[Seven Months Later]
For exactly one hundred and sixty-eight hours, the subterranean vault of Deep Karakorum had been silent.
No P.A.C.I.F.I.C. Cleaners breached the rock-fold. No Alpha predators clawed at the sealed entrance. The Warlord's cover-up at Extraction Point Delta had held. The corporate elites had flagged the sector as a total loss and severed their tracking feeds.
For the first time since the Tutorial ripped them from their lives, the Faction had time to breathe.
Will stood near the edge of the Black Pool, watching the camp's rhythm settle into something that almost looked like peace. [Warlord's Star-Moss] carpeted the cavern floor in soft violet. Tyson and Don sparred under the dormant light of the Abyssal Forge. Tyson's jagged purple-scaled gauntlets, forged from an Alpha's own fangs, deflected blows sharper than they had a week ago. Don tracked him over the sight of his crossbow, calling adjustments in a voice that had finally stopped shaking.
