Nothing changed the next day.
That was the first thing Clive realized when he opened his eyes.
Morning still arrived with the sound of stone shifting and the footsteps of assistants moving in orderly patterns like interlocking gears. The same cold air touched his skin. The same dim light slipped through the gaps of the corridors. There was no pause. No adjustment. No sign that something from yesterday had fused with the processing corridors.
Physical training began at the same time.
Odvan stood in his place, broad-shouldered, expressionless. His voice was flat as he gave commands. The same tone. The same rhythm. As if the bodies that had been lost were nothing more than numbers moved from one column to another.
The Nest did not stop breathing just because some people died.
Clive stood in formation as usual.
His body still felt heavy. His muscles were stiff, not fully recovered from the previous day. Every movement pulled at lingering pain. But the pain was familiar. Acceptable. Even slightly comforting.
Pain always had a reason.
Unlike other things.
There was a gap in the line.
Not a large hole. Not obvious. But enough to be felt. Like a missing note in a rhythm. Like a step that should have been heard, but never came.
Some people who had stood there yesterday were gone today.
No one replaced them.
Training continued without interruption.
Swords were raised. Bodies moved. Commands were received and executed. No one asked why the line was shorter. No one stared too long at the empty spaces. Everyone's eyes faced forward.
Clive followed the rhythm.
He had always been good at that.
When training ended, they returned to the resting chamber.
The room looked the same as before. Cold stone walls. Long benches worn smooth by time. The smell of old sweat that never truly disappeared. There was no sign that the room had ever witnessed anyone's death.
Clive sat in his place.
Ted sat beside him, as usual.
Zorilla chose to stand, leaning against the wall. His arms were folded. His posture looked relaxed, but not truly at ease. Dorde sat a little farther away, cleaning his sword with a frayed cloth, his movements slow and repetitive.
Several spaces were empty.
Places that had been occupied by others yesterday.
No one sat there. No one stood there. No one consciously avoided them, but no one claimed them either.
As if those places were not done losing their owners.
No names were spoken.
No one said anything about the old corridor. About processing. About efficiency.
Stan's name did not come up.
Clive realized something that made his chest feel strange.
He had to think harder than he should have to clearly remember Stan's face.
Not because much time had passed. Only one night.
But because his mind had begun to archive.
To simplify.
To turn a person into part of a process.
He swallowed and stared at the stone floor.
Ted shifted slightly beside him. His shoulder moved. His breathing sounded deeper than usual. There was tension there, thin but real.
Several seconds passed in silence.
"Clive."
Ted's voice was low. Almost hesitant.
Clive turned.
Ted was not looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the stone floor, on a small crack that had been there for a long time.
"If that were me," Ted said quietly. "Would you have done the same?"
The question was not thrown carelessly.
Clive knew that.
He did not answer immediately.
Not because he did not know the answer.
But because every possible answer would become something else. A promise. A justification. Or a lie neat enough to be accepted.
Clive chose silence.
Seconds passed.
Zorilla watched from the corner of his eye. He did not move. Did not interfere. His face remained flat, but his shoulders tightened slightly.
Dorde stopped wiping his sword. His hand froze in the air. He glanced briefly, then lowered his gaze and continued his work without a sound.
Ted finally let out a quiet breath.
He smiled faintly. Not a happy smile. Not a bitter one. More like the body's response to accepting something it had already expected.
"Yes," he murmured, more to himself. "I thought so."
He did not demand an answer.
He had already received it.
Clive remained silent.
That silence felt heavier than any wound he had carried out of the corridor.
*******
Deep within the Nest, in a chamber the recruits never saw, stone boards were arranged neatly.
The light there did not come from torches. There was no visible source. The stone reflected a soft, steady glow, enough to read the carvings without casting long shadows.
Raimon stood at the center of the room.
Assistants stood around him, each holding a small board with notes that were constantly being updated.
There were no chairs.
There was no need to sit.
"Report on the old processing," Raimon said.
One assistant stepped forward.
"First group. Five entered. Three exited."
He did not mention names.
"Two casualties. Initial reaction stable. No significant panic. Efficiency forty percent."
Another assistant continued.
"Second group. Five entered. Two exited. One experienced severe trauma. One was nonresponsive for thirty seconds after exit."
He paused briefly.
"Efficiency twenty three percent."
Raimon nodded.
"Third group."
No assistant spoke immediately.
Several seconds passed before one stepped forward.
"No exits," he said flatly. "Sound patterns indicate internal conflict before the final subject fell."
Raimon did not react.
"Fourth group."
The next assistant stepped forward.
"Five entered. Four exited."
He shifted the board, revealing additional carvings.
