Thorne was heaving, his breaths coming in hard, fast gasps as he plunged his daggers into the neck of the zombie before him. The desiccated face, once belonging to a male recruit, twisted in a grotesque mask of death. With a savage twist of his wrists, Thorne made a scissoring motion that severed the creature's head from its body.

The sudden loss of resistance nearly caused him to stumble. His body, drained and weak, was teetering on the brink of collapse after sustaining the Aether Surge for so long.

His eyes darted around wildly, half-expecting another attack, but none came. Everywhere he looked, there were dead, decomposing bodies strewn across the ground. The foul stench of decay mixed with the metallic tang of blood hung heavily in the air. Devon was still locked in combat with a zombie, though he looked ready to collapse, his uniform torn and bloodied, his movements sluggish.

Cassandra was fending off two more of the undead, her right hand hanging uselessly at her side as tears carved tracks through the dirt and grime on her face. She was fighting with desperation, every thrust of her spear driven by the instinct to survive.

Thorne saw the danger she was in and, summoning the last of his strength, threw one of his daggers at one of her opponents. The blade embedded itself in the zombie's head, causing the creature to stumble. Cassandra seized the opportunity, plunging her spear into its skull before quickly yanking it out and doing the same to the last zombie.

When the final body fell, Cassandra looked around wildly, disbelief etched on her features. "Is... is it over?" she asked, her voice trembling as more tears fell down her cheeks.

Thorne looked at her with a tight expression, unsure of how to respond. He noticed she was limping, and a deep sense of dread settled in his stomach. If they were attacked by a second wave, they wouldn't survive. He had lost count of the zombies he had killed—they had become an indistinct mass of death and decay to his exhausted eyes. But one thing was clear from the experience: he had leveled up. The faint notification of his advancement to Level 33 flickered at the edge of his vision, but he didn't have the strength or the will to read it or check his character sheet. He was utterly spent.

Devon, shaking violently, managed to stammer out, "Will they... will they come back?" His teeth chattered, and he looked at Thorne as if begging him to say no, to offer some reassurance. But Thorne could only manage a hollow response.

"I don't know."

Devon's expression crumpled, and he looked at Thorne as if he had been betrayed. The hopelessness in his eyes mirrored Thorne's own exhaustion. All Thorne wanted to do was collapse, to find a moment of peace, but everywhere he looked, there were dismembered body parts and the remnants of their desperate battle.

Then a voice cut through the tension, making them all jump and tighten their grips on their weapons. "You passed," Talon's voice echoed from the shadows, her tone devoid of any emotion. She stepped into the faint light, her expression as unreadable as ever. "Follow me, and for goodness' sake, put away that stone. Light attracts the creatures."

Cassandra's eyes widened in realization, and she hurriedly tucked the glowing crystal into her pocket, dimming its light. The trio was too exhausted to talk; they simply followed Talon's steps, their bodies on autopilot. Devon and Cassandra held hands again, as they had during the trial, gripping each other tightly for support and reassurance.

"Here," Talon said, stopping at a wall. Thorne could barely make out the metal footholds in the dim light. His limbs felt like lead as he reached out and started climbing, his fingers and feet barely able to hold onto the cold metal. Each step felt like an eternity, the strain in his muscles screaming at him to stop, but he forced himself to keep going.

When he finally reached the top, he crawled out of the hole, collapsing onto solid ground. The cold, rough surface beneath him felt like a blessing after the endless nightmare below. He wanted to weep in relief, but his body had no energy left for tears. He could only lie there, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, the horrors of the past hours replaying in his mind.

Talon watched them impassively as they all crawled out of the hole, her piercing eyes betraying nothing. "You survived," she said flatly, as if it were the most mundane observation in the world. "But you won't always be so lucky. Rest while you can."

Thorne could barely muster the energy to nod. He felt Devon and Cassandra collapse beside him, their breath ragged, their bodies trembling from the exertion. For a long moment, none of them spoke. They were too drained, too battered, to do anything but lie there in silence, their minds too numb to process what had just happened.

Thorne's thoughts drifted back to the fight, to the countless times they had been seconds away from death. He had used everything—his skills, his strength, even the Aether Surge he had been so reluctant to rely on. But in the end, they had survived. Somehow, they had survived.

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Thorne sat in the sleeping quarters, his foot tapping anxiously against the cold stone floor. The room was heavy with tension, filled with the anxious energy of recruits who had returned from the trial. Three more groups had made it back, but not all of them. Every time the door creaked open, Thorne's heart would race, and he'd bolt upright, only to sink back down when he realized his friends weren't among them.

Finally, the door opened again, and this time, he caught a flash of fiery red hair. He stood immediately, his heart in his throat. Before he could even move, Rielle rushed to him, her face a mask of stoic resolve that crumbled the moment she reached him. Without warning, she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest as silent sobs wracked her body.

