Day 3.
The stone board was updated without a sound.
There was no ceremony. No call to gather. No names read aloud. The marks appeared while everyone had already returned to work, while bodies were moving on autopilot and minds were busy maintaining rhythm so they would not collapse.
Clive saw it when he lifted a crate of bones toward the processing room.
His step halted for a fraction of a second. Not long enough to draw reprimand. Not short enough for his body not to notice.
One name had been crossed out.
The mark was not clean. The line was deep and rough, as if the chisel had been pressed too hard or too fast. It was not the name of someone close to him. But the face remained in his memory. A man with a scar on his chin. He had stood two people to Clive's right during their first training session with Sendley.
Now, someone else filled that space.
No one asked where he had gone.
They learned quickly that asking only added weight to the mind. And weight in the mind was always more dangerous than weight in the hands.
Day 3 passed without feeling like a day.
The body worked before the mind fully woke. Hands moved without discussion. Muscles resisted at first, then gave in, then worked in silence. The pain did not disappear. It simply stopped screaming.
Ted vomited between tasks.
He moved to the side of the corridor, holding his hair back with one hand, back hunched. His breathing was short and broken. He waited until his stomach stopped contracting before standing again.
No one waited.
No one looked for long.
He lifted the crate again with reddened eyes and a burning throat.
No one laughed.
No one encouraged him.
It was not cruelty.
It was efficiency.
The first week arrived without warning.
Routine hardened like a scab over a wound.
Morning training. Midday labor. Evening training. Sitting at night. Half-conscious sleep. Waking without truly having slept.
The stone board gained more marks.
One.
Then two.
Then another.
One name was erased with a chisel mark so careless it looked like whoever carved it had been too tired to care about neatness.
Clive stopped looking at faces.
He only noted the empty spaces.
His body changed before he realized it.
His breathing grew deeper. Calmer. His swings shortened. His feet no longer shifted without reason. He stopped wasting strength on unnecessary movement.
Sendley rarely touched him.
That was not praise.
It was another sign.
Ted fell more often.
The first week belonged to him falling.
He fell during sword drills. He fell while lifting loads. He fell while cleaning carcasses when his hands shook too violently to hold the knife steady.
Each time, he stood up.
Slower.
Stiffer.
His face tightened not from pain, but from the fierce desire to stop falling.
And that desire made him fall again.
Dorde did not fall less.
He simply stood up faster.
His technique remained messy. His swings rough. His footwork often wrong. But he always stayed upright longer than the others.
When others began lowering their swords half an inch to save strength, Dorde still held his high. His jaw clenched. His eyes empty, like someone who had decided to hear nothing but his own breathing.
Zorilla changed in the opposite way.
His body was still large. His strength still heavy. But he began to hold back.
He stopped his swings before the blade fully dropped. He began returning the sword to its starting position without visible anger at himself. His shoulders lowered. His breath no longer exploded at the end of each movement.
Sendley sometimes stood in front of him longer.
She said nothing.
That was enough to make Zorilla swallow and repeat the motion more carefully.
Second week.
The names being crossed out no longer shocked anyone.
They became missing numbers.
Clive stopped counting days.
He counted breaths.
A more useful measure.
He noticed something in the second week. He no longer waited for full instructions. When Sendley said, "Knees," his body moved before his mind could repeat the word.
His swings were short.
Never full.
Never forced.
He was not the fastest.
Not the strongest.
But he rarely ran out of strength first.
In several sessions, he lasted the second longest.
The first was almost always Dorde.
Ted nearly gave up in the second week.
Not openly.
There was no shouting.
No protest.
He simply slowed down.
His swings lost intent. His steps hesitated. His hands opened and closed again and again, as if wanting to drop the sword but afraid of the consequences.
One afternoon, he fell for the third time in a row.
Sendley did not stop him.
No touch.
No correction.
Ted lay still on the stone floor. His breathing heavy. His eyes fixed on the sword beside him.
For the first time, he did not immediately reach for it.
Several seconds passed.
It felt like a violation.
Ted finally picked up the sword. Stood. Not hurried. Not trying to be correct.
The next swing was bad.
Short.
Unsteady.
But he did not fall.
