The cave had been hollowed with intent.
Stone pillars were reinforced with iron braces, their surfaces scarred by tool marks rather than erosion. Torchlight flowed through carved channels in the rock—controlled, deliberate, never wild. Sleeping sections were divided by rough canvas and timber, each partition branded with burned insignias. Weapon racks lined the walls, blades sorted by type and condition. Food supplies were sealed, guarded, counted.
This was not a temporary shelter.
It was a forward base.
Division Four had settled properly.
Modred moved through the cavern in silence, taking everything in. No wasted space. No unnecessary noise. Cadets moved with purpose, their expressions tight, the weight of the forest still clinging to them. Whatever fear the night had planted, Arthur had crushed it into discipline.
At the heart of the cave, beyond a narrow passage reinforced with iron plates, lay the briefing chamber.
Arthur and Taren stood over a wide stone table, a map stretched across it—Phoed Mountain rendered in ink and charcoal. Routes were marked and crossed out, zones circled, notes layered upon notes. Neither looked up when Modred entered.
Arthur spoke first.
"Division placements are still shifting. Two camps confirmed to the east. One destroyed to the south."
Taren traced a finger along a narrow route running across the mountain's spine.
"Hoblim territory overlaps here. Chimera signs farther up. If we move blindly, we bleed."
Modred leaned against the stone wall.
"We don't have time to bleed," he said flatly. "Seven days. That's all we get."
Taren turned sharply.
"Rushing the summit is suicide."
Arthur didn't interrupt.
"I didn't say rush," Modred replied. "I said we move. Sitting here mapping monsters won't win the Rite."
Taren's jaw tightened.
"I have a plan."
"And I have eyes," Modred said, pushing off the wall. "And they tell me every hour we waste lets other divisions dig in."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Arthur stepped forward and placed a hand on the table.
"We split tasks," he said. "Scouting continues. Threats get cleared selectively. No reckless charges."
Taren's smirk was brief, sharp.
"Fine. Just don't mistake patience for strategy."
Modred studied him for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh.
"You're insufferable," he muttered, slapping Taren's back hard enough to make him stumble forward a step. "If this goes wrong, it's on you."
Taren didn't turn around.
"Then trust me."
Morning came pale and cold.
Arthur gathered the division quickly, his orders precise and final.
"Lysara. Riven. Scout east. Confirm the other division's position."
His gaze shifted.
"Modred. You're with them."
Dante and Julius were assigned perimeter-clearing duty—chimera signs, lingering beasts, anything that might circle back toward camp.
Dante grinned as they prepared to move.
"Finally."
Modred mounted his horse and glanced at him.
"Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."
They rode out without ceremony.
The scene shifted.
Smoke rose into a grey sky.
Flames consumed what remained of a camp.
Cadets clad in white and blue uniforms moved through the fire with practiced ease. Their silhouettes cut cleanly through the smoke as steel flashed—crates overturned, supplies shattered, tents set alight. Their uniforms remained pristine, untouched by soot or flame, a cruel contrast to the destruction they left behind.
Amid the wreckage lay a single cadet in red.
Bruised. Bloodied. One arm twisted at an unnatural angle, his body pressed into the dirt as smoke coiled overhead. His teeth were clenched so tightly his jaw trembled.
He glared up.
A white-and-blue cadet stood over him, staring down with open disgust—as though looking at something already dead.
"You ambushed us," the cadet in red snarled. "Too scared to fight head-on?"
The man above him exhaled slowly.
Annoyed.
The strike came without warning—a precise blow to the jaw.
The words died instantly. The cadet's head snapped to the side as his body collapsed into the dirt.
"You're lucky," the man said calmly, withdrawing his hand.
"I didn't kill you like the others."
As he straightened, his figure came into full view.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Light brown hair kept neat despite the smoke. Cool gray eyes swept the burning camp with detached focus, as though calculating losses rather than watching bodies burn.
He turned to a nearby cadet.
"Where's the commander?"
The cadet stiffened.
"H–He said he was bored," he answered awkwardly. "Went off hunting beasts."
The man pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing briefly.
"I told that idiot to stay put."
Lowering his hand, his gaze hardened.
"Gather everything. Burn what you can't carry. Head back to camp."
"Yes, Legionnaire Leon," the cadet replied immediately, snapping into motion.
Leon turned away from the flames and walked toward the edge of the camp.
The ground ahead darkened—not with ash, but with blood.
A massive chimera corpse lay sprawled across the clearing, its grotesque limbs frozen mid-struggle. Light-forged swords impaled its body from multiple angles, their golden glow still pulsing faintly. Around it lay the remains of other beasts—cleaved apart, crushed, torn down with ruthless efficiency.
Sitting casually atop the chimera's carcass was a man.
He lounged as if on a throne.
Bright blond hair untouched by grime. Golden eyes glowing faintly, sharp with amusement. His expression carried an infuriating calm—lazy, arrogant, utterly unbothered.
Leon stopped below him.
"You're really trying to drag Division One into failure, Commander?"
The man grinned.
"Relax," Augustus Liam said lightly. "I was just stretching my legs."
Valcrest clicked his tongue.
"By running off and making a mess?"
Augustus shrugged, golden light pulsing faintly around the swords embedded beneath him.
"If they can't survive this," he replied calmly, "they don't deserve to climb higher."
His smile sharpened.
"No matter what happens—
I, Augustus Liam, will win this Rite."
The air around him chilled.
Leon exhaled slowly.
Already regretting the conversation.