They waited in front of the old corridor.
The corridor had no name.
There were no signboards. No warning symbols. No carvings to suggest the place had ever been considered important. The stone around it was darker than the rest of the Nest, as if it absorbed torchlight without ever reflecting it back. Light died on its surface. Sank. Disappeared.
The air there felt heavy.
Not from heat.
From the stench.
A smell that did not come from a single source. Not fresh blood. Not new corpses. This was a leftover smell. The smell of something that had once lived, been cut, sorted, chosen, discarded, then eaten again by something else. The smell of a process that never truly ended.
The smell of the Nest.
The first group was called without ceremony.
Five people.
They stood neatly before the corridor, weapons in hand, faces stiff. There were no farewells. No cheers. No last pieces of advice. An assistant merely shifted a stone lever. The door opened with a heavy sound, and darkness swallowed them one by one.
The door closed.
Time passed.
The first few minutes went by without sound.
Then the first noise came.
Not a scream. Not a heavy impact. The sound of fast footsteps on stone. Followed by metal scraping. Ragged breathing. Something falling.
A fight.
The sound did not continue steadily. It appeared, vanished, then appeared again, as if the corridor swallowed noise and only spat out what it deemed necessary.
Clive stood in the third line. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
He was not tense.
He was not relaxed.
He waited.
Ted stood beside him. His jaw was tight, but his breathing was steady. Dorde stood on the other side, his weight leaning forward as if he wanted to step ahead first. Zorilla stood at the back. His shoulders were low. His eyes swept over the corridor door without blinking.
Enough time passed for the sounds to stop.
Footsteps came from within.
The door opened.
Three people emerged.
One limped. One bled from the arm. The third carried three swords that looked wrong. Bent. Blunt. As if they had been forced to strike something harder than bone.
There was no sign the other two would come out.
No one asked.
The assistant wrote something on a small board. His hand moved quickly, efficiently. He did not look at their faces.
"Efficiency: forty percent."
The second group was called.
Five went in.
This time the sounds of fighting came faster. Rougher. More impacts. There was a short scream that cut off abruptly. There was the sound of metal falling and not being picked up again.
When the door opened again, only two came out.
One was supported. The other kept his head down, his hands shaking.
No explanation.
"Efficiency: twenty three percent."
The third group stepped forward after a longer pause, as if the Nest itself was giving whatever was inside time to adjust.
Their fight sounded different.
More intense. Longer. Unbroken.
There were screams. Not one. Not two. Screams overlapping. There was the sound of someone calling a name. There was a sound that resembled laughter, but too short to truly be laughter.
Then everything stopped.
Silence pressed down.
Clive became aware of his own breathing.
Several minutes passed.
No footsteps came out.
The assistant glanced at Raimon.
Raimon nodded.
"Next group," he said flatly. "Zorilla. Ted. Stan. Dorde. Clive."
There was no order to wait.
No additional instructions.
Their names were called like numbers.
They walked toward the corridor door as the stench grew thicker. No longer something that merely bothered the nose. It clung to the tongue. Made saliva taste bitter.
When the stone door opened, the air from inside touched their faces like the breath of a massive creature that had slept too long.
Darkness.
Torches were mounted on the outer wall, but the light did not travel far. Only the first few steps were visible. The rest was swallowed by black.
They stepped inside.
The door closed behind them.
Stone met stone with a heavy echo, then died.
The first corridor was narrow. Narrower than the usual Nest corridors. The walls were damp. The stone underfoot was slick with a thin layer that could not be immediately identified. Water. Fat. Something in between.
The stench here was worse.
Scratches covered the walls. Not one or two. Many. Some shallow. Some deep. Some parallel. Some crossing. Some too high for a small creature.
Clive saw something embedded in the stone.
A sword.
Broken at the middle of the blade.
The hilt remained. The leather was torn. Blood stains had darkened.
No hand held it.
A few steps farther, there was another sign.
Scratches in the stone that were not symmetrical. Five fingers. Spread. Pressed. Then dragged.
Human.
There were no intact bones on the floor. But the corners of the corridor were filled with fragments. Small pieces. Too small to politely call body parts.
Ted swallowed.
Zorilla lowered his shoulders slightly, widening his stance.
Dorde drew a long breath, then released it slowly.
Clive raised his hand.
"Stop."
They stopped.
There was no sound ahead.
Then a small noise came.
Fast.
Claws scraping stone.
Something moved in the darkness.
Clive stepped forward once. His sword held low. Not raised. Not swung.
