Kate, the Scout
Kate knelt in a quiet corner of the armory, her whetstone gliding along the edge of her dagger with a rhythmic scrape-scrape. The blade gleamed under the flickering overhead lights, its polished surface reflecting her sharp green eyes like twin emeralds set in a storm. Her hands moved with practiced precision, steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in her mind. Around her, the other scouts bustled—checking gear, calibrating drones, exchanging quick banter—but Kate kept to herself, as she always did. Solitude was her armor, as much as the reinforced leather she wore or the blades she carried.
Her goal was a secret she'd never breathe aloud, not even to Shun, whose leadership she trusted without question. It wasn't just survival or loyalty that drove her; it was something deeper, a yearning that felt like betrayal in a world where the cycle's endless repetition demanded unity. She wanted to see the world beyond the cycle—not merely to escape its crushing weight, but to know it. To walk a surface that wasn't scorched black by endless wars, to breathe air that didn't sting with ash and regret. She'd read fragments of ancient texts, brittle pages hidden in the summit's archives, that spoke of a time before the Fall. A world where the sky was a vibrant blue, not the ash-gray shroud she'd known her whole life. A world where rivers ran clear, where life wasn't a constant fight against annihilation. A world where she could lay down her blades and just be.
It was a selfish dream, one she buried deep beneath her scout's discipline, but it fueled every step she took. Every mission, every recon, every silent glide through the surface's ruins—she searched for signs, for proof that such a place might still exist. The others fought for the summit, for Shun's vision of breaking the cycle. Kate fought for that, too, but her heart harbored a heresy: if the cycle couldn't be broken, if Shun's plan failed, she'd find that lost world herself. She'd carve a path through the ash and flame, no matter the cost.
She tested the dagger's edge with her thumb, wincing as it drew a thin line of blood that welled up like a crimson bead. Sharp enough. She sheathed it with a soft click and turned to her second blade, a curved short sword she'd named Whisper. Its name wasn't just sentiment; the blade was silent in motion, slicing through air and flesh with barely a sound. It was her companion in the shadows, her partner when she slipped past enemy lines or navigated the surface's deadly traps. The summit was her home, but it was also a cage. Its walls, its rules, its endless preparation for the next fight—they kept her alive, but they also bound her. She trusted Shun to lead them to the second stage, to fulfill his promise of breaking the cycle. But if he failed—if they all failed—she'd be ready. She always was.
"Kate," a voice called from across the armory. It was one of the younger scouts, barely out of training, his voice tinged with nervous respect. "You joining the recon briefing?"
She didn't look up, her hands still moving over Whisper's edge. "I'll be there."
The scout hesitated, his boots scuffing the floor as if he wanted to say more. Then he moved on, leaving her to her work. Kate's reputation kept most at a distance—her quiet intensity, her ability to slip through the surface's dangers like a wraith. She didn't mind the isolation. Solitude let her guard her secret, her hope, her heresy. She sharpened Whisper with care, her hands moving as if in prayer, each stroke a vow to herself: I'll find it. The second stage is coming. I'll be ready.
The armory's hum of activity faded into the background as she lost herself in the ritual. The other scouts might see her as cold, unapproachable, but that was their mistake. Kate wasn't cold—she was focused. Every mission, every sharpened blade, every memorized map of the surface's ruins brought her closer to her dream. She'd follow Shun because he was their best chance, but she'd never forget her own path. The world beyond the cycle was out there, waiting. She could feel it.
Joren, the Duelist
Joren leaned against a pillar in the training hall, his rapier balanced across his knees like an extension of his body. The blade was a masterpiece—slender, deadly, its steel etched with runes that glowed faintly when he channeled his energy through it. He twirled it absently, the motion fluid and instinctive, while his eyes tracked the recruits sparring in the center of the room. Their movements were clumsy, all raw enthusiasm and unrefined technique. He smirked, the corner of his mouth curling with a mix of amusement and disdain. They'd learn, or they'd die. That was the way of the summit.
His goal burned in his chest like a second heart, a vision that kept him sharp even in the cycle's endless grind. When this Act ended—when they broke free of the cycle's suffocating loop—he'd build something new. A school, perhaps, or a guild. A place where skill with a blade wasn't just a tool for survival but a craft, an art form, a legacy. He'd seen too many die for nothing, their deaths erased by the cycle's relentless reset. Friends, rivals, mentors—all gone, their names forgotten in the ash. If they escaped, if Shun's plan worked, Joren would make sure the next generation fought for something greater than mere survival. He'd teach them to wield a blade with purpose, with honor.
