At last, the battered army reached the end of the corridor, arriving at a vast half-circular platform that spread before them like a sanctuary carved from the ancient floor. The platform was enormous, its polished surface reflecting the dim flickers of light from the cracked overhead panels. Its sheer scale dwarfed even the largest of the draconic warriors, giving a fleeting sense of awe amid the exhaustion and carnage.
The platform was divided into two halves. The upper half, still part of the floor they had fought across while the lower half extended into the floor below. Between the two halves stretched the narrow corridor where the towering gates stood, the threshold to the unknown below.
Despite the confusion of how it worked, one thing was immediately clear. The moment the draconic warriors set foot onto the platform, the relentless tide of insects stopped. Those that had pressed forward in uncountable waves now skidded to a halt, hesitating at an invisible boundary. No claw, no mandible, no screeching creature could cross the threshold of the platform. The survivors instinctively sensed it, a protective dome, unseen yet unbreakable, that formed a buffer around the gates and the platform itself.
Silence fell, broken only by ragged breathing and the occasional shuffle of exhausted feet. The once-chaotic battlefield had been reduced to a calm expanse, the horde frozen beyond the invisible line.
The survivors stood gathering their breath on the half-circular platform, and gradually the truth settled into their minds. They were safe. For now, at least.
The platform's design had become familiar to every warrior who had lived through a descent: the first half belonged to the current floor, and the towering gates marked the line between the two halves. To reach the next floor, they needed only to open the gates. Once opened, a strange bluish portal would form in the center, swirling with shifting light and unstable ripples. It never stayed open for long. The moment the portal appeared, every surviving warrior had to rush inside before it vanished. If even one lagged behind, that warrior would remain trapped on the same floor forever.
No one truly understood the full mechanics of the system. They only knew what countless descents had taught their people: no portal had ever returned once closing, and no warrior or ally who failed to pass through had ever emerged again. Those lost in earlier floors remained lost, their fates unknown, their names remembered only in fading shouts during the chaos of battle. Not one of them had ever come back to the surface.
Another rule was burned into their collective memory: anyone who tried to re-enter an active portal after reaching the next floor would be immediately transported all the way back to the surface above. Because of this, every warrior knew it was impossible to escape to a previous floor once someone had already descended. The path only moved forward, never back.
Kryd'or stepped toward the massive gates, the faint blue glow of dormant ancient symbols reflecting off his blood-stained scales. The army behind him watched in silence, their bodies trembling from exhaustion, yet their eyes were locked onto the only method of escape this floor offered.
The towering gates remained shut, their massive slabs sealed tightly together. But soon, once activated, they would part open and reveal the portal that would decide who lived long enough to see the 27th floor.
Kryd'or rested a hand on the cold, metallic surface of the gate.
But he did not push it open. Not yet. He slowly withdrew his hand and turned to face the battered army behind him. Their eyes were tired, hollow, and bloodshot as they waited for his next command. The insects remained frozen beyond the invisible barrier, unable to cross, but the window of safety was only temporary. They had work to do.
Kryd'or raised his voice, firm and steady despite his exhaustion.
"We're not opening this gate yet."
A ripple of confusion passed through the survivors. Some stiffened, others exchanged weary glances. A few instinctively looked back toward the piles of bodies and shattered armor scattered across the corridor behind them.
A blue-scaled captain stepped forward, her voice low but urgent.
"Commander… you want to go back out there?"
"Yes."
Kryd'or nodded, unflinching.
"We lost too many. We cannot afford to leave everything behind."
He pointed toward the battlefield they had just carved through. A nightmarish trail of corpses, broken equipment, scattered weapons, and, somewhere out there, fallen comrades whose remains deserved to be taken home.
"We will form a recovery team," he continued.
"Only those who can still fight properly. You will tear open a path through the horde again and gather what we can. Bodies, weapons, armor, and anything else worth salvaging."
Murmurs rose, a blend of reluctance and grim acceptance. They all knew he was right. Their people had limited resources on the surface. Every weapon mattered. Every armor plate mattered. Every fallen comrade deserved to be returned, even if only for their families to mourn properly.
A green-scaled warrior stepped forward, gripping his bloodstained spear.
"Kryd'or… if we go back out, some of us won't return."
Kryd'or met his gaze without wavering.
"That may happen. But leaving everything behind guarantees a greater loss."
Silence fell again as the survivors absorbed his words.
The blue captain drew in a deep breath and nodded firmly.
"Understood. I'll gather the most capable fighters amongst our legion."
A red-scaled lieutenant stepped beside her.
"And I'll pick from our legion who still have the strength to push forward."
A brown-scaled veteran added,
"We'll handle carrying the equipment and the fallen."
Kryd'or gave a solemn nod.
"We move fast. We recover what we can. And we return the moment the insects tighten their formation again. Do not get surrounded. Do not get greedy."
He lifted his voice once more so every warrior could hear him.
"This is our chance to minimize our losses. Take it."
The selected fighters, worn and scarred but still standing, stepped forward and formed a small, determined unit. The rest remained on the platform, watching silently as their comrades prepared to step back into the tide of insects.
Kryd'or turned toward the boundary, the shimmering line that kept the swarm at bay.
"Open a path," he commanded.
