The air in the tunnel was still thick with smoke, sweat, and the lingering traces of fake pixelated blood that hadn't yet disappeared.
In the flickering firelight, the uneven ground was stained with deep crimson streaks, like silent scars.
But aside from those traces, only a heavy silence now surrounded them.
Diavel lowered his sword, swept his eyes across the group, then tilted his head slightly. "We'll stop here for now. Check your gear and recover."
The group immediately spread out into a small circle. Shivata, clad in light steel armor covered in scratches, dropped his heavy shield and sword to the ground.
He looked exhausted from having to use both at once, the clanging of metal echoed throughout the tunnel, a stark reminder that danger still lurked nearby.
Chest bent down and rummaged through his cloth bag, pulling out several rolls of dull gray bandages and stacking them into a small pile.
The rough fabric was speckled with dust, looking no different from the gear of soldiers long removed from any comfort.
Ren took one of the rolls from Chest, frowning slightly.
He had braced himself for a healing potion, that miraculous liquid with its signature soft glow, but what he held now was just a few worn strips of cloth.
"Wrap it around the wounds," Chest said, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument.
He handed out more to Yuna and Nautilus, his eyes scanning each of them for a quick status check.
Yuna hesitated, gently squeezing the bandage in her hand. "We're not using potions?"
Chest let out a dry, hollow laugh that echoed in the dim surroundings. "Unless you're about to die, no one wastes potions here.
Even a low-grade healing potion from the shop can burn a hole in your wallet, while bandages like these cost just a few Cor to make."
Ren furrowed his brow, the scattered pieces in his mind slowly coming together.
He recalled the evenings at the inn, players meticulously crafting, weaving, and mixing small vials. So it wasn't just a hobby, it was survival, plain and cold.
Beside him, Nautilus let out a small "oh," his face lighting up with realization. He bowed his head and clumsily wrapped the bandage around his swollen wrist, lips pressed tight to hide the pain.
As Chest tied up the cut on his own arm, he added in a matter-of-fact tone, as if recounting daily routine, "As you climb higher, crafting becomes easier. Not just bandages, healing potions too, once self-made, are many times cheaper than the shop's. Hunting parties can't afford to splurge every time."
Ren nodded quietly, feeling as though another layer of this world had just unfolded. Being good at fighting wasn't enough. Endurance, calculation, and even frugality, these were weapons, too.
He sat on a low rock and carefully inspected his sword, which had chipped slightly along the edge.
The faint red torchlight flickered along the blade, highlighting a web of fine scratches, the silent marks of every clash it had endured.
Ren tilted the sword in his hand, frowning. Its durability had dropped significantly. Though Black Fang was known for its high endurance, it clearly wasn't designed for such drawn-out battles.
He ran his fingers along the spine of the sword, feeling the tiny cracks invisible to the eye.
The blacksmithing craftsmanship here… Ren gave a faint smirk. Compared to the forge he frequented in the Starting Town, these weapons lacked the necessary finesse.
The durability stats had been patched up just enough to keep the blade from breaking.
But Ren knew that reinforcement was only surface-deep. In truth, weaknesses were eating away at the weapon, causing the stats to drop faster than what the status window showed.
He let out a quiet sigh, a heavy weight building in his chest. His fingers gripped the hilt tighter for a moment before he looked up, his eyes drifting to the teammates silently preparing for the next battle.
Around him, the others were busy checking straps, sharpening weapon edges, and tightening their wounds.
No one spoke. Only the crackling of flames and labored breathing filled the thick air.
Yuna was focused on knotting the bandage around her wrist, her brows slightly furrowed. Nautilus, meanwhile, was awkwardly copying Ren's motions while glancing at him from the corner of his eye.
Ahead of them, Diavel stood upright. A pale blue glow from the auxiliary map lit his face, casting a thin line of light along his sharp features.
He didn't bandage himself or check his gear. He simply watched, silently, like a general reading the path ahead.
The atmosphere between the rough stone walls seemed frozen in time, a fleeting moment before the storm arrived.
The wounds were wrapped tight. Swords gripped once more. And the wills, though weary, did not waver.
"Listen." Diavel's voice rang out, low and sharp, cutting through the compressed silence like a cold blade.
Everyone instinctively straightened their backs, eyes all turning toward him.
