Tarrin's breath hitched.
"It's an illusion. It's an illusion. It's an illusion," he whispered, over and over, voice thin and cracking as he stared at the headless corpse.
His knees gave out—whether from pain or panic, he didn't know—and he crumpled forward, face hitting the dirt.
But even then, he didn't move. Just lay there, eyes open, staring at the blood-soaked ground.
His mind unraveled.
'I'm going to die out there. Just like this. Pathetic. Helpless. I'm not a warrior—I'm a fraud. A liar wearing someone else's skin. Why did I have to get this fucking scar?'
Thoughts slammed into each other like crashing waves, a storm with no end.
He rolled onto his back, breath ragged. With trembling fingers, he yanked up his sleeve with the help of his teeth and stared at it—the scar.
The mark he'd grown used to hating in silence. The thing that changed everything.
He lifted his mangled arm. Pain shot through him like fire. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it.
Then he brought a finger to the scar—
And started scratching.
Like if he just dug deep enough, he could peel it off. Erase it. Undo the moment that bound him to this nightmare.
Each scrape sent fresh agony down his nerves. His wrist bled. He didn't stop.
'Come off. Come off. Let me go. Please.'
A minute passed. Maybe more. Finally, his hands fell to his sides, trembling.
"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered, gaze locked on the blood trailing down his forearm.
Then something shifted.
'I will survive. Even if I have to crawl through filth, betray friends, rip my soul apart—I will make it through. I won't die here. Not like this.'
He drew in a shaky breath and lifted his head. No Scarbanes in sight.
One foot braced the ground. Then the other.
Slowly, unsteadily—Tarrin stood.
Tarrin glanced around the battlefield.
Death.
Destruction.
The twin signatures of the mainland.
Smoke curled into the blood-red sky, screams echoing like a twisted symphony. His mind flickered back to the Kades—Isle B4—the promises he'd made.
Invisible threads seemed to stretch from his chest, tying him to the people he'd left behind.
Then—footsteps.
He turned.
A man stood before him.
No. Not a man.
A corpse.
Rotten flesh clung to bone. Hollow, dead eyes. A rusted blade in hand, dragging behind it as it marched forward.
Tarrin's ribs screamed. His body was already failing. He wasn't in shape to fight. Not again.
But survival didn't ask for readiness.
He grit his teeth, stumbled forward, and snatched his fallen sword off the ground. Raising it with a shaky arm, he dropped into a loose stance.
"Come on, you rotten bastard."
The corpse moved. Fast. Sword high. No hesitation.
Steel met steel—
Tarrin parried, the impact sending tremors down his arm.
He twisted, slashed at its gut—blocked.
The corpse was strong. Too strong. Stronger than him.
He pivoted again, feinted left—denied. The dead thing lashed out.
Tarrin ducked, the blade slicing through a strand of his hair. His breath hitched. Dropping low, he brought his sword up in a vicious arc toward the neck.
It connected. Metal ripped through rotting sinew.
The zombie gurgled.
Tarrin exhaled, but then—he saw its eyes.
Still alive.
Still watching him.
A sickening squelch rang out.
Pain bloomed in his gut.
Tarrin looked down.
A blade—shoved through his stomach, poking out his back. Blood bubbled in his mouth.
He snarled. Let go of his sword.
And rammed two fingers straight into the zombie's eye.
It groaned, resisting, but he shoved deeper, ignoring the agony screaming through every inch of his body.
His hand plunged in—probing. Digging.
Pain blinded him. His body trembled. Vision swam.
But he didn't stop.
He stirred his fingers inside its skull, clawing at whatever necrotic matter kept the thing moving.
Then—
A fist. Brutal. Slamming into his jaw. A tooth flew free.
Tarrin nearly blacked out—but held on.
Another punch. Another stab of pain.
Still, he held on. Stirring. Digging. Screaming in his mind.
Until—
The eyes dulled.
The corpse slumped.
