[First Floor - Tomas's Room, 21:00 DT]

  Tomas paced the cramped room, the thin walls absorbing the restless rhythm of his footsteps like a drumbeat of frustration and simmering anger. The stale smell of smoke and sweat clung to the air, thick and suffocating, as if the room itself had been breathing in his disappointment for days. He muttered curses under his breath—harsh words that tasted bitter on his tongue and carried the weight of dreams deferred and hopes burned away. What the fuck, he whispered, alone in the shadows where no one could see the way his hands trembled, four ration cards spent on this dump of a shelter, and still the cold weight of failure sat heavy on his chest.

  He had thought today might be different. Dane brought him to the tactics meeting, which was supposed to be his time. He felt something shift inside, a fragile ember of recognition flickering to life. Maybe someone had finally seen him. Perhaps he had carved a place in this fractured world. But in the end, it was the same old story: Dane was no different from the others who looked past him, who shaped him not as an equal, but as a blade honed to fall on others, sharpened only to cut down the old guard in a last, desperate gambit. Tomas dropped hard onto the lumpy cot, the rough fabric scratching at his skin, eyes fixed on the closed door as if it might open and undo this truth, but the silence stretched on, cold and unyielding, and no knock came to shatter it.

  [3:00DT - Tomas's Room, Pre-Dawn]

  He woke up exactly at three. No bargaining with the tiredness that pulled at his eyelids. His body moved instinctively, dropping to the floor with practiced precision born from months of grueling repetition. He counted out one thousand push-ups. One thousand sit-ups, wringing the weakness from his core. One thousand squats, building a foundation to stand tall on. Then the run, a hundred kilometers past the ragged edges of the camp, through broken trees and shattered stone, back and forth until his legs burned and his lungs tore with every ragged breath.

  The Earthbound System rewarded his efforts every morning with a fraction of a point in each stat. The Power came from the grind, the endless cycle of pain and endurance. Tomas found a strange sort of sanctuary in the simple routine.

  With so much time to think, he often thought of the day he got his freedom. Tomas was a half-elf, and he shared the same cages as the rest of the Earthbound. They called for his blood, scratching and clawing at him behind the bars.

  Then came Amelia.

  Her blade flashed like a shard of frozen light, cutting through the chaos with a voice that rolled like thunder over storm clouds.

  "Back off. Now."

  She stood, fierce and unyielding, a wall of fire between Tomas and the snarling mob, no room in her eyes for pleading or mercy. "No one touches him."

  The crowd faltered, then recoiled, as she shoved a piece of jerky roughly into Tomas's chest.

  "Eat. You're useless, dead."

  That moment was the first time someone had fought for him. He remembered that feeling of safety, which helped him push through the training. One day, he wanted to be strong for someone else. Tomas wanted others to feel what Amelia gave him: a sense of belonging. Amelia didn't mother him with softness, but the harsh training was the closest he had ever come to that, and it filled a void that he didn't know he had. She was the family Tomas had found in a world that had taken everything.

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  He rolled onto his back, breath steady, eyes tracing the cracked cave ceiling above as his muscles screamed in protest. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not today. Not ever.

  [Dawn - Telepad]

  Tomas hovered near the edge of the telepad, watching Dane with quiet intensity. Dane moved with a confidence that bent the crowd to his will. Amelia tightened her coat against the chill, eyes sharp and scanning the horizon like a predator stalking prey in the early light. Jason cracked a joke, something about odds and luck, but the smile was thin, strained, failing to reach his tired eyes. Mara moved with calm purpose, her hands busy packing tools that Tomas knew could mean the difference between life and death down in the heart of the dungeon.

  He kept his distance, spear loose against his shoulder. His eyes found Dane's, steady and unshakable. It comforted him to know that this man would protect Amelia.

  The group stepped onto the telepad. Light shimmered, and the portal hummed with power.

  Tomas stood still until the last flicker of magic faded. Then, turning away, he headed toward the training ground where others waited.

  [The training grounds - 9:00DT]

  Tomas moved through the milling crowd, spear tapping the dry earth impatiently to call attention. The militia's eyes flicked to him, some sizing him up, while others were doubtful, almost wary of the kid Dane left behind to hold the line. Murmurs rippled through the ranks, and Tomas could make out the mass of questions that his soldiers murmured under their breath. He had many of the same questions, but if they were ever going to respect him as a leader, he needed to show confidence and not entertain those questions.

  He cleared his throat, voice steady but sharp enough to cut through the noise.

  "Listen up."

  Silence fell.

  "Dane's gone down to the lower floors. This isn't a game anymore. We're the last line before everything falls apart."

  Scoffs, quiet but sharp, punctuated the tension. Tomas met every gaze, unflinching, letting the weight of his words hang heavy.

  "This isn't about who's the strongest or the loudest. It's about who's ready." He gestured toward the worn target post set against the wooden wall.

  "Show me your form. One by one." Hands shifted. Grips tightened. Boots scraped the dirt with restless energy.

  Tomas moved through the ranks like a gathering storm, correcting stances with precise words, adjusting grips with a sharpness honed through pain and practice, breaking down sloppy swings with biting clarity.

  "Control beats power. Power without control gets you killed." The words were Dane's, but after watching several soldiers move sloppily, he finally understood what Dane saw when he said them.

  Low murmurs drifted through the crowd: he was met with eye rolls, stifled sighs, and barely suppressed doubts. Then, sharp as a whip crack, came the spit, hot and foul, landing hard against Tomas's cheek.

  Dalia stood at the front, lips twisted with venom. "You're a kid playing at command. Dane's pet, nothing more."

  Anger exploded in Tomas's eyes, burning hot and fierce with rage and humiliation. He wanted to rip her mouth open, to carve a lesson so deep it would bleed forever. But he didn't. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms, and his teeth ground together.

  "No," he said through gritted teeth, voice low but firm. "You want to prove yourself? Step up. Show me."

  Dalia's eyes narrowed into cold, dangerous slits. One by one, others stepped forward, throwing words as raw and jagged as their blows. Each fight was brutal. Tomas held back punches that could have shattered bones. He answered with skill, weaving through the chaos with a fierce determination. By the end, bruises and blood stained the dirt like dark badges of honor. But so did respect.

  The sneers faded, and in their place was something he did not expect. Happiness. I should hand out beatings more often.