"There are two paths ahead," Diavel continued, not allowing the pause to linger. "Left leads deeper inside, likely packed with traps...
Right takes us directly to… a boss area."
"But that sleeping Golem isn't the only problem," he added, voice tightening. "Smaller enemies are spawning more frequently than expected.
The risk is higher...but if we make it through, we'll save a lot of time and energy."
He stopped, his eyes scanning each dust-streaked, sweat-covered face. Each nod in response was firm, silent.
"Wait," Nautilus spoke up instinctively, his steps faltering for a brief moment. His eyes glinted with barely hidden doubt, brows furrowed tight.
"You just said… there were signs of a Boss up ahead," he repeated, his voice lowered, as if testing each word against his own memory.
There was a brief pause, hesitation clear in the way his hand clenched the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.
"Then…"
Nautilus glanced at Diavel, then shifted his gaze to the veteran members, Shivata, Chest, and Lind.
"Have any of you fought it before?"
The mine fell utterly silent. Only the slow, measured footsteps and the faint whistling of wind through cracks in the stone could be heard.
A long moment passed. No one answered right away. Then Diavel, without breaking stride, cast a glance over his shoulder, his eyes cold and sharp.
"That would be unfortunate."
The reply was brief, solid as stone.
Nautilus flinched slightly, but Diavel didn't stop to explain.
No one did. They simply kept moving forward, like perfectly meshed gears, even if it meant heading straight into the abyss.
Ren felt his chest tighten. He caught sight of Yuna casting a glance around as well, her fingers tightening around her weapon strap.
Was it too dangerous to take that path?
Reflexively, Ren gripped his sword tighter, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing against the rough leather of the hilt.
No one said a word. No one showed doubt. Yet the tension wove its way between them, heavy as mist pressing down on their chests.
Diavel's eyes swept across the group, as if reading the growing unease in each face.
His voice was calm but resolute. "We don't have to confront the Golem just yet."
The words, quiet and measured, were at odds with the pressure looming in the dark chamber.
"Taking the long way around will be safer… but the monsters will be more numerous."
Without giving anyone time to reflect, Diavel raised his hand, wrist tilting slightly as he gestured toward Shivata and Chest.
"You two take point," he ordered. "Use your shields and weapons to block the initial wave."
His gaze moved deliberately, scanning each face as if assembling the formation piece by piece.
"The rest will form a wedge. No one is to break formation, not even half a step."
When his eyes landed on Ren, Yuna, and Nautilus, they lingered, heavier, deeper. "The three newcomers," he said. No reproach. No explanation.
"You'll hold the middle line. If you feel like you can't keep up, fall back immediately. No hesitation. Don't bring risk upon yourselves."
Ren gripped his sword tightly, fingers pale beneath the cloth wraps. He wasn't angry. He wasn't resentful.
But in that moment, the gap between "them" and "him" carved itself deeper, thin, cold, and aching like a wound that couldn't be healed.
Without another word, Diavel drew his sword. A sharp diagonal slash cut through the air, cold and swift, steel flashing like an unspoken warning.
"Move."
No rallying cry. No encouragement. Only an icy command, echoing through the cavern like a bell signaling the start of war.
Immediately, the formation sprang to life.
Boots slammed against the damp stone floor in unison, the dull thud reverberating like a war drum pounding in their chests.
The torch in Chest's hand swayed with their march, its red-orange light sweeping across the cracked walls, casting shadows over ancient scars etched deep into the metal surface, silent wounds from a long-suffering earth.
Ren fell in step with the others, palms slick with sweat, yet still clinging to his sword like the only anchor he had.
Ahead, the silhouettes of the other warriors stretched under the flickering torchlight, shadows that neither trembled nor faltered.
Among the faint clinks of metal brushing armor, among the heavy breaths, Ren felt himself approaching an invisible boundary.
Not just the line between battle and retreat but the thin edge between surviving… and truly becoming part of this world.
Up ahead, in the suffocating darkness, crimson HP bars suddenly lit up, forming a vivid trail, like fresh wounds slashed across the very earth they walked on.
The sight struck like a warning, clear, searing. A sign of creatures that had claimed this ground as their own.
The red light danced in the still air, only adding to the oppressive weight pressing down on them.
Diavel came to a halt for a moment, eyes sweeping over the glowing bars, then gave a small nod.
"We're here," he said, his voice low, as if weighing every step that would follow.