There were no cheers.
No shouts of victory.
Only heavy, ragged breathing and the smell of blood slowly surfacing as the adrenaline drained from their bodies. The smell of iron. The smell of mud. The smell of something torn apart and impossible to put back together.
Clive sat on a flat stone at the edge of the First Nest chamber. His back rested against the cold, damp stone wall. Its rough surface pressed into his shoulder blades every time he tried to draw a deeper breath than usual.
His chest felt heavy.
Not a sharp pain. More like pressure from within, as if something behind his ribs refused to fully expand.
He tried to stand.
The soles of his feet pressed against the stone floor. His muscles tightened. His knees trembled.
His body swayed.
Clive let out a quiet snort, then sat back down before his legs could fully give out. His breathing was uneven. The air tasted salty as it entered his lungs, mixed with the flavor of dried blood on his cracked lips.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Red.
A few steps away, Connor knelt with one knee on the ground. His posture was neat, stable. His axe rested across his lap. With slow, measured movements, he wiped the blade with a ragged cloth.
The darkened blood was removed bit by bit.
The metal beneath reflected the campfire's light with a dull sheen.
Connor's face was empty.
No lingering tension. No trace of triumph.
As if what he had done in the swamp was not a hunt balanced on life and death, but merely a task that needed finishing.
Ted was farther away.
He knelt with his body bent forward. Every few seconds, his body jerked and he vomited. Murky liquid mixed with mud and half digested food spilled onto the stone floor.
His hands clawed at the ground like someone afraid of falling if he let go.
His eyes were open, but they were not truly seeing anything.
Every time he swallowed, his shoulders shook violently.
Near the entrance of the Nest, the burned faced man sat alone.
His back was straight. Both hands rested on his knees. The scars on his face were clearly visible beneath the firelight, his skin pulled tight and stiff, as if it had once melted and been reshaped roughly by careless hands.
He did not speak.
He did not look at anyone.
He simply existed, like a shadow that had chosen to have a body.
Roxanne stood near the stone wall, one shoulder leaning against its cold surface. Her arm was crudely bandaged. The cloth had darkened with soaked blood. Her green eyes were half closed, but she was not asleep.
Her gaze rested on the stone floor before her, as if there were something there she could not leave behind.
Clive saw her.
And immediately looked away.
Without Roxanne, he would already be dead.
The thought came without warning. Not dramatic. Not heroic.
Just a fact.
The campfire crackled softly at the center of the chamber. Shadows of the Nest members moved along the stone walls. They watched in silence. No applause. No welcome.
Only cold judgment.
Raimon stood before them, arms crossed over his chest. An old man with a face full of scars stood beside him, a wooden staff resting against the stone floor. His eyes moved slowly, weighing one face after another.
At last, Raimon stepped forward.
"The adrenaline is gone," he said. His voice was flat, nearly emotionless. "Now you will feel the result."
No one answered.
"You passed the first screening," he continued. "That means nothing."
Several heads lifted.
"Les Errants do not judge by who returns," Raimon said. "But by who is still standing afterward."
He made a small gesture.
The old man stepped forward. His staff tapped the stone floor once.
"The second trial begins now," he said. His voice was hoarse, like stone rubbed slowly together. "The rules are simple."
He raised one finger.
"Each pair that went out together will fight one another."
The air felt heavier.
"Only one person per pair receives a core."
A second finger rose.
"The winner earns the right to advance to the Second Nest."
A third finger.
"There, you will be trained to become Freeblades."
A fourth finger.
"The loser remains in the First Nest."
Raimon continued, his voice louder.
"Les Errants do not need good people. Les Errants need those who are capable and able to survive."
The words fell like stones.
Clive swallowed.
His chest felt tighter, not from his wounds.
Last night returned to his mind.
Roxanne leaping without hesitation. The sword blade buried in the monkey's body. Dark blood spraying. The scream tearing from his own throat, wild and uncontrollable.
He remembered his body slamming into the ground.
Remembered the world going dark.
Remembered Roxanne's blurred, blood smeared face when he opened his eyes again.
If not for her.
I would be dead.
The realization was bitter.
If this is about worthiness, Clive thought, then I am not worthy.
Their names were called.
When Clive and Roxanne stepped into the center of the chamber, a circle formed on its own. The campfire became the only light.
Roxanne stood before him.
Her sword was already in her hand.
Her posture was low. Ready. But beneath the tension, Clive saw something else. Doubt she was crushing down hard.
Clive took a deep breath.
Then he released his sword.
The metal struck the stone floor with a sharp sound that echoed through the Nest.
"What are you doing?" Roxanne hissed.
Clive looked straight at her. His voice was hoarse. "If not for you, I would be dead."
Silence enveloped the chamber.
"Pick up your sword," Roxanne said. "Don't mock me."
"I'm not mocking anything," Clive replied. "I know my limits."
"Are you insulting me?" Roxanne hissed.
"I am acknowledging reality."
He stepped back half a step. Both hands open. Empty.
"I lose."
The campfire crackled.
No one moved.
At last, Roxanne bent down and picked up the core from the ground. The dim green light reflected on her face.
Her jaw tightened.
She turned away without looking back.
The next name was called.
"Connor."
Ted flinched.
Connor stood.
He did not look at Ted. He gave no signal. He said nothing. The axe was already in his hand. The blade was clean, cold, ready. The way he held it was calm, like someone who did not need to be reminded what a tool was meant for.
Ted stood with hesitation.
His body was stiff. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly. His hands were empty for several seconds, hanging in the air as if he had forgotten what he was supposed to do. A Nest member shoved a weapon toward him.