"Subject Stan. Panicked after visual trauma. Duration six seconds before breaking formation."
Another assistant added, "Clive. Did not move for two seconds when formation broke. Held position. Reduced exposure of other members."
Raimon studied the carvings longer.
"Mark Clive as a stable node."
One assistant raised his head.
"Why was no diversion option provided like in previous batches?" he asked. "Failed assets can still be utilized as labor."
Raimon shook his head slowly.
"Laborers do not make decisions," he said. "They only follow orders."
He walked to a larger stone board. The patterns there began to form a more complex structure. Lines, symbols, and spacing understood only by those standing in the room.
"Freeblades must choose," he continued. "And bear those choices."
He stopped before a single mark.
"Those who died yesterday were not failures," he said. "They were investment costs."
No one argued.
No one reacted.
The Nest did not mourn.
It calculated.
*******
In the afternoon, the announcement came without warning.
There was no bell. No dramatic call to gather.
Sendley stood before the recruits. Odvan stood beside him. Their expressions were the same as always.
"Groups one and two will be merged," Sendley said. "Five people."
Several heads lifted.
"Clive's group remains four."
No comments followed.
"Old processing will continue again tomorrow. Every day. Until all monsters are gone."
He paused briefly.
"You may exit at any time after entering."
Some faces showed relief.
Sendley continued before that feeling could grow.
"If you exit before thirty minutes or enter without engaging monsters, the next morning's training will be twice as intense."
Several faces hardened.
"Additional training will not be adjusted to your physical condition," Odvan added. "You adjust."
There were no questions.
No discussion.
"Now," Sendley said. "You will learn to survive as a group."
He looked at them one by one.
"Or die as individuals."
*******
Night fell.
Clive sat with his group.
This time, he spoke first.
"We cannot rely on reactions," he said. "We need to know who does what."
Zorilla nodded. "I can hold. But if I'm surrounded, I need space."
Dorde snorted softly. "I can push forward. But my stamina runs out fast."
"If you push," Clive said, "signal it. Do not make us guess."
Dorde smiled faintly. "If I'm quiet, it means I'm almost dead."
Ted looked at them in turn. "If I know who's covering my back, I can focus."
"You take the left," Clive said. "I take the right. Zorilla center. Dorde slightly behind Zorilla."
No one objected.
They talked about distance. About signals. About retreat.
And finally, about leaving someone behind.
No one was comfortable.
But no one avoided it.
That was where the Nest wanted them.
Thinking.
*******
The next day, they entered old processing room.
Not as punishment.
Not as a special trial.
Just continuation.
The stone corridor opened with the same sound. The same smell. But Clive immediately knew something was different.
Not stronger.
More directed.
As if the stench no longer spread randomly, but flowed.
They stepped inside in the formation they had agreed on.
They did not look at each other.
They did not encourage one another.
Everything that needed to be said had been discussed the night before.
Clive on the right.
Ted on the left.
Zorilla in the center.
Dorde slightly behind Zorilla.
The stone door closed behind them.
Its heavy sound echoed briefly, then vanished.
Darkness swallowed sound.
The first corridor was the same.
Narrow.
Damp.
The stone beneath their feet was slick with an old layer that never truly dried. The broken sword was still embedded in the wall. Finger scratches still marked the stone, long and broken, as if someone had once tried to crawl out.
Nothing had changed.
And precisely because of that, Clive immediately knew something was wrong.
There was no small noise.
No scraping claws.
No hurried movement from the darkness.
This silence was not empty.
It was controlled.
They took several more steps before Clive raised his hand.
Stop.
They stopped in unison. No one needed to look back. Breathing was controlled. Not rushed. Not ragged.
They stood there, waiting for something that should have already come.
It did not.
Ted swallowed.
"Before…" he began quietly, then stopped.
Clive nodded slightly.
Before, they had already been attacked at this point.
Zorilla shifted his footing, widening his stance. Dorde lowered his shoulders, ready to move wherever needed.
Clive did not move.
He watched the walls.
The scratches were still there, but no new ones. No fresh blood. No newly fallen fragments. No new signs of panic.
They moved on.
The first corridor ended in a wider chamber.
The old processing room.
The mound of remains was still there. Bones piled without order. Hardened monster hides still clung to the stone.
But the human corpses were gone.
Not dragged out.
Eaten.
Clive's stomach tightened.
The smaller monsters were still there. Their silhouettes were visible behind the mound. Their eyes reflected torchlight with the same dull sheen as yesterday.
But they did not attack.
They were still.
Watching.
A thin monkey-like creature stood atop the pile of bones. Its mouth was still red. Its chest rose and fell slowly.
It did not leap.