Clearing the Act was the first step, and Shun was the key. Joren trusted him, not out of blind loyalty but because Shun had never faltered, even when the odds were impossible. He'd seen Shun stand against horrors that would break lesser men, seen him rally the summit when despair threatened to swallow them whole. Joren didn't follow dreams or ideals—he followed results. And Shun delivered.
"Joren!" one of the recruits called, panting as he parried a clumsy blow from his sparring partner. "Care to show us how it's done?"
Joren grinned, pushing off the pillar with a lazy grace. "You'd cry if I did."
Habari and Bahari, the Brothers
In a shadowed corner of the training yard, Habari and Bahari faced off, their laughter echoing off the steel walls like a defiant song. The brothers were a study in contrasts, despite their shared blood and their origins in the beast realm. Habari, the elder, was a mountain of a man, his outer shell hard as stone, his movements deliberate and heavy. He wielded a massive tower shield, its surface scarred from countless battles, each dent a story of survival. His philosophy was simple: protect first, strike second. He preferred another as his shield, someone to stand beside him, to share the weight of survival. In the beast realm, that had been Bahari. Here at the summit, it still was.
Bahari, younger and leaner, was all spikes and swagger. His armor was lighter, designed for mobility, its jagged edges catching the light like the spines of some predatory beast. His weapon—a wickedly curved glaive—reflected his preference for flair over brute force. He was lazy by nature, or so he claimed, but his eyes burned with ambition. He fought with what he called his "woven body," a term from their clan that meant moving as one with the weapon, fluid and unpredictable. Bahari sparred for fun, for the thrill of it, but his true goal was the same as Habari's: power. They'd come to the summit from different clans in the beast realm, united by a shared hunger to transcend their origins, to become something greater than the sum of their scars.
"Move your feet, old man!" Bahari taunted, spinning his glaive in a flashy arc. The blade whistled through the air, aimed at Habari's side, a strike meant to provoke more than harm.
Habari raised his shield, deflecting the blow with a grunt that reverberated through his massive frame. "Talk less, little brother. You're wasting breath."
Bahari laughed, dodging a counterstrike from Habari's mace with a nimble twist. "Wasting breath? I'm warming up for the real fight!"
They sparred with the ease of brothers who'd fought together a thousand times, their movements a dance of trust and rivalry. Habari's shield absorbed Bahari's strikes with a dull thud, while Bahari's glaive darted and weaved, seeking gaps that didn't exist. Despite their differences—Habari's stoic resolve, Bahari's reckless energy—they were bound by heart, by a loyalty forged in the beast realm's brutal trials. They'd come to the summit seeking power, but they'd stayed for each other. And for Shun.
"Think he'll pull it off?" Bahari asked mid-spin, his glaive grazing Habari's shield with a screech of metal.
"Who? Shun?" Habari planted his feet, absorbing another blow with the ease of a mountain weathering a storm. "He's never failed us."
"Never failed yet," Bahari said, grinning as he ducked under Habari's mace. "Second stage sounds like a death trap. You sure we're betting on the right horse?"
Habari snorted, lowering his shield slightly, his dark eyes narrowing. "You trust him, don't you?"
Bahari paused, his glaive resting on his shoulder, the weapon's curve catching the light. "Yeah. I do. He doesn't act entitled like those other lizards. Like us, you'd think he's a beastman."
"Then stop talking and hit me," Habari said, raising his shield again, his voice gruff but warm.
Bahari obliged, launching into a flurry of strikes that Habari blocked with ease. The brothers fought not just for practice but for joy, for the bond that held them together across clans and worlds. They trusted Shun's decision to push for the second stage, not because they understood the metaphysics of "cutting through madness and chaos" but because they'd seen him lead. They'd seen him bleed. They'd seen him stand when everyone else fell. If Shun said the second stage was the path to victory, they'd follow.
The training yard was alive with their energy, the clash of shield and glaive a rhythm that spoke of brotherhood and defiance. Habari's shield was a wall, unyielding, while Bahari's glaive was a storm, relentless and unpredictable. They fought as they lived together, unbreakable, each other's strength and weakness. The second stage loomed like a shadow over the summit, but the brothers faced it as they faced everything: with laughter, with loyalty, with the unyielding will to rise above.