The scent of blood was already thick in the air before the first howl. Not fresh, not yet—but old. Stained into the broken stone of the lake ruins. It clung to everything: the jagged walls, the shattered domes, the half-submerged pathways carved into the lake's bones.
Lysander crouched beneath a fractured archway, his breathing low, eyes scanning the far treeline. They were out there. He didn't need the rumble of dirt or the system alert to tell him that. The pressure in the air was enough. Like the world itself holding its breath.
The beasts didn't wait for the sun. They surged like a black tide from the broken edge of the ruins, clawed limbs scrabbling over stone, gnarled bodies dragging a smell of rust and bile with them. The first roar was swallowed by the mist, but the shriek that followed tore straight through it, sharp enough to make my vision tremble.
I didn't wait.
I moved.
My blade arced low. One of the dog-limbed creatures lunged, jaws twisted with bone spikes, but it wasn't fast enough. I twisted, slammed my foot into the mud, and drove my weight forward. The blade caught its throat. Wet. Crunch. A moment's resistance, then a spray of heat.
Another one came. From the left. Smaller. I didn't parry—I let it bite, felt its fangs scrape against my bracer, then drove the dagger through its eye socket. The twitching stopped with a pop.
They didn't stop.
A shadow leapt over the half-buried statue beside me, snarling as it descended. I pivoted. Too slow. It clipped my shoulder, claws dragging against my armor. I rolled, pain hot in my ribs, and shoved the beast off with my knee before kicking it hard enough to break bone. It didn't scream. None of them did. Not until they died.
I caught breath, only to find more coming.
Gwen shouted something. Maybe my name. Maybe not. I didn't turn. I couldn't. Every time I looked back, someone dropped. That was the pattern. That was the rule.
Instead, I moved again. Slower now, every step heavier, like I was dragging chains. Another beast—a feline one this time, too lean, too long—bounded over a fallen pillar. I ducked low, felt its claws rake air above my head, then spun, drove my weapon between its ribs.
It shuddered, then fell silent.
I looked up. Not far—someone was screaming. Not just pain. Panic. A Red Fang. Gareth.
He was surrounded. Four beasts. No—five. I could see them circling, hear him curse, his voice hoarse and high-pitched. He fought dirty. Always had. But now, that didn't matter. One leapt on his back. He slammed it down. Another tore at his leg.
He shouted again, a desperate howl.
I watched.
My fingers twitched. But I didn't move. My legs didn't listen.
Because I remembered what he did few hours ago killing a scroll bearer just because it was convenient to do so .
Now he screamed again, and no one came.
I turned away. And I kept moving.
Colonel didn't flinch when Gareth's scream ended. His eyes stayed on the map drawn in mud and ash. Around him, Red Fangs fought like devils. Some fell. More rose. That was the way of it.
Jason, on the other side of the crumbled aqueduct, was less composed. He stood beside Gwen and that quiet twin-sword wielder—Berrick, perhaps?—and watched with clenched teeth. Blood had painted the stones beneath them. Ryn had almost gone under twice already. It was Berrick who saved her the first time. The second, Gwen did.
But Jason? He just watched.
"They're getting stronger at night," Gwen muttered, her sword dripping viscous gore.
"They adapt. Every wave is different." Jason's voice was flat. Almost rehearsed.
Berrick looked toward the mist. "Red Fang's falling apart. They lost three already. Gareth's gone."
Jason nodded. "Colonel hasn't moved once."
Across the battlefield, Mirror Faith had taken a different stance. Aisle, robed in blood-specked white, stood at the lip of a cracked amphitheater with his followers spread in silent formation. They hadn't fought as much as… observed. Intervened only when needed. And even then, only for themselves.
One follower—a boy no older than seventeen—was torn down by a serpent-beast with bone-woven wings. No one moved to save him. Not even Aisle.
They simply let the boy scream.
He did. Long. Loud. A sobbing cry that echoed across the stone. Then nothing.
Aisle closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Or maybe it was a number.
Back by the central ruin, Arvell of the Aristocratic Front met eyes with Colonel. A moment. Not long. Not friendly.
Neither spoke.
They didn't fight. Not directly. Not yet. But the pressure between them was thick enough to choke.
And above them all, the Veil Frame flickered.
Names. Contributions. Echo Tags.
None had reached the top yet.
But Lysander was climbing.
When the third tide ended, what remained of the factions regrouped. The center of the ruins—a flooded courtyard surrounded by shattered towers—became the new meeting ground. Not by choice. The system's announcement made sure of it.
> Trial Phase: in progress. Duration: 3 Nights. Objective: Survive. Highest Contribution will be Rewarded.
No further detail.
Gwen stared at the announcement like it might bite her.
"We're not just fighting waves anymore," she said, voice low. "This is something else."
Jason stood near a half-fallen spire, eyes sweeping the terrain. "There's something under the lake. Look at the shape of the buildings. Everything collapsed inward. Like something pulled it down."
"Or tried to rise." Gwen didn't smile.
Mirror Faith didn't speak. They'd already moved closer to the edge of the sunken plaza, forming a half-ring. Aisle stood at the front, murmuring to a piece of crimson cloth wrapped around his arm.
Colonel hadn't spoken since Gareth's death.
His second, a woman with three blade scars across her jaw, kept watch. She muttered to another Red Fang, too far to hear. But Lysander saw the way they glanced toward the Aristocrats. And toward Gwen.
The tension wasn't loud. It simmered.
Then someone asked, "What happens if we don't survive?"
No one answered.
But the system did.
> Harvester Emergence: Final Nightfall.
The words were brief. Cold.
No one knew what the Harvester was. But the older ruins told part of the story. There were carvings—half-erased—showing a great beast, stitched from man and monster, rising from the lake, dragging chains behind it.
Lysander knelt near one of the etchings. Ran his fingers along the grooves. It wasn't just beast-tide carnage.
Something had lived here. Fought here. And been buried here.
But not forgotten.
As the factions spread out, preparing for the next tide, Lysander caught something in the water's reflection. A shimmer. Faint. Almost like a flicker of fire behind his eyes.
He blinked. It was gone.
Probably nothing. Probably just fatigue.
Probably.
---
Part 4 – The Stillness Before the Storm
Night settled in like smoke.
The ruins, lit only by makeshift fires and flickering Veil Frames, cast long shadows over the broken plaza. The water lapped quietly against submerged stone. Somewhere in the distance, a beast howled. It wasn't time yet—but they were coming.
Lysander stood near the edge of the trial zone, weapons sheathed, breath steady.
All around him, the survivors waited.
Some muttered prayers. Others checked their gear. A few simply sat, staring into the dark, as if expecting something to rise.
And far below, beneath layers of collapsed history and bone-choked water—
Something moved