Thorne didn't know how long he lay in the small, dark room. Time seemed to stretch and warp, the minutes bleeding into one another until they lost all meaning. The tremors that had wracked his body had finally subsided, leaving him feeling hollow and drained. His thoughts, once a chaotic storm, had turned eerily silent. He stared blankly at the opposite wall, his mind numb, the weight of what he had done pressing down on him like a heavy blanket.

He told himself he had to get up. He repeated it over and over in his mind, a mantra that barely made a dent in the overwhelming emptiness. Finally, the thought of the notification that had flashed before his eyes—cold, indifferent—stirred something within him. He had leveled up. It had been months since his last level-up, yet the usual surge of satisfaction was absent, replaced by a gnawing void.

With a heavy sigh, Thorne forced himself to pull up his character sheet, inspecting his progress with a detached gaze. The familiar lines of text appeared before him, listing his attributes, his skills, his level—everything that defined his strength and abilities in this brutal world. His gaze lingered on the notification:

Character Level Up!

Name: Thorne

Level: 32

Race: Human

Age: 14

Special Trait: Elder Race

Health Points: 830/830

Aether: 540/540

Stamina: 850/850

Attributes:

Strength:

58

Agility:

75

Dexterity:

73

Endurance:

85

Vitality:

83

Spirit:

98

Wisdom:

54

Intelligence:

50

Skills:

Tracking:

25

Foraging:

6

Archery:

19

Running:

46

Stealth:

40

Reading:

15

Arithmetic:

12

Herbalism:

6

Acting:

22

Haggling:

10

Deception:

25

Sleight of Hand:

20

Pickpocketing:

18

Lockpicking:

15

Resilience:

30

Thick Skin:

35

Acrobatics:

37

Daggers:

41

Escape Artist:

33

Shadow Meld:

26

Mindguard:

7 → 10

Echoes of Truth:

14

Unarmed Combat:

21 → 23

Combat Reflexes:

5 → 30

Hunter's Insight:

10

Stealth Strike:

18

Cunning Trapper:

11

Critical Eye:

6

Crossbows:

7

Throwing Knives:

9

Lethal Flurry:

4

Backstab:

6

Primal Aether Manipulation: 15

Aether Burst:

9

Aether Surge:

7

Aetheric Grip:

5

He had 15 points to distribute among his attributes. In the past, he had always tried to distribute his points evenly, balancing his growth across all areas. But here, in this place, he knew that balance was a luxury he couldn't afford. Magic was too dangerous to rely on; the very thought of using it in this environment made his stomach twist with unease. No, it was his physical attributes—Strength, Agility, and Dexterity—that would keep him alive.

His fingers hovered over the options for a moment, then he made his decision. He poured five points into Strength, feeling the familiar rush of power as his muscles tightened and strengthened. Five more points went into Agility, and his body responded with a newfound lightness, his movements becoming quicker, more fluid. The final five points went into Dexterity, enhancing his precision and control, sharpening his reflexes like a finely honed blade.

As the changes settled into his body, Thorne could feel the subtle differences—the way his muscles coiled with more power, the ease with which he could shift his weight, the heightened awareness of his surroundings. For the first time since he had formed his core, he hadn't put any points into Spirit. A pang of guilt flickered through him, as if he were betraying a part of himself, but he pushed it aside. There was no better way. In this place, survival demanded strength, speed, and skill—not the ethereal power of his spirit.

Taking a deep breath, Thorne finally pushed himself upright, his legs steady beneath him. His fingers instinctively brushed the hilts of the daggers strapped to his hips, finding reassurance in their familiar weight. They were more than weapons—they were an extension of himself, his lifeline in this brutal world. He gripped them briefly, grounding himself like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

He had to clean himself up. The blood, the grime—he needed it gone, needed to wash away the remnants of the violence he had unleashed. He couldn't erase what he'd done, but he could wash away the evidence, even if it was only superficial. With a determined set to his jaw, Thorne left the small room, his footsteps muted as he started his search for water.

The corridors stretched out before him, cold and silent. His footsteps echoed faintly off the stone walls, each one a reminder of how alone he felt in this moment. He encountered no one on his way, a fact that brought him unexpected relief. He wasn't ready to face anyone—not with the weight of what he'd done still dragging behind him like a chain.

After what felt like an eternity, he found a small washroom tucked away in a quiet corner of the base. The room was sparse and utilitarian, the sharp smell of damp stone filling his nostrils. The cold, sterile atmosphere was a jarring contrast to the chaos still roiling inside him.

He approached the sink, the sound of rushing water startlingly loud as he turned the tap. The cold water spilled out, clear and relentless, and Thorne plunged his hands into the stream, splashing it onto his face. The icy sting cut through the haze in his mind, jolting him back to himself. He scrubbed at his skin with a desperation that bordered on frantic, his fingers working against the dried blood and grime as if trying to erase what had happened.

