It had been a week since Lorne left the hub.
Brock and Cira arrived at the mission hall early, the wide interior already humming with low conversation and the metallic clink of equipment being checked and rechecked. At the far end of the hall stood a group that was impossible to miss.
Ten people, all wearing matching dark-gray combat attire reinforced at the shoulders and knees. The uniforms were worn but meticulously maintained, marked with subtle variations—scratches, stitched repairs, personal insignias—that spoke of experience rather than carelessness. Their weapons and armor differed, each tailored to the individual, but the cohesion of the group was unmistakable.
At the center stood a young man in his early twenties, posture straight, presence commanding without him needing to say a word. A long sword with a distinctive angular guard was strapped to his back, the hilt rising over his shoulder like a warning. His hair was short and dark, eyes sharp and assessing as they scanned the hall. Even without introduction, Brock knew—this had to be Jim.
The rest of the team fanned out loosely around him.
Two of the men were heavily built, wearing thicker armor plates and carrying large melee weapons—one wielded a broad axe, the other a reinforced hammer. Another had a lean, wiry frame, twin blades resting at his hips, eyes constantly moving as if measuring threats that didn't yet exist. There was a taller man with a scoped rifle slung over his shoulder, his face partially hidden beneath a hood, and another whose gear was lighter, favoring mobility over protection.
Among them were two women.
One was tall and broad-shouldered, her armor modified to allow greater freedom of movement. Her hair was tied back into a tight braid, and a long spear rested against her shoulder, its shaft scarred from repeated use. Her expression was calm, almost bored.
The other stood closer to the rear. She had short auburn hair, sharp eyes, and a lean build. Her armor was lighter, reinforced around the torso but flexible at the limbs, and a compact firearm hung at her side alongside a blade. There was an easy confidence in the way she leaned against a crate, arms crossed, watching Brock and Cira approach.
Brock stepped forward. "I'm Brock. This is Cira."
Jim glanced at them, his gaze lingering only a second longer on Cira before giving a single nod. No handshake. No greeting.
He pointed toward a corner of the hall.
Brock followed the gesture and saw two neatly arranged sets of standard-issue equipment—armor, packs, and basic weapons sized appropriately. Clearly prepared in advance.
"Gear up," Jim said simply.
No further explanation was given.
Brock and Cira moved to the corner and began fitting the equipment. The armor was utilitarian—nothing fancy, but well-balanced and maintained. Once suited up, they blended in seamlessly with the rest of the group, no longer standing out as outsiders.
As they finished, the auburn-haired woman approached them, a faint grin tugging at her lips.
"Name's Rhea," she said. "You're the temp additions, right?"
Brock nodded. "That's us."
She jerked her thumb toward the center of the hall. "C-rank Rend. Refreshing type. No idea how long it'll last—could be weeks, could be months."
Cira's eyes sharpened. "Location?"
"Town called Valcrest," Rhea replied. "Far from the hub. Took a hit before, never fully recovered. We'll be traveling for three days to get there."
She straightened and glanced toward the rest of the group. "We're the Iron Vultures. Stick close, follow orders, and don't do anything heroic unless you're told."
With that, she turned and walked back to the others.
Jim gave a short hand signal.
The Iron Vultures moved as one, exiting the mission hall and heading toward the vehicle bay. Brock and Cira followed, stepping out of the hub and toward a large off-road military transport waiting beyond the gates—armored, reinforced, and clearly built for long-distance travel through hostile territory.
The three-day journey to Valcrest took them far from the relative order of the hub and deep into harsher land.
The terrain changed gradually at first—flat roads giving way to uneven stone paths, then to broken stretches where rock jutted out like exposed bone. By the second day, soil became scarce. The ground was dominated by slate-gray stone and jagged ridges, the road little more than a winding scar carved between rising rock walls. The off-road vehicle groaned as it climbed narrow passes, its suspension constantly tested by loose gravel and sudden drops.
Mountains loomed on every side, tall and uneven, their peaks sharp rather than grand. They weren't the kind of mountains that inspired awe—they felt oppressive, closing in, casting long shadows that swallowed the paths below. Sparse vegetation clung stubbornly to cracks in the stone: tough shrubs, low grass, and the occasional twisted tree bent permanently by wind.
Valcrest revealed itself on the third day.
The town was wedged into a natural basin between mountain slopes, built wherever the rock allowed it. Structures were carved partially into stone faces or stacked against cliff walls, reinforced with metal braces and thick beams. Buildings rose unevenly, some higher than others, connected by narrow stairways and rope bridges bolted directly into rock. There was no clear layout—just survival-driven construction shaped by terrain rather than planning.
The streets were tight and sloped, often little more than carved channels between stone walls. Loose rubble littered the ground, and higher up, broken watch posts and collapsed platforms hinted at past defenses that hadn't held. Above everything, the mountains pressed close, making the town feel sealed off from the rest of the world.
The off-road vehicle rumbled through Valcrest's narrow approach and finally came to a halt inside a reinforced shelter carved directly into the mountainside. Thick metal gates slid shut behind them, sealing the space off from the outside world. The interior was dim but functional—support beams driven into stone, portable lights strung along the walls, and marked zones for equipment and supplies. It was clearly a temporary staging point, built for teams that came and went with Rends.
Jim stepped down first and gave a brief glance around before speaking. "This is where we park. No one leaves gear lying around."