Thorne's arms wrapped around her instinctively, holding her close as he tried to offer what little comfort he could. He felt her trembling against him, her breath hitching with each suppressed sob. She leaned into him, whispering in a voice that barely reached his ears, "She was down there, Thorne. Lira was down there."

It took him a moment to realize who she was talking about, but when the memory of Rielle's fellow trainee, the one she had killed during the trial, surfaced, his grip on her tightened. He didn't know what to say, so he just held her, letting her grief pour out in the safety of his embrace.

After a moment, Rielle pulled herself together, stepping back and wiping the tears from her face. The mask of impassiveness she wore slipped back into place, the brief moment of vulnerability disappearing as quickly as it had come. Together, they turned their gaze toward the door, waiting for the rest of their group to return.

It wasn't long before Vance appeared, walking in with the recruit Thorne had clashed with on the first day. The guy, Marcus, looked just as battered as everyone else, but his eyes still held that same malevolent glint as they flicked over to Thorne. Vance, on the other hand, looked like he had been through hell. His face was pale, his uniform torn and bloodied, but aside from some superficial wounds, he appeared to be okay.

As Vance approached, his eyes darted around the room, searching desperately, "Where's Rhea?" Thorne and Rielle shook their heads, and Vance let out a frustrated sigh, dropping down next to them. He was still gripping his short swords tightly, his knuckles white with tension. "We're going to have to kill that guy," Vance muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "He tried to kill me twice down there."

Thorne's head whipped around, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Vance. He was ready to ask when they should do it, when Vance's expression suddenly shifted, his eyes losing focus. "I can't believe they did that," Vance mumbled, his voice distant, haunted. "They're using the dead to train us. They can't rest, even in death."

No one had an answer for that. The truth of it settled over them like a dark cloud, weighing them down. More recruits trickled in, but the flow soon slowed to a stop. The room was filled with a tense, suffocating silence as they all waited, hoping against hope that their remaining friend would walk through the door.

Vance kept muttering to himself, his voice growing more frantic with each passing minute. "Come on, come on, we're waiting... We're waiting for you, damn it."

Rielle sat on the other side of Thorne, her bow resting on her lap. The wood groaned under the tightness of her grip, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were fixed on the door, every muscle in her body tense with anticipation.

Then, finally, the door opened one last time. Rhea stood in the doorway, and Vance bolted to her side. But Thorne remained frozen, his heart dropping at the sight of her. Her once-long blond hair was matted with blood and grime, patches missing where chunks had been torn out. Her clothes were so tattered they looked ready to fall apart at any moment, barely covering the multitude of cuts and bruises that marred her skin. She stood there, her eyes vacant, her hand still clutching the machete, bits of flesh and gore still clinging to the blade.

Rielle's shout cut through the haze of Thorne's thoughts. "We need to get her cleaned up." Thorne nodded, snapping out of his stupor, and rushed to help.

He took Rhea in his arms, and she didn't protest, didn't make a sound, her body limp and unresponsive. Vance hovered by her side, his hands shaking as he kept trying to push her matted hair out of her face. Rielle, in a calm but firm voice, reassured him, "She's just in shock, Vance. She'll come around. Give her time."

Vance's voice wavered as he murmured, "She was alone. Why was she alone? Where is her group?"

Thorne and Rielle exchanged a somber glance, both knowing that Rhea was likely the only survivor of her group. They guided her to the washroom, where Rielle and Vance began to clean her up. Rielle's hands were steady as she poured water over Rhea's head, washing away the blood and grime, revealing the full extent of her injuries. They were worse than Thorne had imagined.

Rielle looked up at Thorne and told him to find some clothes for Rhea. He nodded and quickly left the room, searching through the quarters for something suitable.

When he returned, Rhea was cleaned up, but her injuries were even more pronounced. Bruises covered her body, and her skin was marred by deep gashes. The sight of her bald patches, where the zombies had torn away her hair, made Thorne's stomach churn.

"She'll make it. She'll make it, right?" Vance asked, his voice thick with desperation.

Rielle inspected Rhea's injuries with cold efficiency. "She will," she said, her tone firm. "The injuries look worse than they are. She'll heal, but it will take time."

Thorne forced himself to stop staring and moved to help Rielle. Together, they guided Rhea back to the sleeping quarters and laid her down on one of the beds. All around them, the room was filled with the sounds of whimpers and outright sobbing. Everyone had lost someone in that test.

Later that night, as they all tried to sleep, the real horror began. The room was filled with the echoes of their collective trauma. Every few minutes, a horrified scream would pierce the silence, waking everyone. Each time, it was a different recruit, reliving the nightmare of that day.

Thorne lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the screams and the sobs, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on him. It was a sound he knew he would never forget—a sound that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

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