It did not move.
It only stared.
Ted whispered, "They're waiting."
"No," Clive replied quietly. "They're observing."
The difference was small. But decisive.
Zorilla shifted his weight. One small step forward.
The creature turned its head.
It did not retreat.
It did not attack.
It made a short sound. Not a scream. Not a threat. More like a signal.
From behind the mound, something moved.
Not one.
Not two.
Several.
But they did not emerge together.
One small creature moved left, away from the center of the chamber. Another climbed to a higher position. A third disappeared into a narrow corridor on the right.
"Formation spreading," Dorde muttered.
Clive nodded. "They're trying to pull us."
And it worked.
Not because they were foolish.
But because the space was designed to make anyone want to move. The mound blocked vision. The side corridors created blind angles. Silence pressed on the mind.
Ted tightened his grip on his sword.
"Do we advance?"
"Not yet."
Seconds passed.
The creatures held their positions. Not attacking. Not retreating.
Zorilla growled softly. "If we keep standing, they'll—"
One creature leapt.
Not toward them.
Toward the rear corridor.
It ran fast. Deliberately making noise.
The others remained still.
"Do not chase," Clive said quickly.
Dorde restrained himself with effort.
The creature stopped at the corridor's end. Turned. Waited.
Ted realized it first.
"They're baiting one person."
"Yes," Clive said. "And yesterday, it worked."
They stayed still.
The creature waited a few more seconds, then vanished into the darkness.
Silence returned.
Heavier.
Then the attack came.
Not from the front.
From above.
One creature dropped directly behind Zorilla, targeting the small gap in the formation. Zorilla reacted fast. His shoulder slammed into the small body before it could bite.
Dorde swung short.
The creature split apart.
There was no cheering.
No relief.
Because two other creatures immediately moved to the left, toward Ted.
Ted stabbed one. Clean. Precise.
The other did not leap.
It retreated. Creating distance.
A chill ran up Clive's neck.
"They're measuring," he said.
Zorilla nodded. "We're not the only ones thinking."
The next attacks came separated. Not continuous. Not forced.
One from the right.
One from above.
One from the front.
They were not trying to kill.
They were trying to force responses.
Each time Dorde advanced, another creature moved toward Ted. Each time Zorilla held, a small creature vanished and reappeared elsewhere.
The pattern changed every two attacks.
It did not repeat.
This was not an instinctive pack.
This was adaptation.
"Clive," Ted said quickly. "They're not pressing."
"Because they don't need to."
Clive shifted half a step.
The creature on the right shifted as well.
Maintaining the same distance.
A mirror.
Then something emerged from the mound.
A larger creature. Low body. Thick skin. Jaw too large.
In its hand, a sword fragment.
It did not swing.
It threw.
The fragment flew low, aimed at the legs.
Zorilla struck it aside with a short swing, deflecting the metal into the wall.
The creature did not advance.
It waited.
The smaller creatures moved again. Faster. Still separate.
The formation stretched.
Not broken.
Not yet.
Clive felt the illusion of control slowly unravel.
All their plans had been built on the assumption that the monsters would act like yesterday.
They no longer did.
"Out," Clive said.
"Now?" Dorde asked.
"Now."
They retreated in rhythm. Not running. Not panicking.
The creatures followed.
Not chasing.
Escorting.
Maintaining distance. Maintaining pressure.
The first corridor appeared ahead.
And there Clive saw it.
A small creature sat in the corner of the corridor.
Not standing.
Not ready to leap.
Sitting.
Its head tilted slightly. Its eyes followed them.
It did not attack.
It waited.
Clive stopped.
Ted whispered, barely audible, "Why isn't this one—"
"Because it doesn't need to," Clive replied.
Behind them, other shadows moved.
More.
More ordered.
Clive's breath caught.
This was no longer old processing.
This was a nest that was learning.
"Slow," he said.
They stepped back once.
The creature stood.
Clive realized something in this corridor did not only want to kill them.
It wanted to understand them.
The stone door opened.
Torchlight touched their faces.
The creatures stopped exactly at the edge of darkness.
Not one stepped out.
They simply stood there.
Watching.
Remembering.
The door closed again.
Clive stood outside the corridor, breathing hard.
Raimon was there.
Staring at the stone door.
"How many minutes," he asked.
Not to them.
"Thirty seven."
Raimon nodded.
Then said, without turning, "Next group."
The order changed.
There was no old pattern.
Clive stared at the stone door.
He no longer saw it as a training ground.
He saw it as something growing.
And they were inside it.
As part of the process.
As material.
Or as an error that would be corrected.
He did not know yet.
And that was what made it far more dangerous than yesterday.