The sun broke over Korazu like a slow drumbeat, casting pale light across rooftops still slick with morning dew. The village, usually slow to wake, was already alive with movement.
Sparring rings had been marked in the square using chalk and rope. Hay bales had been dragged from storage to serve as dummies. The blacksmith's forge never went cold now, its fires burning from dawn until well past dusk. Reivo stood at the edge of the main circle, sweat clinging to his brow, short sword in hand as he stared down Tomas, one of the village guards.
"Again," barked his father, watching from the side with crossed arms.
Reivo lunged. Tomas deflected the blow easily, sidestepped, and brought his wooden sword down against Reivo's shoulder. The crack of wood on leather rang out, sharp and final.
Reivo hissed and dropped to one knee, gritting his teeth.
"Too slow," Tomas said, offering a hand to pull him up. "You're hesitating. Think faster."
"I am thinking," Reivo muttered, taking the hand and hauling himself upright. "You've just got twenty more years of muscle."
"You think monsters will care about that?" Tomas raised an eyebrow. "They'll tear hesitation apart. You want to fight? Train like you mean it."
Reivo wiped the sweat from his eyes and nodded. Around them, the others kept at it—hunters pairing off to practice spear techniques, Mira helping the herbalist sort poultices and alchemical powders into quick-access satchels, the blacksmith sharpening weapons while his apprentices stitched simple leather guards.
They were preparing the defense.
The elders had gathered with the few tactically experienced hunters and guards to lay out a plan. A crude map had been drawn in the dirt of the meeting hall and later inked onto parchment.
The dungeon lay northwest of the village—roughly a thirty-minute walk at regular pace. Since no Awakened could enter the gate, they'd have to wait for the monsters to emerge. If the dungeon followed the pattern, the rift would stabilize in seven days, and then creatures would begin to pour out.
"We expect small groups at first," Elder Varan had said, hunched over the map, fingers stained with ink and herbs. "Scouts. Then waves. They'll test the perimeter. If the boss emerges, it'll be at the end. We cannot allow it to reach the village."
Three defense lines had been established:
The Forest Line: The furthest from the village, this was where traps had been laid—sharpened stakes camouflaged with leaves, snare wires, and oil-laced brush for burning. It would buy time and thin the first wave.
The Ridge Wall: A narrow rise in the terrain halfway between the forest and the village. Here, the main fighting force would hold position—hunters, guards, and volunteers. Barriers of wood and stone had been constructed, creating choke points.
The Village Perimeter: Every home was reinforced. The children and elders would remain in the temple at the center, which had the thickest stone walls. Anyone too young to fight would stay there with food, medicine, and Mira's watchful eye. Should the outer lines fall, this would be the final stand.
Archers trained from rooftops. Cooks began preparing rationed meals. Every bell in the village was tied to a warning system. The old mage lantern was stationed at the Ridge Wall, its flickering light said to repel minor shadows and illusions.
The air felt heavy with tension, but beneath it all, a quiet determination was growing.
Later that Day…
Reivo sat near the training ring, arms aching and legs bruised, watching Mira wrap bandages around an older hunter's arm. His father approached, two wooden training swords in hand.
"Rest's over."
"I thought I was done for the day?"
"You are. But now you learn something different."
He tossed the second sword to Reivo and stepped into the ring.
"What are we doing?"
"Learning how to lose," his father said, sliding into a stance. "Because the first time a goblin gets past your guard, you're going to panic. And I want that to happen now, when we can fix it."
They sparred as the sun sank lower, the sky bleeding orange. His father didn't go easy, but he didn't break Reivo either. Every strike taught something—about rhythm, fear, control.
And between swings, Reivo began to understand.
They weren't training just to fight.
They were preparing to survive.
And if the dungeon thought it could devour Korazu easily—
It would learn otherwise.