Raimon stood before the formation.
His posture was straight. His hands were clasped behind his back. His face showed nothing except readiness to speak and then leave.
He raised his gaze.
"Second group," he said.
There was no dramatic pause. No emphasis. No tone that suggested personal judgment.
"Efficiency result. Seventy five percent."
The number fell among them like a small stone dropped onto still water. It did not splash. It did not echo. But it sank slowly, leaving ripples that were only felt a few seconds later.
Clive did not move.
Ted released a short, restrained breath, like someone who had only just realized he had been holding it for too long.
Dorde stared straight ahead. His jaw tightened, not from anger, but as if he were holding something inside that he did not want to let escape.
Zorilla did not turn her head. But her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, as though her body reacted first before her mind could form a reason.
Seventy five.
It was not a bad number. It was even high compared to previous days. If this had only been training, the number would have been met with satisfied nods.
But this was not training.
Raimon lowered his gaze briefly, then raised it toward another direction.
"First group," he said. "Glenn's group."
He did not state a number.
There was no need.
He merely nodded toward his assistant.
The assistant stepped forward, carrying a rolled object.
It was not paper.
The material resembled layered, compressed hide. Its color was dark, somewhere between deep brown and dull black, like something that had been exposed to smoke and blood for far too long. The surface was uneven. There were fine scratch marks here and there. Not decorative engravings, but traces of repeated use. The ends were reinforced with thin metal rings, gray in color. Cold. Without shine. On one side of one ring was a small engraved symbol, barely visible. Not the mark of the Nest. Not a symbol of honor. A rigid geometric pattern, unfriendly, as if made for function rather than understanding.
The binding cord was made of coarse, dark fibers. There was no wax seal. No ceremonial ribbon. No sign that the object was meant to be displayed.
The assistant handed it to Glenn.
"First tier Coreforge method," Raimon said. "Four bound copies in one scroll."
Glenn received it with both hands.
For a fraction of a second, his eyes widened. A human reflex he could not hide in time. Then he regained control. His shoulders steadied. His gaze became composed once more.
Raimon continued.
"Starting tomorrow," he said, "your food rations will no longer be limited to dried meat."
Dilos lifted his head. The two others swallowed unconsciously.
"And because you have met the target," Raimon went on, "you are granted one full week of rest."
He paused briefly.
"Use that time to heal your injuries and study the first tier Coreforge method."
There were no congratulations.
No applause.
No statement that they had done something impressive.
Only facts.
Glenn's group reacted quietly, but clearly. Shoulders that had been tense loosened slightly. One of them let out a long breath, like someone who had only just realized he was still alive. Another clenched his fist with a restrained smile.
Dilos, his arm wrapped in cloth, lowered his head briefly. Then he raised it. His eyes shone, not with pride, but with something deeper.
Hope.
Clive saw everything.
He saw the way Glenn stood a little straighter. The way his companions moved closer to one another, more relaxed. The way their bodies no longer braced themselves for the next attack.
On the other side, Clive's group remained silent.
Dorde shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He said nothing. But his eyes flicked toward the scroll. Only for a moment. Long enough for Clive to notice.
Ted let out another breath.
"So close," he murmured.
Not a complaint. More like a calculation made too late.
Zorilla said nothing. Her gaze was sharp. She stared at the scroll in Glenn's hands, and inside her mind, without her realizing it, a thought began to take shape.
That should have been theirs too.
If they had been a little braver.
If they had been a little crueler.
Raimon looked at them one last time, then turned and left without another word.
He left them with results, rewards, and a distance that had just been created.
Glenn's group gathered a short distance away. They sat down and opened the scroll together.
Clive's group could only watch from afar.
There was no rule forbidding them from approaching.
And that was precisely what made the distance feel more real.
*******
They read for a long time.
The scroll was opened slowly, layer by layer. The writing inside was not ordinary black ink, but dark markings that seemed fused into the material of the scroll itself. As if it had not been written, but pressed into the fibers. Rough diagrams filled parts of the pages. Schematics of the human body. Flow paths. Pressure points. Short notes written in brief, cold sentences.
There were no words of encouragement.
No promises of instant power.
Only procedures.
After some time, they closed it.
Silence fell.
Glenn took a breath and spoke first.
"We only have one Core," he said.
There was no questioning tone.
Everyone there already knew.
"And after reading this," he continued, lightly tapping the scroll, "you know what that means."
No one interrupted.
"The Core can only be absorbed by one person," Glenn said.
All eyes turned to the black object in his hand.
The Core was small. Dark. Dense. It did not gleam. It emitted nothing. Yet its presence felt heavy, like something that demanded a decision.
"We vote," Glenn said. "Who absorbs it."
He looked to Dilos first.
"My vote is for Dilos," he said. "Without him, we would not have held the pressure in the final corridor. He was in front. He took the most attacks."
Dilos was startled. He looked at Glenn, then lowered his head.
"Thank you," he said briefly.
It was Dilos's turn.
He lifted his head.
"My vote is for Glenn," he said. "He led us. He made the calls. And he took the Core from that bear monster."
Glenn's eyes widened slightly.
He smiled. Not wide. But enough.
Two votes remained.
The third member spoke first.
"I choose Dilos," he said. "If not for him, we would not have come back."
The fourth member nodded.
"Same," he said. "His wounds were the worst. But he did not retreat."
Three votes.
Dilos won.
Glenn said nothing.
He stared at the Core in his hand for a long time. Too long to be considered normal. But not long enough to be challenged.