The first creature leapt from the left.
Small.
Fast.
Its shape resembled a monkey, but its body was too thin. Bones jutted out in places. Its eyes reflected torchlight with a dull sheen. Its mouth was red. Not from fresh blood. From biting too often.
Clive swung short.
The blade touched its neck.
The creature fell without a sound.
More appeared.
Two.
Three.
From above. From wall crevices. From a small side corridor to the right.
They did not attack one by one.
They waited.
One leapt. Failed. Another followed from behind, aiming for the legs.
Zorilla moved.
He did not swing wide. He braced. He shoved one creature with his shoulder, then drove his blade into its body at close range. Bone cracked. The small body slammed into the wall.
Ted stood at Clive's side. His swings were short. Not strong. But precise.
Dorde moved too far forward.
He swung wide. His blade hit one, but his body opened.
Two creatures leapt at once.
Clive moved.
Not fast.
Precise.
He cut one down. Kicked the other away.
"Do not chase," he said shortly.
Dorde pulled back half a step. His jaw tightened.
The creatures retreated.
Not from fear.
From waiting.
The next corridor opened into a wider space.
There, they saw what remained of the third group.
Not whole.
One body lay without a head. Another was only the upper half. There was a hand still gripping a sword hilt, but the blade was gone.
Several monsters stood around the corpses.
One of them resembled a goblin. Its body was denser. Its face flat. In its hand was a dull knife.
A human knife.
Once owned by a human.
It gripped it awkwardly, but firmly enough to wound.
Ted closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Clive raised his sword.
"Stay here," he said. "Do not move alone."
They moved into a circle, guarding each other's backs.
The creatures attacked.
There were more of them.
And from the corner of his eye, Clive saw another figure moving beside him.
Stan.
His face was pale.
His steps were erratic.
He saw the corpses.
He panicked.
He screamed.
And ran.
The formation broke.
The creatures reacted instantly.
They surged into the gap.
Clive felt time compress.
One step forward, or everything collapsed.
He moved.
Stan's scream echoed in the stone chamber like a small stone thrown into a well too deep.
It was not long. Not dramatic. One short, broken sound, followed by hurried footsteps that shattered the group's rhythm.
That was enough.
The creatures moved as if a signal had been given.
Not a unified charge. Not a wave. They spread. Circled. Locked the space.
Clive saw everything in fragments. A foot slipping. Zorilla's shoulder turning to seal the right side. Dorde half advancing, half restraining himself. Ted unmoving, eyes tracking the gaps.
Stan ran toward a narrow corridor on the side of the chamber.
The first mistake.
That corridor was dark. Darker than the main space. The smell there was thicker, older. Like something had lived there for a long time without ever being cleaned.
The first creature chased him from behind.
The second cut in from the side.
The third came from above, leaping from a stone outcropping.
Clive did not move immediately.
He counted.
Two seconds.
If he moved now, the formation would open. Zorilla would have to turn fully. Dorde would advance. Ted would be left behind.
Four against many.
If he moved, they would all die.
Stan stumbled.
He fell heavily. His sword slipped from his grip, slid across the stone floor, and stopped near Clive's foot.
The first creature leapt.
Clive raised his sword.
Not toward the creature.
Toward Ted.
"Do not chase," he said again. Louder.
Ted nodded.
The creature landed on Stan's back. Its teeth sank into his shoulder. The sound of bone not fully breaking came through. More like a wet crack.
Stan screamed again.
The second scream was worse.
Dorde moved half a step.
"Hold," Clive said.
Not in anger.
Zorilla stood like a wall. Two small creatures tried to slip past him. He blocked one with his shoulder, then swung his sword at the other. The cut was not wide. Not elegant. But strong. The creature split open, its entrails spilling onto the stone floor with a wet sound.
Ted stabbed something between Clive and Zorilla. A rat-like creature the size of a puppy. The stab was not deep. But enough.
The creature fell.
Others immediately leapt onto it.
Biting.
Tearing.
They ate the dead.
They did not stop because of blood.
Stan was no longer standing.
He was still alive.
That was clear from the small movements. A hand reaching for something. A leg kicking empty air.
The goblin-shaped creature with the dull knife approached.
It held the knife with both hands. Its movements were stiff. But its intent was clear.
It stabbed.
Not deep.
Stabbed again.
Deeper.
Clive turned his gaze away for a fraction of a second.
Not from disgust.
Because he could not look longer without making another decision.
"Shift left," he said.
They moved.
The space ahead opened into an even deeper chamber.