The freezing water seeped into his pores, biting through the numbness that clung to him, chasing away the fog clouding his thoughts. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, the cold prickling like needles against his face, his hands, his neck. He didn't stop until every trace of blood and dirt was gone, until he felt clean in a way that went deeper than the surface. The ache in his soul didn't fade completely, but the cold water dulled its sharp edges, bringing with it a strange, fragile calm.

When he finally straightened, droplets of water clinging to his skin, Thorne took a long, shuddering breath. The air felt lighter now, each inhale no longer suffocating. His reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink stared back at him, pale and drawn but composed. He turned away, unwilling to look at himself any longer, and made his way back to the room.

Pushing open the door, Thorne found Vance sitting where he had left him, still by the red-haired girl's side. The other boy's shoulders were slumped, his fingers twitching nervously against his knee. Vance's expression was unreadable, a mix of concern and lingering unease.

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Thorne approached slowly, his voice low and rough. "Any change?"

Vance didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the girl. He shook his head. "I tried to wake her, but… nothing. She's breathing, but she's out cold." His voice was heavy, tinged with exhaustion and a thread of guilt.

Thorne nodded, lowering himself to the floor beside Vance. The cold stone pressed against his back as he leaned against the wall, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. The weight of the day still pressed down on them both, filling the room with a silence that was almost suffocating.

Vance made a half-hearted attempt to speak, muttering something about how rough things were getting, but his words faltered, trailing off into the quiet. He was still shaken, the events of the day too fresh, too raw to process fully.

Thorne didn't respond, and they lapsed back into silence. They sat there, side by side, each lost in their own thoughts, the quiet broken only by the sound of the girl's faint, uneven breaths.

As the minutes ticked by, more recruits trickled back into the room, their footsteps hesitant, their faces a mix of exhaustion and anticipation. The air thickened with murmurs of subdued conversation and the restless shifting of bodies, but Thorne barely noticed. His mind was a tangle of thoughts, the noise around him fading into an indistinct hum.

When Lock and Talon entered, their arrival silenced the room instantly. The trainers carried an aura of authority that demanded attention, and every gaze snapped toward them. Lock's sharp eyes swept over the gathered recruits, lingering briefly on the red-haired girl and the two boys beside her. Talon's gaze was no less piercing, her expression unreadable, but the slight narrowing of her eyes betrayed that she had taken note of the situation.

"Your next class will focus on stealth techniques," Lock announced, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. His gaze roamed over the recruits, lingering on each one as though weighing their worth. "Stealth isn't optional. It's a critical skill, and mastering it will determine whether you succeed in the field—or whether you fail and get others killed."

Talon stepped forward, her tone less abrasive but no less firm. "Stealth is not just hiding in shadows. It's about anticipation, precision, and control. It's about reading your environment, outmaneuvering your enemies, and ensuring you're the one who decides when you're seen."

As the trainers spoke, Thorne's eyes drifted across the room, instinctively cataloging the reactions of the other recruits. His gaze snagged on the two girls who had attacked the red-haired girl. The one he'd fought was easy to spot—her face was pale, marred with bruises and smeared with the remnants of dried blood. She and her companion huddled together, their eyes darting toward him before skittering away, unable to hold his stare.

A flicker of satisfaction coursed through Thorne, but it was quickly smothered by a dull, gnawing unease. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on Lock and Talon. Still, the tension in the room was unmistakable, a subtle charge in the air that made every word from the trainers feel heavier.

When the trainers finished their introduction and called for the recruits to follow, Thorne hesitated. His gaze dropped to the red-haired girl, still lying unconscious on the bed. The knot of worry that had settled in his chest tightened. "Is it wise to leave her undefended?" he asked quietly, his voice low but edged with concern.

Vance, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke up. "She'll be fine," he said, though the slight hesitation in his tone betrayed a lack of confidence. He nodded toward the two girls cowering in the corner. "I mean, look at them. I bet they've already spread the word about what happened. Nobody's going to risk messing with her now."

Thorne's jaw tightened, his instincts at odds with Vance's reassurances. Still, there was logic in his words, and the thought of making a scene in front of the trainers made Thorne uneasy. He lingered for a moment longer before nodding reluctantly. "Alright," he muttered, more to himself than Vance.

With one last glance at the girl, Thorne pushed himself to his feet. His movements felt stiff, reluctant, as if his body resisted the idea of leaving her behind. But he forced himself to follow the rest of the recruits, his steps quickening to close the distance between him and the group.

As they moved through the dim corridors, the oppressive quiet of the stone walls pressed in on him. His thoughts churned, half anchored in the present, half lost in the memory of what had transpired. But when they finally entered the stealth training room, the weight of his thoughts was momentarily lifted by the sight that greeted him.