Dead. Truly dead.
Tarrin let go, collapsing backward as the blade pulled free from his body on the way down. He hit the ground with a grunt, blood soaking his clothes, mouth, and hands.
Every breath was a war.
The end… it was close.
But he was still breathing.
Tarrin lifted his head just enough to catch a glimpse of the towering light-spire in the distance.
A strange sense of déjà vu washed over him.
Then—darkness.
The nightmare collapsed into memory, one he wished he could bury and forget. But it clung to him, vivid and jagged.
His body jolted as the pod powered down, the dull hum returning like a distant siren. Cold sweat clung to his skin. His heart pounded as if the blade were still lodged in his gut.
Slowly, his breathing steadied.
The sterile white lights of the simulation facility greeted him. Cold. Clinical. Safe.
But the sting in his chest said otherwise—a phantom pain, lingering proof that the illusion had done its job.
He climbed out of the pod, legs trembling beneath him. He glanced back at the machine, its surface gleaming with faint condensation.
For a moment, he hoped the real battlefield wouldn't be that brutal.
But he knew better.
Out there, he wouldn't wake up. He'd die for real—and stay dead.
His eyes found Riko standing nearby. The other trainee looked pale, jaw tight, posture off by just enough to betray the mask. Not broken—but rattled.
Tarrin raised a hand in greeting.
"Hey. How was it?"
Riko didn't answer right away. His fingers twitched at his side.
"Died in the first three minutes," he muttered, voice thin. "And honestly? That was more than enough."
Tarrin gave a slow nod. "I just got out."
A brief silence passed.
Then he added, "Wanna hit the training yard this afternoon?"
Riko looked up.
"This simulation made one thing really damn clear," Tarrin said, his voice lower now. "Deployment's in two weeks. And I'm not ready."
He paused.
"Not even close."
Riko stared at the floor, lips pressed tight, the silence between them turning heavy.
"Same, bro," he muttered. "I've been here two months, and now… now I feel it. I haven't pushed myself. Not enough. Not even close."
His voice cracked. His eyes flicked across the spotless tiles, as if trying to find something—anything—to anchor himself. "I don't wanna die out there. Not like that. Not forgotten."
A hand settled on his shoulder.
He looked up and found Tarrin staring back at him—not with pity or sympathy, but something far simpler. A nod. Solid. Steady. Reassuring.
Riko blinked, then let out a shaky laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting into a half-smile. "Thanks, man. Needed that. Let's survive together, yeah?"
Tarrin's eye twitched slightly at the words, but he gave a quiet nod. "Yeah. Let's do that."
Just then, Jayden approached. He looked like hell. His eyes were red, hair damp and messy, the scent of antiseptic soap still clinging to him.
He'd clearly just come back from the bathroom—probably to wash the fear off his face.
"You good?" Tarrin asked, voice low.
Jayden hesitated, then exhaled. "Yeah… it just hit harder than I expected."
His voice was hollow. Frayed around the edges. The fight had drained something out of him—and he wasn't the only one.
This time, neither Riko nor Tarrin offered a joke or a snide remark. Just silence. The kind that understood.
Because now they knew—the simulation wasn't just a test.
It was a preview of the new reality they found themselves in.
One by one, the others joined them—Lena, Celith, Lucas. Their footsteps were quiet. Their faces grim. The group stood together, not out of camaraderie, but out of shared dread.
All eyes turned to Vincent.
He stood still, gaze sharp, posture rigid.
"This," he said, voice cutting through the quiet like a blade, "is the reality of the mainland."
No sugarcoating. No false hope.
"Forget the theatrics. Forget the heroics. Out there, it's about one thing: survival. And pain—a lot of it."
His words hung in the air like smoke.
"You've got two weeks. Train. Bleed. Break. Because when deployment comes, most of you won't make it."
Silence followed.
Then—"Dismissed."
He turned, leaving them alone with their thoughts. And for the first time, none of them said a word.