Sendley walked away.
It was a small turning point.
Almost invisible.
But Clive saw it.
He saw the moment Ted stopped being angry at his own body.
Day 30.
The stone board was updated again.
This time, more names were gone.
Raimon stood before the board. His hands behind his back. His face neutral like the stone walls around him.
"Those whose names were removed," he said, "did not fail."
Several heads lifted.
"They simply did not continue."
He paused.
"You have two choices."
No one moved.
"Leave the First Nest."
Several breaths caught.
"Or serve. Become Nest workers."
Silence.
Clive looked at their faces.
Some were pale.
Some slick with cold sweat.
Some empty.
Not one stepped forward to leave.
One person cried without sound. His shoulders trembled. He lowered his head.
Others immediately knelt.
Raimon nodded.
"Recorded."
There were no insults.
No mockery.
The Nest did not kill them.
It simply decided their lives were useful enough to keep.
That night, Clive sat on the same stone wall. Ted sat beside him. Not too close. Not too far.
"Still throwing up?" Clive asked quietly.
Ted nodded once.
"Less."
That was enough.
On the other side of the room, Dorde leaned against the wall. Zorilla stood, massaging his shoulder.
"You're holding back," Dorde said.
Zorilla snorted. "Not like your stubbornness is increasing."
"We're even."
*******
The freeblade returned before his mission deadline had truly expired.
There were no trumpets. No guards shouting. No orders to gather. Only the sound of heavy footsteps in the long stone corridor, echoing irregularly, mixed with breath held too long.
Clive was lifting a crate of monster hides when the sound reached him.
He stopped for a fraction of a second.
Did not fully turn.
His body kept working, but his attention was drawn to the end of the corridor.
A man emerged from the shadows.
His clothes were torn in several places. Not clean tears. Like fabric that had been yanked apart repeatedly. The skin on his left arm was flayed, wrapped in rough cloth hardened by dried blood. His hair was wet with old sweat. His eyes were sunken, but not empty.
In his hand, a leather pouch.
He walked straight to the recording room.
Did not ask for help.
Did not slow.
Did not look at anyone.
A Nest assistant opened the pouch on the stone table.
A soft thud sounded.
Cores.
Several.
Not enough.
The assistant counted with quick, efficient movements. No sign of disappointment. No change in breathing. His fingers stopped short of the expected number.
He closed the pouch.
Raimon was already standing there.
Hands behind his back. Posture unchanged. Eyes calm.
"Eastern region?" he asked.
"Dry," the freeblade replied. His voice was hoarse, but steady. "Population moved. Two conflicts with other groups. I lost time."
Raimon nodded.
He asked nothing further.
"Quota not met," he said.
The freeblade lowered his head slightly.
Not as a plea.
As acknowledgment.
"Debt recorded," Raimon continued.
He gestured.
A small board was slid onto the table. Numbers were carved. Deep. Uneven. But permanent.
"Next month," Raimon said, "your quota doubles."
The freeblade lifted his head.
For a moment, something shifted in his eyes. Not anger. Not fear. More like recalculation.
"And if I fail again?"
Raimon looked at him for several seconds.
"Your merit points will be reduced."
The freeblade exhaled slowly.
"I understand."
He turned away.
His steps were still heavy. But steady.
Clive watched him walk down the corridor toward the freeblade rest quarters. No one stopped him. No one stared too long.
Several hours later, the second freeblade returned.
The difference was felt even before he appeared.
His steps were steady. Unhurried. Not heavy.
He entered the recording room with his back straight. His clothes were dirty, but intact. No bandages. No blood dripping. His face was calm, like someone who did not need to explain anything.
In his hands, two pouches.
He placed them on the stone table without a sound.
The assistant opened the first.
Cores rolled out. Many. Clean. Consistent in size.
He opened the second.
More.
Raimon observed without speaking.
The assistant finished counting.
He nodded.
"Quota met."
The freeblade did not smile.
"Western region?" Raimon asked.
"Dense," he replied. "But stable. I didn't stay in one place too long."
Raimon gestured.
The board was updated again.
Numbers increased.
Merit points.
"Priority access," Raimon said, "and the right to exchange merit points for second-tier access."