"We reclaim what we can."
And with a final collective breath, the recovery team crossed the invisible barrier and re-entered the raging battlefield.
...
The moment the recovery team stepped back into the tide, the remaining survivors on the platform let out the breaths they had been holding. Their bodies were trembling, their armor cracked and dented, their scales scraped raw. Now that they were inside the protective zone, the tension pressing on their chests finally loosened, replaced by a familiar, bitter heaviness.
The wounded collapsed where they stood, some dropping to one knee, others lying flat on the metallic floor. Those still capable of moving began tending to their comrades. They tore strips of cloth from ruined armor to wrap bleeding wounds, used heated blades to cauterize deep gashes, and shared the few remaining medicines they had managed to carry from the surface.
Grunts of pain echoed across the platform, followed by murmured reassurances from those treating them.
"Hold on. You'll be fine."
"Stay awake. Don't close your eyes yet."
"Breathe, just breathe."
Beside them, the less wounded dracs gathered shattered armor pieces, broken weapons, and still-usable equipment, sorting them into neat piles. They moved with deliberate care, their hands steady even as their eyes betrayed exhaustion.
On the far side of the platform, the company leaders huddled together, tallying their numbers. Small slates, coated in dust and blood, were filled with rough counts.
"Brakkan… seventy-two left."
"Urdu… fifty-nine."
"Serpar… eighty-three…"
"Drakon… one hundred and twelve."
Every lost life weighed heavily on them.
Veila, the blue draconic woman and commander of the Serpar legion, wiped streaks of dried green insect blood from her cheek. Her armor, once bright, was now dulled by scratches and smeared red stains. Her expression remained hard, but her eyes carried a deep exhaustion. She glanced toward the Brakkan legion's new commander, who stood a short distance away.
The green leader, barely two meters tall, held his spear tightly, staring quietly at the slate showing his legion's count. He was young, the same age as Veila, but the hardened look on his face belonged to someone who had lived decades of battle in a single day. His mentor, the previous Brakkan legion commander, had died protecting him during the descent into this cursed floor. The memory clung to his shoulders like a weight he could not shake.
Near them stood the Urdu legion commander, chubby, broad-shouldered, and only about Veila's height. His armor straps strained slightly against his round belly, yet he carried himself with a mixture of fatigue and solid resolve. Despite his appearance, he was known for surviving situations many declared hopeless. His practical mind kept the Urdu legion intact far longer than anyone ever expected.
As the recovery team finally returned, dragging the bodies of fallen comrades wrapped in makeshift cloth, carrying salvaged weapons, and securing bundles of armor, the atmosphere on the platform grew heavier but calmer. They had done what they could.
With the battered remnants of the four legions now together again, Kryd'or called for a gathering.
The four commanders, Kryd'or of the Drakon, Veila of the Serpar, the new Brakkan commander, and the stout Urdu commander, moved to the center of the platform.
They formed a tight circle, standing in the shadow of the towering gates.
...
Kryd'or broke the silence first.
"What's the tally?"
His voice was hard, sharp, and unhesitant.
"I want the exact head count of who's still standing."
Veila answered without delay.
"Three hundred seventy," she said.
"That includes the four of us and the volunteers from the recovery team."
Barduk gave a short, low chuckle.
"Well, that's god's grace already," he said.
"Hundreds of us still breathing after all that? I'll take it."
"There is no god," Miel muttered, his tone cold and clipped.
Kryd'or shot him a look to steady the mood.
"Stay focused. We're not done yet," he said. He shifted his attention to Miel.
"Your legion handles reconnaissance better than any of ours. Did you find anything on why the floor was breached in the first place?"
Miel gave a stiff nod.
"One of my groups reported an unusual dent on the upper north side of the floor," he said.
"Nothing too significant at first. Then the situation turned worse immediately. An earthquake hit, so sudden none of us had time to react. Before we could identify the cause, a hole as large as the pillars tore open in the ceiling. Insects poured out of it."
Barduk raised a hand, cutting in.
"The tremor we felt back then, maybe that was from the hole ripping open."
Miel's eyes flicked toward him, cold and sharp, but he continued.
"After the tremor, the portal to the twenty-sixth floor vanished. That was when everything began to fall apart."
Veila's eyes narrowed as she listened.
"How could they have broken through so fast?" she asked.
"This floor was only open for a few months, three, maybe four. We watched that dent for weeks. It never looked dangerous. Why did it blow up like that all of a sudden?"
Miel's jaw tightened. He spoke slowly, the chill in his voice sharpening each word.
"The team closest to the dent was shaken by the quake. They were distracted, couldn't get a proper scan or record. All we got were a few garbled warnings before their comms cut out. That usually means they were wiped out."
Kryd'or took a long breath, the sound hollow under the gate's shadow. He kept his face impassive, but his voice held a flat weight.
"I will take the blame for this."
Barduk barked a short, incredulous laugh.
"Haha, you!? Why would you do that, Kryd'or? Everyone did their job. No one slacked off, least of all you!"
Miel's eyes flashed cold. He cut Barduk off with a hard, sharp tone before the other two commanders could react.
"Kryd'or is the lead commander on this descent. If anyone takes responsibility, it falls to him!"
...