The morning after the patrol, Bright found himself wandering the eastern market district—a sprawling maze of stalls, supply depots, and administrative offices where workers and soldiers mingled in the brief hours before duty called.

He wasn't looking for anything specific.

Just… walking.

Thinking.

Trying to make sense of what he'd witnessed in the arena.

"Bright?"

He turned.

Bessia stood a few feet away, holding a small bundle wrapped in cloth—rations, probably, or medical supplies.

She looked different than she had at Grim Hollow. Healthier. Less haunted.

But her eyes still carried that weight—the kind that came from seeing too much death too young.

"Bessia," Bright said, surprised. "I didn't know you were… here."

"Supply run," she replied, gesturing to the bundle. "My squad needed some bandages. Figured I'd handle it."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment.

Then Bessia stepped closer. "I heard about your next match. Crimson Fang."

"Word travels fast in this shitty outpost huh."

"It always does." She hesitated. "Are you worried?"

Bright considered lying. Offering false confidence.

But this was Bessia.

She'd fought beside him. Bled beside him. She deserved better than a lie.

"Yes," he admitted quietly. "Crimson Fang isn't like the others. They're… different."

"How?"

"They don't seem to make mistakes," Bright said. "Every squad we've faced so far has had weaknesses—patterns, hesitations, exploitable gaps. But Crimson Fang? From what I've seen so far, they're flawless."

Bessia frowned. "No one's flawless."

"Maybe," Bright agreed. "But if their weakness exists, I haven't found it yet."

She studied him for a long moment. "You're different than you were at Grim Hollow."

"How so?"

"More mature—at least to me," Bessia said. "You were more guarded back then. Conniving, even. But most of us were."

She shrugged faintly. "Dropped into a starving battlefield like that, it was inevitable we'd develop a few… unhealthy tendencies."

Bright didn't respond.

Because she was right.

At Grim Hollow, he'd been focused on surviving. On getting through each day, each fight, each crisis.

But here?

Here, he was responsible for more than just himself. Yes, he'd had a squad back in Hollow. They'd run patrols, followed orders, gone through the motions.

But that team had never made it past the honeymoon phase. It barely counted as experience.

In vester he was leading people. Making decisions that could get them killed.

And that weight… it never went away.

"How's your squad?" Bright asked, changing the subject.

"Good," Bessia said. "Silas is… Silas. Always scheming. Always calculating. But he's loyal in his own way."

"And Tyven?"

"Steady," Bessia replied. "He keeps us grounded. Reminds us why we're fighting."

"Which is?"

She smiled faintly. "To go home. Eventually."

Bright nodded.

Home.

A concept that felt increasingly distant the longer he stayed in Vester.

"Stay safe," Bessia said, adjusting her bundle. "And Bright?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't let this place change you too much. You're still one of the good ones."

She walked away before he could respond.

Bright stood there, watching her disappear into the crowd.

One of the good ones.

He wasn't sure if that was true anymore.

-----

Adam moved through the lower workers' district with practiced ease, nodding to familiar faces, exchanging brief words, gathering information in the way only he could.

His "network"—if it could even be called that—consisted of clerks, cooks, supply handlers, and maintenance workers. People who saw everything but were rarely noticed.

He stopped at a small repair shop where a grizzled engineer named Harvin was working on a damaged lantern.

"Adam," Harvin grunted without looking up. "Come to pester me again?"

"Just checking in," Adam replied smoothly. "How are the workers settling in?"

"Better than expected," Harvin admitted. "Vester's got infrastructure Grim Hollow never had. Clean water. Proper food storage. Light."

He gestured to the lantern he was repairing—a complex contraption powered by soul force-infused crystals.

"Never-Ending Night makes everything harder," Harvin continued. "But these lanterns? They push back the darkness. Not perfectly. But enough."

Adam studied the device. "These innovations are inconspicuous, yet vital. Who came up with them?"

"Some old timey republic engineers, from what I've heard," Harvin said. "Back during the first Shroud incursions. When people realized the darkness wasn't just absence of light—it was active and wanted to swallow everything."

He tapped the lantern's core. "These crystals emit a frequency that disrupts the Shroud's influence. Not much. But enough to keep the people sane. Keep them human."

Adam made a mental note. "And the workers? They're adapting?"

"Most of them," Harvin replied. "Some are still rattled from the evacuation. Lost friends. Family. But work helps. Gives them purpose."

"And the ones who aren't adapting?"

Harvin's expression darkened. "Those ones… they disappear. Into the night. Into the Shroud. Or into themselves."