Larger.
The ceiling higher.
And in the center of it was a mound.
Not stone.
Not earth.
Remains.
Hardened monster hides. Bones piled without order. Dried chunks of meat clinging between them. In some places, bite marks still looked fresh.
A nest.
More creatures emerged from behind the mound.
Not the monkey type.
These were heavier. Low bodies. Short but powerful legs. Thick, uneven skin, like it had been stitched together from different parts.
One had a broken horn on the side of its head.
Another had a jaw too large for its face.
They moved more slowly.
But they did not hesitate.
And they carried something.
Sword fragments.
Short blades.
Bent iron rods.
Remnants of weapons.
Not tools.
But enough to break bones.
The first creature attacked Dorde.
It swung the iron rod at his head.
Dorde blocked.
The impact echoed.
Dorde staggered half a step.
The creature attacked again. Not strong. But without pause.
Zorilla moved to help.
Clive raised his hand.
"Hold."
Zorilla stopped.
The decision felt wrong.
Too cold.
But if Zorilla moved, the right side would open. Two small creatures were already waiting there.
Dorde growled.
He swung.
This time shorter.
More controlled.
His blade pierced the creature's neck.
The creature fell.
Another came.
Ted moved to Clive's left.
His breathing was heavy. But the rhythm remained.
He stabbed a small creature trying to climb Clive's leg.
Clive swung sideways.
Not full.
Not elegant.
Efficient.
One creature fell.
Another retreated.
Then came again.
Their numbers did not drop quickly.
They were not attacking to win.
They were attacking to wear them down.
Cramps began.
Clive felt it in his left calf. A small pull. An early warning.
Zorilla breathed harder.
Dorde bled from the arm.
Ted was drenched in sweat. But his hands did not shake.
The past month of training should have made them better than this.
But the morning's training had drained everything.
Odvan's physical drills combined with Sendley's technique.
Their bodies were empty.
Only the foundation remained.
A creature with a sword fragment leapt at Clive.
Clive shifted his footing.
The fragment struck his shoulder.
Not deep.
But enough to numb his arm for a moment.
Clive did not retreat.
He thrust forward.
The creature was pinned between the blade and the mound of remains.
It writhed.
Another creature leapt onto Clive's back.
Clive kicked backward.
The space tightened.
The sounds around them blurred. Only breathing and impacts remained.
In the middle of the chaos, Clive saw something at the edge of the chamber.
Marks.
Lines carved into the stone.
Not random scratches.
A pattern.
A previous group had held here.
They stood in the same spot.
They were also surrounded.
And they died.
"Move," Clive said.
"We are leaving."
"Not cleared," Dorde said.
"It never will be," Clive replied.
He turned his body.
Opened a narrow path toward the entrance corridor.
Zorilla understood.
He stepped back half a step, then another. Holding the creatures back with his body.
Ted followed Clive without a word.
Dorde hesitated for a fraction of a second.
That almost killed him.
A small creature leapt onto his back.
Clive turned.
He swung.
The creature fell.
"Now," he said.
They moved.
Not running.
Retreating with rhythm.
The creatures pursued.
Not all of them.
Some stopped at the mound of remains.
Guarding.
They reached the first corridor.
The stench returned stronger.
Stan made no sound anymore.
His body was still there.
Not whole.
Ted glanced.
Clive did not.
They exited the corridor.
The stone door opened.
Torchlight touched their faces.
The outside air felt foreign.
Like it did not belong to the same world.
The assistant stood there.
Recording.
Not asking.
Raimon looked at them.
He did not count the dead.
He counted those who came out.
Four.
He nodded.
"Recorded."
There was no evaluation.
No questions.
No explanation.
Clive's group stood outside the corridor.
Heavy breathing.
Blood dripping.
No one sat down.
No one celebrated.
The assistant replaced the small board.
New writing appeared.
Fourth group.
Efficiency: fifty eight percent.
There were no other notes.
No death markers.
No warning signs.
The corridor was then sealed.
Not cleaned.
The creatures inside were still alive.
Still eating.
Still growing.
That night, Clive sat with his back against the stone wall.
Ted sat beside him.
Closer than usual.
They said nothing.
Dorde cleaned the blood from his arm with a dirty cloth.
Zorilla stood, staring at the old corridor now swallowed by darkness.
"Are we going back tomorrow?" Ted finally asked.
Clive did not answer immediately.
He looked at his own hands.
They were still shaking slightly.
Not from fear.
Because his body knew.
"We will know soon," he said.