Not a sword.
A spear.
The wood was rough. The iron tip was stained dark, remnants of swamp blood not yet fully gone.
Ted stared at it for a long moment.
The spear felt heavy in his hands. Not because of its weight, but because of the memories clinging to it. Fog. Mud. The Tusker's roar. His own breath nearly shattering as he ran.
This was his weapon.
This was the only thing that had ever kept him alive.
He tightened his grip on the spear.
They stood facing each other at the center of the circle.
The campfire reflected light across their faces. Connor's shadow stretched long across the stone floor. Ted's shadow trembled, broken apart by the unstable firelight.
Ted opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
"I…" His voice cracked. His throat felt crushed. "We can…"
Connor looked at him.
That gaze stopped Ted's sentence before it could finish.
There was no hatred in it.
No anger.
Only cold certainty, like the surface of water before someone drowns.
Ted knew.
He raised his spear. The tip dipped slightly. His hands trembled. His breathing was short and fast.
Connor waited.
He did not advance.
He did not provoke.
He simply stood there, letting the seconds pass.
Ted screamed.
Not a scream of rage.
A scream of panic.
He charged, the spear thrusting straight forward. His movement was stiff, too open. His foot slipped slightly on the stone floor, slick with dried blood.
That was enough.
Connor stepped aside with one short movement. Almost lazy. His axe rose and struck the shaft of the spear at a sharp angle.
The sound of cracking wood rang out.
The spear tip veered off. Ted stumbled forward, losing his balance. Connor gave him no space.
He moved inside the spear's reach.
Too close.
The side of the axe slammed into Ted's stomach.
The air was knocked out of Ted's lungs with a harsh sound. His body folded. Before he could fall, the axe moved again.
This time toward his knee.
A dull sound echoed. Like wet wood being struck.
Ted dropped to his knees. The spear slipped from his grip. His breathing choked. Saliva and mucus spilled from his mouth as he tried to pull in air.
Connor stood before him.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Ted sobbed. His body shook violently. "Wait," he said. "Wait. I can…"
Connor stepped behind Ted.
He stood right there.
The axe lifted.
Ted felt the shadow before he heard it. His hands clawed at the stone floor, his fingers turning white.
"If you hesitate," Connor said quietly. His voice was flat, without pressure. "You die."
The axe began to fall.
The air split.
"Enough."
Raimon's voice cut through the chamber like a blade.
The axe stopped.
The blade hovered a hand's breadth from the back of Ted's neck. Ted's hair stirred gently from the wind created by the halted strike.
Silence fell like a hammer.
Connor turned his head slightly.
Raimon stepped forward. "He has lost."
Ted gasped. His body trembled violently. Tears finally fell, mixing with sweat and mucus. He did not dare move. Did not dare breathe too loudly.
Connor looked at him for a few more seconds.
Then he lowered his axe.
He bent down and picked up the core from the ground without emotion. The green light reflected briefly on his face, then vanished as he closed his hand around it.
Ted collapsed onto his side.
Crying.
Unable to stand.
Whispers spread among the Nest members.
Not about Ted.
About Connor.
"He's perfect."
"No hesitation."
"Les Errants need people like that."
The next name was called.
The burned faced man stood.
He stepped into the center of the circle alone. No weapon in his hands. No expression on his face.
"Your partner did not return," the old man said.
There was no change in the man's expression.
He nodded once.
The core was handed to him.
He accepted it with an open hand. The green light reflected on the scars on his face, making them appear deeper, more brutal.
He did not smile.
He did not bow.
He did not give thanks.
He turned and returned to his place.
Ted heard that.
He slowly lifted his head. His eyes searched, struggling to focus. When he saw the burned faced man, his breath caught.
He stood with difficulty. His knees still shook. Every step felt like stepping on nails.
"You," he said. His voice was hoarse. "You went out with my brother."
The man turned slowly.
Their gazes met.
"Where is he?" Ted asked. "He didn't come back with you."
Several Nest members began to pay attention.
The burned faced man was silent for a moment.
Then he spoke briefly, without emotion.
"He's dead."
Ted froze.
"Dead…?" he repeated. The word leaked out like air from punctured lungs. "You're lying."
He shook his head rapidly. Desperate. "He's strong. He couldn't be dead."
Silence swallowed the chamber.
The man did not answer.
Ted staggered. As if someone had pulled the bones from his body. He dropped to his knees again, this time without a sound. His hands clawed at the stone floor, his nails peeling back.
Clive saw it.
His chest felt tighter.
There was no scream.
No anger.
Only silent destruction.
Raimon raised his hand.
"Enough," he said. "The decision has been made."
He stood before them all.
"Those who carry a core and survived have the right to ascend."
His eyes moved.
"Roxanne."
"Connor."
"And you, Salazar."
The burned faced man lifted his head slightly.
"You are going to the Second Nest."
Raimon then looked at Clive and Ted.
"You are not eliminated."
Ted stared at him blankly.
Clive lifted his head.
"But you are not ascending either," Raimon continued. "Not yet."
He walked slowly before them.
"You have not failed," he said. "There is a role waiting for you here in the First Nest."
There was no explanation.
No comfort.
Roxanne walked away.
She did not look back.
Connor stopped briefly in front of Clive.
He looked at Clive. For a long moment. His expression was hard to read.
Not mockery.
Not praise.
Only a brief acknowledgment.
"Don't die," he said. "And catch up to me."
Then he left.
The campfire continued to burn.
The Nest members began to disperse.
Clive stood alone.
The dried blood on his hands felt cold.