The freeblade inclined his head slightly. A small, professional gesture.
He took back his empty pouches and left.
Two freeblades.
Two outcomes.
No speeches.
No moral lessons.
Just the system functioning.
*******
That night, the Nest's meeting room filled once more.
Not everyone was present.
Only those required.
The old man with the long scar on his cheek stood near the stone table. Just as before. He did not sit.
Sendley stood at the side of the room. Her red hair tied neatly. No weapon in her hands. Her gaze calm, but sharp.
Odvan leaned against the wall. His left arm supported his weight. His right shoulder dipped slightly.
Raimon stood facing the report board.
"The foundation is moving," Raimon said. "Slower than the previous batch. But more stable."
"The remaining names?" the old man asked.
"Fewer," Raimon replied. "But injury rates are down."
Odvan snorted softly. "Because they haven't truly been tested yet."
Sendley raised her gaze.
"Precisely because of that," she said. "They aren't broken."
The old man smiled faintly.
"And the Nest workers?"
"No one left," Raimon answered. "All chose to serve."
"Of course," the old man said. "The outside world offers no second chances."
He turned to Sendley.
"The foundation?"
Sendley was silent for several seconds.
"They stopped pretending to be strong," she said at last. "Some stopped pretending to be clever. Those who remain are starting to be honest."
"Enough?" Odvan asked.
Sendley nodded slightly.
"For the next stage."
Silence fell.
The old man tapped the stone table once.
"Good," he said. "We begin tomorrow."
*******
The next morning, the stone board was not updated.
That alone felt like a warning.
The recruits stood in the training hall. Fewer than before. The space felt larger. Emptier.
Sendley stood before them.
Odvan stood beside her.
This was the first time they stood together in front of the recruits.
Sendley spoke first.
"The foundation is complete."
Several breaths were held.
There were no cheers.
No relief.
"You now know how to stand," she continued. "You know how to hold. You know how to fall without dying."
She looked at them one by one.
"That will no longer be enough."
Odvan stepped forward.
"Starting tomorrow," he said, "technique and physical training are combined."
Several faces tightened.
"You will move while carrying weight. You will fight after exhaustion. You will make decisions when your bodies can no longer be trusted."
He smiled faintly.
"We will see who remains standing when the foundation is tested."
Sendley added one sentence.
"Those who collapse will collapse quickly."
She turned away.
Odvan laughed softly.
"But that is not all."
Raimon stepped forward.
"There is one more thing."
All attention shifted to him.
"Starting this week," he said, "training will no longer take place only in the hall."
Several heads lifted.
Several breaths caught.
"You will go outside."
Silence pressed down.
"Not a mission," he continued. "A life simulation."
He gestured.
An assistant brought in another small stone board.
On it was a roughly carved map.
Corridors.
Tight rooms.
Intersections.
Simple markings.
"Old processing zone," Raimon said. "Inactive. Not cleaned."
Sendley glanced over.
Odvan grinned.
"You will enter in groups," Raimon continued. "Without a fixed schedule. Without a safe order."
He looked at them.
"What you bring in is what you have."
"No outside assistance. No assistants. No pauses."
Ted felt the back of his neck stiffen.
Clive felt something shift in his chest.
Not fear.
Not excitement.
More like the realization that the line had moved.
One person raised a hand.
"What will we face inside?" he asked.
Raimon looked at him.
"Whatever remains," he said. "And whatever you create."
The silence changed.
The air felt thinner.
Sendley spoke last.
"The foundation taught you how to stand," she said. "This will teach you who you step on while standing."
She turned to Odvan.
Odvan nodded.
"And who steps on you in return."
Clive looked down at the stone floor.
He saw the shadow of his own sword.
Ted stood beside him. His breathing steady. His hands no longer trembling.
Dorde grinned faintly, jaw clenched.
Zorilla loosened his shoulders, as if he had finally received the answer he was waiting for.
The stone board behind them stood still.
No new names were crossed out.
Not yet.
Raimon closed the meeting with a single sentence.
"Tomorrow morning," he said, "selection stops being theory. And the Nest begins reclaiming its investment."
The hall doors closed.
Stone met stone, echoing long.