They did not enter in haste.
No breath was held too tightly. No jaws clenched as if bracing for death.
The five of them stood before the old processing corridor with postures already shaped by habit. Not rigid. Not relaxed. Not trying to look ready.
They were ready.
Their footing was uneven but stable. Their weight rested neither fully on heels nor toes. Hands did not grip weapons too tightly. No one glanced excessively around. No one waited for a verbal signal.
Neat. Functional.
The assistant by the stone door paused a second longer than usual. His gaze swept over the five without expression.
Then his hand dropped.
The stone door slid open.
The grinding sound was the same as before. Heavy. Ancient. Unaffected by who would enter or leave. As if the corridor itself did not care whether the humans before it intended to survive or die.
The smell was the same as well.
The smell of remains. The smell of something that once lived, was destroyed, then forced into a larger system.
None of them reacted excessively.
No one grimaced. No one covered their nose. No one took a deep breath to display mental resilience.
They entered.
One by one. No one rushed ahead. No one waited too long. The spacing between them remained consistent. Not tight. Not loose.
The stone door closed behind them.
Clive watched from a distance.
He did not see faces. He saw movement.
Their steps were not uniform, but they were coordinated. No single person clearly led from the front. Positions shifted naturally as the corridor narrowed. The one in front slid slightly aside. Those in the middle held distance. The last never truly lagged behind.
They did not try to look strong.
They looked prepared.
The first corridor swallowed the light.
Inside, they stopped almost simultaneously.
Not because of a hand signal. Not because of an order.
Their steps halted because of shared rhythm.
Silence.
No small sounds. No scraping claws. No hurried movement from the darkness.
One of them, a medium-built man with short-cropped hair, tapped the pommel of his sword against the stone.
Once. Softly.
Not a call. Not a challenge.
There was no response.
They moved again.
The first corridor was narrow. The floor slick with old layers that never truly dried. Impact marks were visible along the walls. Scratches. Blood stains long darkened and fused into the stone.
A broken sword still jutted from the wall. The same as before. As if deliberately left as part of the corridor.
One of them glanced at it briefly.
He did not stop. He did not touch it.
He did not read it as a warning.
He read it as data.
The first chamber opened.
The piles of remains were still there. Bones. Hardened skin. Old fragments that had lost their original shapes. Small shadows moved faintly behind the heaps.
Small monsters.
They did not attack. They did not move.
One creature stood atop a mound of bones, positioned almost exactly as it had been the day before. Its eyes reflected the torchlight with a dull gleam, not fully alive.
The group did not spread out immediately.
They also did not advance.
They stood.
Waiting.
Not for the monsters.
Waiting for the room's response.
One of them nudged a small stone with the tip of his boot. The motion was light. Measured. The stone slid to the right, toward a narrow side passage.
The sound was not loud.
But it was enough.
One small creature moved.
Not toward them.
Toward the stone.
It stopped. Turned its head. Emitted a short sound, not fully aggressive.
Two other creatures moved as well. One climbed to a higher position. Another disappeared into a side corridor on the left.
A dark corner.
"Dark corner left open," one of them murmured.
His voice was low. Calm.
"Leave it," another replied. "If we close it, they'll relocate."
No prolonged discussion.
They moved across the space.
Not straight forward.
Diagonal.
One step forward. Half a step back. Two to the left. One pause.
Their rhythm was not symmetrical. Not easy to predict. It offered no pattern that could be learned quickly.
The first monster attacked from above.
One of them was already positioned there before the strike began. His shoulder slammed the small body into the wall. A short cut followed.
Not clean. Not elegant. Effective.
The small body dropped without a loud sound.
No shouts. No cheers.
Another creature moved toward the deliberately left-open dark corner.
Two members did not pursue.
One stepped forward. Took space. Closed the path.
Another held position.
The creature hesitated.
And hesitation was a mistake.
A quick thrust. Pull. Withdraw.
The position closed again.
The monsters began to move more frequently now. Still separated. Still trying to read.
The group did not give them time.
They did not try to kill everything.
They guided.
Footsteps were made deliberately louder on one side. Metal scraped against stone on the other. Small sounds were created with intent.