Finally, he extended his hand.
"This Core is yours," he said.
His voice was steady.
There was no tremor.
Dilos received it with both hands.
"I will use it as best I can," he said.
Glenn nodded.
No one knew what he felt.
And no one asked.
*******
The next morning, only one group stood before the processing corridor door.
Clive's group.
The corridor felt quieter without Glenn's group. No other footsteps. No whispered conversations beside them.
Ted let out a breath.
"It feels strange," he said.
"Get used to it," Dorde replied. "They rest. We don't."
Zorilla remained silent.
Clive stared at the stone door.
"Inside," he said.
They entered.
*******
Inside the corridor, the monsters did not attack recklessly.
There were no screams. No opening roars.
They waited.
The stone corridor was narrow and long, its rough walls absorbing sound. The torchlight around them reached only a few meters ahead, just enough to reveal rows of dark shapes standing still. Too still. Not restless. Not advancing.
Usually, one or two would charge first. Usually someone was too hungry, too stupid, too quick to die.
Today, no.
They stood close together. Shoulder to shoulder. Claws near one another. Their breathing was soft and uniform, like a single massive lung expanding and contracting as one.
Clive felt the pressure before any of them moved.
Not from numbers.
From intent.
The monsters did not fill the corridor randomly. They formed a line. Larger ones in front. Smaller ones in between. There were no empty gaps that Zorilla could usually exploit to slip through. No individual stepped out of formation.
And behind them, slightly to the side, in an area not directly touched by the torchlight, the small creature stood.
Its body was shorter. Thinner. Almost deformed compared to the others.
It carried no weapon.
It did not attack.
It simply stood there, part of its body hidden behind the backs of the other monsters.
Its mouth moved.
Not a scream.
Not a roar.
The sounds that came out were short. Broken. Like small stones being tapped together. The rhythm was irregular, but layered. There were pauses. There were repetitions.
Clive shuddered.
Not because the sound was loud.
But because the monsters in front of him reacted.
One step forward. Stop.
Two shifted position, sealing the right side.
Those in the back row retreated slightly, making space.
The formation adjusted.
Deliberately.
Clive raised his hand slightly.
"First corridor only," he said.
His voice was low. There was no shouted command. Just a decision.
Ted swallowed. He did not argue.
Dorde nodded faintly.
Zorilla tightened her grip on her sword.
They advanced one step.
The monsters did not charge.
They waited until the distance was close enough.
Then two moved at the same time.
Not to kill.
To press.
Their attacks were not wild. Not excessive. Claws aimed for arms, not necks. Blows pushed, not pierced.
Clive blocked one. Dorde held the other.
As soon as one monster took a deep enough wound, it did not advance further.
It was pulled back.
Two monsters behind it moved forward to replace its position, while the wounded one retreated to the rear of the formation, out of sword range.
Ted froze for a fraction of a second.
He saw it clearly.
"They're pulling it back," he said quietly.
There was no reply.
They retreated.
That day, they did not reach their usual point.
They withdrew earlier than usual.
*******
Second day.
The monsters moved more in sync.
The moment Clive stepped into the corridor, the formation had already changed. The front line was tighter. The distance between bodies smaller. No empty space to slip into.
Two monsters pressed from the front. One stayed behind, waiting.
Every attack came in pairs. No individual charged alone anymore. None were baited by shouting or wounds.
When Zorilla managed to sever the leg of one, the monster was immediately pulled back. Fast. Too fast.
The small creature stood farther back today. A safer position. Its mouth moved more often.
The same tone.
Short. Broken. Layered.
Ted broke out in a cold sweat.
"They're learning," he said.
*******
Third day.
The monsters' formation tightened even further.
They began using the corridor walls. Pressing Clive and Dorde against the rough stone, limiting their movement. There were no gaps to flank. No blind angles.
Zorilla tried to move to the side.
One monster immediately shifted, cutting off her path without even turning its head, as if it already knew where she was going.
Zorilla clenched her teeth.
She did not like this.
*******
Fourth day.
They lasted for a shorter time.
Not because of severe wounds.
Because of exhaustion.
Every step forward demanded greater effort. Every attack was blocked, not countered. The monsters did not pursue, but they gave no room to breathe.
The small creature was now barely visible. Only a moving shadow behind the formation.
But its sound remained.
*******
Fifth day.
The injuries increased.
None were fatal. But there were many small wounds. Too many.
Clive's arm was bruised. Ted's shoulder felt heavy. Dorde had a gash on his thigh. Zorilla's breathing grew shorter.
They retreated without speaking.
*******
Sixth day.
Fewer monsters were killed.
Not because they did not attack.
But because the monsters gave no opportunity to kill.
The moment one reached the edge of death, it was pulled back.
Replaced.
Without pause.
*******
Seventh day.
The corridor felt narrower than before.
The air was heavier.
They held for thirty one minutes.
No more.
When they came out, Dorde's hands were trembling.
Not from cold.
Ted sat on the ground. He did not speak. He did not complain. He simply stared blankly ahead.
Zorilla lowered her head, breathing heavily, sweat dripping to the ground.
Clive stood for a long time without speaking.
He stared at the stone door of the corridor.
*******
The next day, Glenn's group stood at the gate again.
They looked different.
Dilos stood tall. His wounds were gone. His movements were light. There was something in him that had not been there before.
Glenn looked at Clive.
Not challenging.
Not friendly.
Just certain.
Raimon appeared.
"First group," he said.
"Enter."