Elior walked down the narrow corridor of the bunker, the low hum of damaged generators echoing faintly.
The lights flickered every few seconds, painting everyone's faces in shifting shades of pale white and red. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and metal. The signs of people who had lived too long underground, running from something that they don't even know, that might no longer be escapable.
When he reached the common room, the chatter went quiet.
Every face turned toward him. Men, women, even children with afraid hands holding scraps of old ration packets. They'd all heard the rumors.
The Overseer. The armies will gather outside. The crimson clouds that hadn't cleared in days.
Elior's expression was calm, but his eyes betrayed the fatigue carved deep inside him. He stood in the middle of the room and spoke softly, voice steady but edged with something heavy.
"Everyone," he began. "I need your opinion. What should we do now?"
Silence. Only the dull thrum of the power lines replied. He looked around of faces filled with exhaustion, disbelief, resignation.
"The armies coming outside.…" he continued, "they're not just monsters. The sky is starting to rot soon. I don't know if there's going to be a tomorrow after tonight."
A woman stood first, voice shaking. "You are saying.… this is it? The end?"
Elior nodded once. "It might be. We still have choices. We can run deeper, hide, or stay and fight. I need to know what you believe is worth dying for."
The crowd stirred. A man in torn uniform shouted, "We've been running for nights which feels like months! If we die, we die here! I won't go down hiding in a hole again!"
An old man nearby gripped his cane. "I don't want to die," he said quietly, "but…. staying together is all that matters now."
A teenager beside him whispered, "If we run, there's nowhere to go. We should trust you—the hunters. You've gotten us this far."
Elior's gaze softened. He wasn't looking at them anymore. He was looking at the remnants of a people who had seen too much loss to even remember hope properly.
The side hallway, Tom and Rosario quietly stepped closer, listening unseen. They didn't interrupt, just stood, heads bowed, hearing Elior's words, the weariness behind his strength.
Elior looked back at the crowd. "If this is our last night together," he said, "then I want you all to know, you weren't abandoned. Whatever happens, we'll fight for you till the end. Even if it's hopeless, we'll fight anyway. If we were meant to lose, what's the problem trying?"
A few of the survivors nodded, others cried silently. Someone whispered, "Then we'll fight too."
Tom exchanged a glance with Rosario. Understanding.
All these became the rhythm of preparation. Elior stood in the center of the main chamber, coat half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, chalk and old papers spread over a rusted table.
"Fifty-seven," he murmured, counting the faces that had gathered before him. His voice was calm, measured. "Fifty-seven survivors in total. That's all we've got left. No one else is coming for help"
He pointed toward the left side of the room, where younger faces very tired but alert stood in a loose line. "Thirty-four of you are Hunters," he said, "which means you have at least basic combat understanding and active blessing access." His gaze turned toward the others men and women, a few elderly, even a boy barely seventeen. "The rest of you, Homans, will stay behind the Hunters, but you'll still fight. No one here is helpless anymore."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the group. Some of the Homans looked terrified; others straightened their backs with forced courage.
Tom leaned against the wall nearby, watching. Rosario stood beside him, silent, arms crossed, while Grace and Vera sat close to the medical desk, observing quietly.
Elior began dividing them into groups. "Hunters Alpha through Delta will handle front defense. Hunters Roam and Foxtrot will act as support units. Homans, you'll be trained in close-quarters defense. Anything you can swing, throw, or use to protect yourself, learn it."
He walked along the lines, eyes scanning each person. There was no commander's arrogance in him, no detached leadership, just quiet, absolute resolve.
He stopped beside a young woman holding a makeshift spear. "Name?"
"Lyn," she said nervously.
"Ever fought?"
"Only once…. I survived."
"That's enough," Elior said softly. "Remember who kept you alive then, and hold onto it."
As he continued, Tom noticed something strange. Every person Elior spoke to stood a little taller afterward. His calm wasn't loud, but it reached them, anchored them.
After a while, he clapped his hands once. "Training starts now," he said.
They began with formation drills. The Hunters demonstrated how to move as a unit, rotating shields, maintaining spacing. The Homans struggled at first tripping, misstepping but Elior never raised his voice. He corrected with patience, teaching them how to fight, how to hold their weapons, how to survive.
Tom joined in, demonstrating spiral-cut techniques with invisible blades. Rosario sparred two Hunters at once, his teleportation flickered in silver sparks. Even Vera stepped up, adjusting grip positions, his sharp eyes scanning movements like a teacher.
Grace, though still weak, sat by the entrance, watching with quiet admiration. she wasn't feeling fear, she was watching people move, fight, believe eachother.
After hours of drills, Elior gathered everyone again. "Listen," he said. "When the time comes, it won't be about who's stronger or faster. It'll be about who stands last. The Overseer won't care about ranks or power, it'll just destroy everything it sees. If we fight as one.… we can buy a little more time for this world."
The room was silent. Then someone clapped. Another followed. Soon, the entire bunker was spreading with applause not of celebration, but of defiance.
Fifty-seven hearts, ready to fight against the end itself.
Under the flickering white light, Elior finally allowed himself a small, weary smile.