The small monsters ran toward narrow areas.
Corridors barely wide enough for one body.
There, they were stopped.
Not ambushed.
Stopped.
Short impact. Minimal blood. Bodies dragged back into shadow.
One member advanced too far.
"Don't," another said.
One word.
Not shouted. Not barked.
He stopped.
No argument. No explanation.
He stepped back half a pace.
Formation restored.
They did not need to agree.
They needed to move.
Time passed.
It did not feel fast. It did not feel slow.
Clive watched from outside.
He did not know how many minutes had passed, but he knew one thing.
This group was made of competent people.
Not geniuses. Not heroes.
People who knew when to press and when to stop.
The larger monster finally appeared.
Its body was low. Its skin thick. Its jaw too large for its head. In its hand, a fragment of an old, dulled sword.
It did not swing.
It threw.
The fragment flew at an odd angle.
One of them had already anticipated it. He stepped back half a pace, creating space. The fragment struck stone and ricocheted, losing momentum.
The monster did not advance.
It waited.
One of them moved to the left side. Not to attack. To close an angle.
A small monster tried to slip behind them.
The rearmost was already ready.
Quick thrust. Pull. Withdraw.
No pursuit.
They were growing tired.
It showed.
Breaths shortened. Movements slowed slightly. Hands began to tremble, but direction stayed true.
One of them raised a hand.
A small signal.
The others nodded.
No discussion.
They began to withdraw.
Not running. Not panicking.
The monsters followed.
Not chasing.
Escorting.
Maintaining distance.
The same as before.
But this time, the group knew.
They stopped once more, just before the first corridor.
A small creature sat in the corner of the passage.
Sitting.
Its head tilted.
Its eyes observed.
The group did not stop long.
One of them tapped the stone again.
Once. Softly.
The creature stood.
But it did not attack.
It retreated.
They exited.
The stone door opened.
Light touched their faces.
They did not immediately collapse.
They stood.
Breathing.
The assistant recorded.
Raimon glanced at the slate.
"Duration."
"Fifty-two minutes."
Raimon nodded.
"Report."
"Five participants. No serious injuries. Adaptation consistent. No panic."
He paused.
"Efficiency seventy-three percent."
No reaction.
No praise.
The number was recorded.
Clive saw the slate.
Seventy-three.
He did not frown. He did not smile.
He logged it in his mind.
The way a system logs humans.
Sixty-two.
A difference of eleven.
*******
Night fell without announcement.
No bell.
No loudly declared schedule change.
Only an additional layer of guards.
Only torches left burning longer than usual.
Clive noticed it as he crossed the stone courtyard.
Footsteps were heavier.
Spacing between guards tighter.
No casual conversation.
The system was preparing.
In a chamber never entered by recruits, Raimon stood before a large stone board. Its surface was already filled with old carvings. Names. Numbers. Lines never explained openly.
New markings were being added.
Not hurried.
Not ceremonial.
An assistant carved slowly. Each scrape echoed clearly in the quiet room.
Raimon watched without expression.
"Both groups are beginning to understand the space," he said.
"No one is fighting to prove themselves anymore."
Odvan crossed his arms. "That means they're starting to survive."
Sendley glanced at the board. Two columns of numbers stood side by side.
Sixty-two.
Seventy-three.
The stone door at the side of the chamber opened.
Footsteps approached.
Not fast.
Not heavy.
Warden Zago entered without announcement.
His face was covered in old scars. None symmetrical. None resembling trophies. They were the result of decisions not always correct, but still made.
He stood before the board.
Studied the numbers.
"Eleven," he murmured.
No one asked what he meant.
Zago extended his hand.
An assistant handed him a small stone box. The lid was opened.
Inside, several small cores lay arranged. Dull in color. Not glowing. Not eye-catching to the untrained eye.
Zago picked one up.
Closed his fist around it.
"Because of this," he said, "tomorrow will no longer be the same."
Raimon lifted his gaze. "Does the Warden intend for them to learn first stage of Coreforge?"
"Yes," Zago replied. "But not as a reward."
He placed the core back.
"This is bait."