The room was vast and dimly lit, its walls lined with strange, jagged obstacles. Shadows danced across the space, cast by flickering green flames in hanging sconces. The ground was uneven, with patches of soft dirt, scattered rocks, and artificial pools of darkness created by cleverly designed alcoves. It was a place built to test them, to break them.

However, what immediately caught Thorne's attention were the large crystals floating in the air, spaced at intervals throughout the chamber.

Each crystal pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow, casting brief bursts of light that illuminated the room in short, sporadic flashes. The light was bright, almost harsh against the otherwise dark surroundings, and Thorne quickly realized that these crystals were the key to their next test.

Lock stepped forward, his sharp voice cutting through the low murmur of the recruits. "This is your next test," he began, his gaze sweeping over the room. "You will cross this chamber without being detected by the crystals. Every few seconds, these crystals will emit a burst of light. If you're caught in that light, it will trigger a reaction."

Talon, standing beside him, pointed to a crystal as it pulsed. Immediately, the crystal flared with a bright, rapid glow, flashing repeatedly as if sounding an alarm. "If a crystal catches you," Talon continued, her voice calm but firm, "it will mark you as failed. Stealth is not just about avoiding detection; it's about precision, timing, and understanding your surroundings. This test will mimic the kind of challenges you will face in the field."

Lock crossed his arms, his expression hard. "Move too fast, and you'll make noise. Too slow, and you'll run out of time. Every step you take must be deliberate. Show us you're not a liability."

The weight of their words hung in the air, and the recruits shifted uneasily, their nerves on full display. Thorne clenched his fists, his thoughts racing. His Stealth skill had been honed over years of survival and was far beyond what most recruits here could manage. But that was the problem. If he used it fully, he would stand out in a way he couldn't afford. Not here, not now. He couldn't afford to let Lock and Talon, or any of the other recruits, suspect that he had already formed his core.

As the recruits lined up at the starting point, Thorne forced himself to breathe evenly. He would have to hold back, make himself clumsier and louder than he actually was. He couldn't rely on his skills here, not fully. But even as he resolved to pull back, a part of him bristled at the thought of intentionally failing. He had to walk a fine line—succeed just enough to pass, but not enough to stand out.

The first recruit stepped forward, his movements tentative. The crystals pulsed with their relentless rhythm, and the bursts of light illuminated the chamber in harsh flashes. The recruit made it halfway before his foot caught on a loose rock. A crystal flared instantly, its warning light cutting through the darkness. Lock's sharp whistle sent the recruit trudging back to the start, his face pale with frustration.

One by one, the recruits attempted the course. Some moved with a semblance of grace, making it through a few crystals before slipping up. Others were caught almost immediately, their movements too clumsy or their timing off. The crystals seemed to mock them with their harsh, unforgiving light.

When Thorne's turn came, he stepped forward, his heart thundering in his chest. He paused, observing the closest crystal as it pulsed, counting the seconds between flashes. As soon as it dimmed, he moved, deliberately slower and less precise than he was capable of. His footfalls were heavier, his movements less fluid, but still, he managed to slip past the first crystal just as it flared to life.

As he moved deeper into the room, Thorne fought the instinct to activate his Stealth skill fully. He forced himself to make mistakes—allowing his elbow to brush against a crate, his foot to scrape across the floor—but he kept them minor, just enough to seem plausible for a recruit with no advanced training. The effort left him feeling tense, his muscles twitching with the desire to move faster, to vanish into the shadows as he knew he could.

He continued through the course, his eyes darting from one crystal to the next, timing his movements with the rhythm of the light. Every time he passed a crystal without being caught, a small sense of satisfaction crept in, despite his attempts to suppress it. When he finally reached the end of the course without triggering any of the crystals, he allowed himself a brief moment of relief. He had done it—he had completed the course successfully, and without giving away too much.

As Thorne waited at the end of the course, he watched the other recruits as they took their turns. To his surprise, most of them performed better than he had expected. Despite the difficulty of the test, many managed to make it through the course with only minor stumbles, their movements cautious but effective. It seemed that, under the pressure of the challenge, they had risen to the occasion.

However, not everyone succeeded. One large boy, who looked more like a muscle-bound barbarian than a stealthy assassin, struggled from the start. His heavy footfalls echoed loudly in the chamber, and the first crystal caught him almost immediately, flashing brightly as it signaled his failure. The boy cursed under his breath, frustration etched on his face as he was sent back to the start.

Then there was the girl Thorne had beaten earlier. She was still pale, her face marked with bruises, and she moved in obvious pain. Her fear was palpable, and it seemed to cloud her judgment. She hesitated too long at each crystal, second-guessing her timing, and it wasn't long before one of the crystals caught her, the flashing light signaling her failure. The girl flinched as the light pulsed around her, her shoulders slumping in defeat as she made her way back to the start.

Thorne watched her for a moment, but then forced his gaze away, focusing instead on his own thoughts. He had completed the course, but the satisfaction was hollow knowing that he had to hold back.

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