Grace quietly slipped away from the noise and rage of training boots on the metal floor. The moment she closed the door to her room, the sound softly replaced by the faint hum of the old ventilation and the low buzzing of the bulb above.
She leaned her back against the door, exhaling deeply. Her hands were trembling a little, her body still weak from the wraith's corruption that had almost taken her life. Everything felt heavy, her heart, her breath, the air itself.
Outside, faint shouts of commands. Elior's voice, steady and sharp. Tom's laughter, forcing morale into a group that was barely holding on.
Rosario's dry remarks cutting through the tension. Vera's occasional instruction, calm and precise. They all sounded so alive. So ready.
Grace lowered herself onto her bed. Her fingers brushed over the edge of the blanket, the same one Arlong had once given her when she was cold. A quiet, distant smile curved on her lips before fading.
She whispered to herself, "They're training like tomorrow might not come."
Her gaze drifted to the small, cracked mirror on the wall. The reflection showed a pale face, tired eyes, but still alive. Her fingers traced the window slowly. "I don't even know what I am anymore," she murmured."
The bulb flickered again, throwing the room into short bursts of darkness and light. In that rhythmic pulse, her mind began to wander in the past hours of chaos.
The monsters. The red sky. The Overseer. Arlong's sacrifice. Elior's endless planning. Tom's fury, barely caged.
She rubbed her chest, feeling her heartbeat. "It's all happening too fast," she whispered. "I just want it to stop. Just one day where we can eat together, laugh again…. talk about useless things. A day where the sky is blue...."
Her words were carrying emotions, almost breaking between breaths.
Through the small vent, she could hear faint echoes of the sound of blades clashing, footsteps, bursts of commands. The Hunters, all thirty-four of them, training as if their lives depended on every move. Twenty-three Homans were under shelter deeper inside, probably whispering prayers, holding hands, trying to stay brave.
Grace closed her eyes and let the sound of their voices lull her. She tried to dream of sunlight, of peace, of mornings that didn't begin with jumpscares.
"I hope," she whispered, voice trembling, "that when this is all over…. everything will be normal again."
Her fingers clutched the blanket tighter, pulling it to her chest. The bulb finally steadied its light, soft and warm against her tired face.
The sound of fists striking sandbags and the hiss of energy blades slicing through wind filled the bunker yard.
The 34 Hunters were spread across the open dunes outside the shelter while sweating, shouting, clashing under Elior's watchful eyes.
Rosario and Tom were off to the side, sparring again, drawing attention as usual.
"Your stance is wide again," Rosario said, deflecting Tom's spinning blade with his bare forearm.
"It's called improvising," Tom snapped back, grinning, twirling his weapon before lunging again.
"Improvising? You mean flailing like a drunk crow."
"Yeah? Then I'll show you how that crow plucks the feathers off a show-off like you."
They exchanged blows fast, their rhythm became fluid, part duel, part mockery. Hunters nearby paused to watch, laughing and murmuring bets.
Tom's face was streaked with sweat, his eyes remaining sharp but playful. Rosario smiled faintly, that cold, teasing smirk that could provoke anyone into giving their best.
Elior watched them for a while, arms crossed, a rare hint of warmth breaking through his usual composure.
He turned to the others, calling out, "Keep your footwork light! The enemy won't wait for your balance!"
Dozens of Hunters adjusted, the air rippling with synchronized motions. Elior's eyes swept the crowd, then drifted beyond the toward the far horizon. His mind was elsewhere, as it often was these days.
Fifty-seven of us left, he thought. Thirty-four who can fight, twenty-three who must be protected. And me, trying to hold a sky that keeps trying to eat me.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He felt it, something's off. The wind had gone silent, unnaturally. Even the faint rustle of sand against boots faded.
He looked up cautiously.
At first, he thought it was just a passing cloud. This wasn't cloud. It was a shadow with edges too sharp, too deliberate.
Within seconds, the world dimmed. The sun, blazing in its noon glory, started bleeding out at the edges like ink swallowed the gold.
Tom and Rosario stopped mid-fight, his grin fading as he glanced skyward. Rosario's expression hardened immediately. The air grew heavier, dense with something ancient, something wrong.
"Elior.…" Tom muttered, eyes wide. "What's happening?"
Elior didn't answer. His gaze was locked on the sky. The circle of the sun was shrinking, consumed by a black curve sliding across it with impossible precision.
The Annular Solar Eclipse.
This wasn't natural, no pattern of nature carried that kind of darkness.
The daylight collapsed into something evil. Even the dunes around them began to lose color, turning to muted grey. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, bending against the wind.
"Get everyone inside," Elior said quietly. His voice was calm but strained, like someone speaking through an invisible weight pressing on their chest.
Rosario and Tom exchanged a quick look but obeyed, rushing to call the others.
Elior stood alone for a moment, staring up at the ring of fire hanging in the black sky. The corona flared faintly, forming a perfect, burning ring. The eye of something vast, unseen.
His thoughts raced around annular eclipse. It's too soon…. it shouldn't happen so early!
The light dimmed further, until the desert seemed to drown in darkness. He could barely see his own hands. The first tremor hit.
Elior's pupils constricted. "It has begun.…" he whispered.
Above that perfect black sun blazing, once like something watching from behind it had just opened its eyes.