His eyes shifted to Brock and Cira. "You two—unload the vehicle."
There was no hostility in the order, just expectation.
Brock nodded and moved immediately, popping open the rear compartment. Crates of ammunition, rations, spare armor parts, and medical kits were passed down one by one. Cira worked beside him without complaint, lifting and stacking with practiced efficiency. Neither of them spoke much; they were already aware that this was part of the unspoken hierarchy. Newcomers proved usefulness first.
Other members of the team passed by as they worked, some checking weapons, others setting up comm devices or mapping the immediate area on portable displays. A few glanced their way—curious, assessing—but no one interfered.
By the time the vehicle was emptied, the shelter looked ready for occupation. Supplies were organized, weapons secured, and the vehicle itself pushed deeper into the bay, partially concealed behind reinforced plating.
Brock wiped his hands on his pants and exhaled slowly. Cira straightened, rolling her shoulders once.
They rested in the shelter for the night.
By morning, the cold had crept in through the stone walls, and the shelter was already alive with movement. Jim's team was up early, checking weapons and sealing packs. Brock and Maya were singled out and ordered to repack everything they had unloaded the previous day—rations, ammunition, med kits, tools—compressing them into large, reinforced backpacks meant for prolonged engagements.
Neither of them complained. They worked quickly, tightening straps and redistributing weight the way they had learned through trial and pain.
Once ready, the team left the shelter.
The path ahead was long and winding, a narrow trail carved into the side of a massive hill that rose far above sea level. Loose stones shifted underfoot, and the air thinned as they climbed. The terrain grew harsher the higher they went—jagged rocks, sparse vegetation, and sharp winds that carried a faint metallic scent.
As they neared the summit, Brock felt it first.
The air warped.
Space ahead twisted unnaturally, like heat rising off scorched ground, except colder—heavier. The world bent in on itself, colors dulling and stretching at the edges. Time Rend.
When they reached the top, the sight confirmed it.
The Rend had formed directly at the summit. A massive distortion hovered above the ground, pulsing slowly, tearing reality open in uneven waves. From within it, shapes staggered out—zombies, malformed and snarling, spilling into the open like rot forced into daylight.
They weren't alone.
Awakeners were already fighting.
Men and women clad in mismatched gear clashed with the emerging zombies, abilities flashing briefly before vanishing—bursts of force, enhanced strikes, unnatural speed. These weren't outsiders; Brock could tell by their coordination and familiarity with the terrain. They were inhabitants of Valcrest, defending their home.
Nearby, excavators worked relentlessly. Heavy machinery dug into the rocky ground, tearing and flattening the summit despite the danger. The goal was obvious—level the battlefield. Uneven ground meant death when facing both zombies and a Time Rend.
Brock tightened his grip on his pack straps, eyes fixed on the warped sky above.
The summit of the mountain spread out wider than Brock had expected—roughly a hundred meters across, a broad, uneven crown of stone and broken earth. More than half of it was already overrun.
Zombies crawled, staggered, and spilled across the plateau in writhing clusters. It would have been manageable if they were only the usual weak, mutated, or armored types. But a single sweep of the area told a far worse story.
Spitters.
Brock counted at least thirty almost immediately—bloated torsos pulsing as they clung to elevated rocks and broken outcroppings, throats swelling as they prepared to spew corrosive bile across the field. Worse still were the others: nearly fifty Howlers, thin-limbed, hunched creatures with elongated necks and gaping maws. They were already screeching intermittently, their shrill cries echoing across the summit and drawing more zombies toward the Rend like moths to a flame.
And that wasn't all.
Lickers clung to vertical surfaces, skittering along sheer stone faces with insect-like precision. Bloaters lumbered near the edges, their swollen bodies wobbling with every step, each one a walking hazard waiting to burst.
The sight sent a sharp chill through Cira. She instinctively reached for Brock's hand, gripping it tightly. Brock didn't pull away.
He couldn't.
His Combat Sense screamed at him, every instinct flaring at once. To him, the danger wasn't just visible—it was layered, overlapping, pressing down from every angle. Each zombie felt like a moving threat marker, each screech and wet growl amplifying the invisible pressure in his chest.
Before either of them could dwell too long on the fear, a sharp command cut through the chaos.
"Set up camp! Now!"
Jim's voice carried authority, snapping them back into motion. Brock and Cira moved quickly, following instructions without question. They were directed to the far edge of the summit, where a natural rock formation rose like a curved wall, shielding a shallow recess from the main battlefield.
It was smart positioning.
The stone barrier blocked direct lines of attack, and the slope beneath it dropped steeply, making it difficult for zombies to approach unnoticed. It was far enough from the Rend and the main fighting zone that stray spit and explosions wouldn't reach them easily.
They set up the tent with practiced efficiency, anchoring it securely against the wind and uneven ground. Once it was standing, they unloaded the contents of their backpacks inside—supplies, rations, spare equipment—leaving only their swords strapped to their backs.
When they stepped away, the tent stood quiet and unobtrusive, tucked safely into the terrain, out of the immediate reach of the battle that was about to unfold.
Cira exhaled slowly, forcing her grip on Brock's hand to loosen.
Ahead of them, the screams of Howlers grew louder, and another wave of zombies poured from the warped sky.
The fight for Valcrest's summit was about to begin.