Odvan did not respond immediately. "How many monsters must be killed?" he finally asked.
Zago nodded. "Minimum one hundred."
Sendley frowned. "That will force them to take risks."
"Good," Zago said.
Raimon stared at the cores longer. "Some monsters possess cores."
"Yes," Zago answered. "And we will not tell them which."
Silence.
"Morning training will be replaced," Zago continued.
"Rations will be increased."
He smiled faintly.
"I want to see who truly learns."
Morning arrived without any change in sound.
No loud announcement.
No trumpets.
Only Raimon's footsteps echoed across the stone yard.
Clive was already standing before being called. Not from anxiety. Because he could not sleep.
Numbers kept spinning in his head.
Sixty-two.
Seventy-three.
He was not thinking about who was better.
He was thinking about why.
Raimon stopped at equal distance between the two remaining groups.
Nine people.
Four on one side.
Five on the other.
There was no official dividing line. But the separation was clear. Like two different outcomes from the same process.
No preface.
No opening words meant to warm the air.
"From now on," Raimon said, "priorities will change."
Some heads lifted. Not all.
"Efficiency," he continued, "and a group's ability to reach targets."
He paused. Not for drama. To ensure everyone heard.
"Training. Food. Methods."
His tone remained flat.
"All will be determined by that."
No immediate reactions.
Those who had survived this far had learned one thing. Quick reactions rarely brought advantage.
Raimon shifted his gaze to the five-person group.
"You lasted fifty-two minutes."
No praise.
"You achieved seventy-three percent efficiency."
The number was left standing alone.
Then he turned to Clive's group.
"Sixty-two percent."
No word like failure.
No word like poor.
The number was enough.
Clive stared straight ahead. His shoulders relaxed. No readable expression crossed his face.
Inside his mind, he began recalculating.
Number of people.
Duration.
Monster patterns.
Decision to exit.
Raimon continued.
"Per Warden Zago's instruction," he said, "we will introduce a new method."
Some eyes widened.
"First-level Coreforge."
The words were not spoken with emphasis. But the effect was immediate.
Some swallowed.
Others frowned.
Clive did not react physically.
He stored the word.
Coreforge.
"This method will replace morning training," Raimon continued.
He paused.
"And your food will be improved."
Some breathing rhythms changed.
"But this method is not given freely."
Silence.
"Target: one hundred monsters."
This time, several faces could not hide their reactions.
"For those who reach it," Raimon continued, "access to Coreforge will be granted."
He lifted his hand slightly.
"Additional information."
All eyes focused on him.
"Some monsters in the processing corridors possess cores."
The word hung in the air.
Core.
Something never mentioned before. Something that suddenly changed how every past fight was viewed.
Clive felt the shift clearly.
If monsters had cores.
Then every decision to retreat.
Every choice not to pursue.
Every dark corner left open.
All of it now carried a price.
Raimon lowered his hand.
"The rules remain the same," he said.
"You decide."
He turned away.
His footsteps receded, followed by Sendley and Odvan.
No dismissal order was given.
None was needed.
The five-person group did not immediately gather. They exchanged brief looks. A small nod. No smiles.
They were already calculating.
Clive's group remained silent longer.
Clive slowly sat down.
Coreforge.
One hundred monsters.
Some monsters have cores.
He closed his eyes.
Replayed previous battles.
Small monsters left alive.
Dark corners left unchecked.
The decision to exit early.
With this new information, everything changed.
Not wrong.
Expensive.
We can't fight like yesterday anymore, he thought.
He began calculating differently.
Not how long they could survive.
But how many had to die.
And who would take the risks.
He opened his eyes.
Looked at the three others in his group.
They were alive.
Still intact.
For now.
Training.
The word had always meant survival.
Learning.
Not dying.
Now it meant something else.
Now it meant selection.
Selection of who was cold enough to choose targets.
Who was cruel enough not to stop at a safe number.
And who would be left behind for being too careful.
In the deepest chamber, Warden Zago stood alone.
He stared at the cores on the stone table.
His hand paused over one with a slightly different crack.
"Coreforge," he murmured.
He smiled faintly.
He extinguished the torch.
Darkness swallowed the room.