Mara materialized in the Shroud with the imdiate, bone-deep understanding that this was nothing like her previous fights.
First ti actually inside one.
Her Clear Mind core activated on instinct, smoothing the spike of fear into cold, usable focus. Her thoughts aligned, emotions dampened just enough to keep panic from clouding judgnt.
Clear Light’s Eve.
The Grim Hollow escape.
Those had been battles against Crawlers, yes—but on their side of reality.
This was different.
This was Crawler territory.
Their dinsion.
Their rules.
An environnt steeped in corruption that fed their instincts and dulled human advantage.
Ancient architecture lood around her—arched stoneways, fractured statues, balconies hanging at impossible angles. Remnants of a world before the Fall. Beautiful in structure. Wrong in atmosphere.
The air itself felt watchful.
Stay alert. Stay mobile. Stay alive, she told herself, turning the mantra into an anchor.
Her twin daggers rested easily in her grip. Familiar weight. Balanced steel. She rolled her wrists once, feeling the subtle alignnt of blade and bone.
Ti spent in Sparkshire’s combat arts course had carved those movents into muscle mory. The daggers no longer felt like tools.
They felt like extensions of her hands.
And in a place like this, that might be the only advantage she had.
Still, she wasn’t fully committed to the daggers.
She was experinting. Testing. Trying to figure out what truly matched the build she was growing into—not just what felt familiar in her hands.
Daggers are good for , she admitted. Her technique with them was solid. Reliable.
But good didn’t an optimal.
Did they maximize her reach? Her future strengths? Her evolving combat style?
That was a problem for later.
Right now, theory didn’t matter.
Survival did.
She moved through the Shroud’s streets with asured caution, steps deliberate, path choices calculated. Her Clear Mind core kept fear from spiraling, turning raw adrenaline into sharpened awareness instead of panic.
Training guided her movents.
Discipline kept her breathing steady.
She wasn’t comfortable.
But she was functional.
She was still a High-Tier Fledgling—not an Initiate like Bright, Duncan, or Adam.
Which ant she was out of her depth.
She still didn’t know how she’d been selected for Sparkshire in the first place. She’d been an add-on to her unit, not so standout prodigy. No legendary talent. No rare physique. Just... her.
And in the Shroud, just her wasn’t much.
Most things here can kill , she acknowledged without dramatics. One mistake. One misread movent. One Crawler above my limit.
That was the reality.
So she chose the only strategy that made sense.
Avoid the center.
Stronger candidates gravitated inward—toward higher kill counts, higher risks, higher glory. That was where the worst Crawlers clustered.
She stayed to the edges instead.
Shadowing outer streets. Picking paths with multiple escape routes. Listening more than moving. Fighting only if retreat wasn’t an option.
She wouldn’t survive through dominance.
She would survive through discipline.
Through caution.
Through refusing to play a ga she wasn’t strong enough to win head-on.
And for a High-Tier Fledgling in the Shroud—
That was the smartest decision she could make.
A Lesser Crawler erged from building ahead—a hunter with a basic threat profile, dangerous but manageable for soone her rank.
Mara engaged with practiced efficiency—mobility first, always. She cut angles, slipped blind spots, and let her daggers do what months of repetition had trained them to do: find the places that mattered.
The Crawler fell before it could mount a real response.
One down, she logged. Unknown number left. Keep moving. Take only what I can handle. Avoid what I can’t.
The next six hours beca an exercise in restraint.
She ran more than she fought. Hid more than she hunted. When combat was unavoidable, she ended it fast—clean strikes, no flourish, no drawn-out exchanges. Every movent carried the sa quiet priority:
Leave alive.
It wasn’t anything impressive or heroic.
During rare pauses—back against cold stone, breath controlled—she reset her thoughts.
This isn’t about glory.
It’s about proving I can function here.
That I don’t break.
That no one has to co drag out.
So she stayed to the margins of the Shroud—threading through ruined streets like a shadow that refused to be caught.
Alert.
asured.
And alive.
And for soone at her level—
That was a victory.
-----
Gregor reached the Shroud’s center with the quiet satisfaction of a man watching a plan unfold exactly as intended.
The convergence point.
Where the ambitious gathered.
Where kill counts were built.
Where people like Silas couldn’t resist proving themselves.
This is where he’ll co, Gregor thought, scanning the plaza with asured patience. Infiltration types always drift toward the action. Glory is bait. And he’s the kind who bites.
So Gregor didn’t prowl.
He waited.
Positioned with intention, sightlines clear, exits mapped, body relaxed in the way of soone ready to beco violent without warning. Not hunting wildly — ambushing fate itself.
The plaza told its own story.
Crawler corpses lay in uneven clusters. Limbs severed. Carapaces split. The stone was scarred by impacts, streaked with drying fluids—so dark and viscous, so unmistakably human.
Recent fighting. Hard fighting.
Which ant two things:
Strong candidates had already passed through.
And more would co.
Gregor rested a hand near his weapon, expression calm, purpose settled in his chest like a weight he’d long ago accepted.
Lacking the right connections has consequences, he reminded himself. Today, I’m one of them.
And he waited for Silas to walk into the center of the web.
Others made it this far, Gregor judged, reading the battlefield like a ledger. Strong ones. The center really isn’t for amateurs. Which ans interference is a risk.
So the job had to be fast, clean and decisive.
His gaze caught movent down a narrow alley choked with creeping, root-like growth.
Silas.
Half-turned. Attention angled elsewhere. Posture loose in that post-fight high — the subtle overconfidence of soone riding montum.
Gregor’s pulse steadied instead of racing.
There you are.
Distracted. Adrenaline-drunk. Riding your own myth.
Perfect.
He doesn’t see from this point.
Gregor shifted his weight, silent, asuring distance and the terrain.
One rush.
Close the gap.
And crush his face into the stone.
A statent.
One strike, Gregor thought, violence settling into him like sothing familiar. One ssage.
Silas laughed softly at sothing only he could see — still riding the glow of recent kills, awareness turned inward instead of outward.
To Gregor, that was the final confirmation.
Prey mindset, he concluded.
And predators didn’t announce themselves.
On the other end Silas spotted him—a brief eye contact across plaza, recognition without apparent concern.
He’s not taking seriously, Gregor thought with dark satisfaction. Probably thinks I’m just another student.
Gregor began closing the distance—moving with casual confidence that masked his predatory intent.
His expression was controlled but in Silas’ view he just spotted a huge bodied Gregor giving him a stink eye but he thought nothing of it as he thought the guy just had an ugly face.
Theodore was right. This is going to be easy.
He crept closer. ter by ter. Closing to a range where his cores could deploy effectively, where a single decisive strike would end the encounter before his target could respond.
Gregor thought his expressions and presence were not being read as he crept closer and closer. Until he was in a range for his ability to hit as he charged up his cores.
Now.
His cores activated fully—Body Enhancent flooding his muscles with power, strength multiplying beyond human baseline, montum building for a strike that would crush a skull or shatter a spine.
One attack. One demonstration. One—
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