Adam nodded slowly.

He'd seen it before—people who couldn't handle the weight. Who broke quietly, without fanfare.

"Thanks, Harvin."

"Don't mention it," Harvin said, returning to his work. "And Adam? Whatever you're planning—be careful. Vester's not like Grim Hollow. The walls are higher. But the knives are sharper."

Adam smiled faintly. "I'm always careful."

"That's what worries me."

-----

Silas sat alone in the merit exchange office, staring at the list of available cores.

He had 312 merit points—earned through patrols, arena victories, and a few… creative acquisitions that no one needed to know about.

Enough to afford a low-tier ability core.

Maybe even a mid-tier, if he was willing to spend everything.

His eyes drifted to one entry:

**Speed Enhancement Core (Low-Tier) - 280 Merit**

He tapped his fingers on the counter, thinking.

His first ability core—Sense Fade— coupled with his soul talent was already powerful. It made him forgettable. People's eyes slid past him. Their attention drifted. Even when he stood right in front of them, their minds convinced them he wasn't worth noticing.

Combined with his illusion abilities, it made him slippery.

Elusive.

Invisible.

But invisibility had limits.

If someone did notice him—if they focused, if they caught him in a mistake—he was vulnerable.

Because at the end of the day, he was still just an initiate.

Fast, yes.

But not fast enough.

A speed core would change that.

If you were never caught, you could never be injured.

If you were never seen, you could never be targeted.

He'd become a phantom.

The kind of fighter who struck from nowhere and disappeared before anyone realized what happened.

The kind of fighter who endured.

Silas leaned back, weighing the decision.

280 merit would wipe out most of his savings. Leave him vulnerable if something unexpected happened.

But it would also make him untouchable for a certain level.

And in Vester—where power was currency and weakness was death—untouchable was the only thing worth being.

He made his decision.

"I'll take it," Silas said to the clerk.

The clerk raised an eyebrow. "The speed core? You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"That'll leave you with 32 merit. Not much of a safety net."

"I don't need a safety net," Silas replied. "I need an edge."

The clerk shrugged, processing the transaction.

Ten minutes later, Silas walked out of the exchange office, the core tucked carefully in his pocket.

He felt its weight—both physical and metaphorical.

This was it.

The moment where he stopped being lucky and started being lethal.

He smiled faintly.

Let the nobles have their schemes.

Let Vaelith have his manipulations.

Silas would do what he always did.

Survive like an indestructible pest.

And when the dust settled, he'd be the one still standing.

Even if no one remembered he was there.

-----

That evening, Duncan found Bright sitting alone on the barracks steps, staring at his fused blade.

"Thinking about the match?" Duncan asked, sitting down beside him.

"Always," Bright replied.

"We'll be ready."

"Will we?" Bright looked at him. "Duncan, Crimson Fang doesn't lose. They don't make mistakes. They don't leave openings. How do we fight something like that?"

Duncan considered. "We do what we always do. We adapt."

"Nah, man. That pep talk worked last time—think you can run it back? We're about to get absolutely wrecked."

"Didn't think I'd get caught," Duncan said simply. "Oh well. We'll see how it goes."

He shrugged. "Same as always."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the artificial lanterns flicker against the never-ending night.

Finally, Bright spoke. "I saw Bessia today."

"How is she?"

"Good. Better than us, probably." Bright paused. "She said I'm different. Heavier."

"Are you?"

"I don't know," Bright admitted. "I feel the same. But maybe that's the problem. Maybe I should feel different."

Duncan nudged him. "You're overthinking."

"Probably."

"Definitely."

Bright laughed—a brief, genuine sound.

"Thanks, man."

"For what?"

"For being here. For not letting me spiral."

Duncan grinned. "Someone's gotta keep you from turning into Atheon."

Bright's smile faded slightly.

Because that was the fear, wasn't it?

That if he cared too much, if he let his squad become more than tools—

He'd end up like the Fist of Men.

Broken.

Compromised.

Exploitable.

But looking at Duncan—loyal, steady, *

present—

Bright realized something.

Maybe being exploitable wasn't the worst thing.

Maybe caring was worth the risk.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it cost him.

Because the alternative—becoming like Adept Vaelith, cold and calculating—

That was a price he wasn't willing to pay.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

He stood, sheathing his blade.

"Come on," Bright said. "Let's get ready. Crimson Fang's coming."

Duncan rose beside him. "And we'll be ready too."

They walked back into the barracks together.

And somewhere in the distance, the Shroud drifted.

Waiting.

Watching.

Hungry.

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