking for the group. "My sisters share this belief."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
All five answered in unison.
"Good. Vis — give them their masks. We have more work to do."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The one called Vis wore an orangutan mask marked with black stripes along its cheeks. She handed each trainee a mask.
They put them on without hesitation.
One was from Rangers Academy — Shia.
She received a Perugean falcon mask.
Two were from Hero Academy — Nista and Verrialle.
They were given tortoise and antler masks.
One was from Blooms Academy — Elizia.
She received a parrot mask.
And the last—
From Four Stars Academy.
Her name was Candace Laīde.
She was given a red fox mask.
---
Spiritual Energy (SE)
Spiritual Sea (SS)
Spiritual Signature (SST)