Elsewhere,

Ellarine and her group had regrouped in the officer compound's secured wing.

She counted heads automatically: Bolt, Marcus, and some others, she couldn't remember their names.

Six, she calculated. Started with nine when we split from Bright's group.

There was three missing. Either dead, separated, or captured. The reality of Clear Light's Eve claiming their share.

"We should regroup with the others," Bolt suggested, the easy confidence in his voice matching the slight pompadour that seemed permanently fixed in place—a byproduct of his selection as an Independent, or perhaps just the kind of man he was.

"No," Ellarine said, her voice clipped and final. "We hold here."

She glanced around the ruined space, eyes measuring angles, exits, lines of failure. "This night's already collapsed into chaos. Our best move is to secure a defensible position and let those above our pay grade stabilize the situation." Her gaze hardened. "Adepts will be mobilized. With Vester's strategic value, the Republic won't ignore this—they'll already be dispatching reinforcements."

She exhaled slowly, control etched into every movement. "All we need to do is endure."

The noble training showed then, not in arrogance but in ruthless clarity. "Hunting for missing candidates in the middle of an active crisis doesn't save lives," she finished. "It multiplies the dead."

"What about that Morgan and his group?" Marcus asked. "They were not heading anywhere close to our direction—"

"Then they survive or don't based on their own capabilities." Ellarine's voice was pragmatic rather than cruel. "We can't help them without knowing their location and current threat assessment. Any emotional rescue attempt would just get us killed."

She was right. They all knew she was right.

But it still felt wrong to sit secure while other candidates might be dying.

This is what survival requires, Ellarine reminded herself. Cold calculation and emotional distance. The strength to make hard choices.

That's the Crownhold way.

She wondered if Bright's group was alive. Wondered if their desperate heroism had saved anyone or just gotten them killed faster.

We'll find out at dawn, she decided. They'll probably have a casualty list compiled by them and we'll get to see who survived the night.

Assuming we survive ourselves.

-----

Adept Goba was two hours from Vester, his response force maintaining punishing pace.

His Tank core hummed with stored power—not quite full capacity, but close enough for the engagement he expected. His soldiers were exhausted but functional, trained to operate beyond normal human endurance.

"Reports?" Goba demanded of his communications officer.

"Fragmentary, sir. Vester's emergency channels are compromised—too much interference, too many simultaneous transmissions. But we're receiving casualty estimates… they're substantial."

"Numbers."

"Hundred-plus confirmed dead. Multiple hundreds injured. Infrastructure damage is extensive. Three Adepts on-site, one critically wounded, two possibly engaged with active threats."

Goba processed the implications. Hundred casualties in a single night meant the assault was possibly catastrophic. Three Adepts insufficient to contain it meant the threats were either numerous, powerful, or both.

I'm walking into an active war zone, he understood. I hoped it would just be a cleanup operation not an actual combat deployment.

"Double-time march," he ordered. "We need to arrive before the situation deteriorates further. Move!"

His soldiers accelerated despite their exhaustion, driven by command and fear and the grinding discipline that made them Republic soldiers.

Two hours, Goba calculated. Two hours until I arrive. Two hours for Vester to survive on its own.

Hope those shits last that long.

-----

Adam watched from shadows, his rifle ready but not raised.

He'd killed Sinclair. Created one vacancy in the fifteen slots. Had positioned himself for an opportunity if more candidates died.

But watching the chaos— the Covenant fanaticism, the ants emerging from below—Adam recognized his limits.

He was still Fledgling-tier—at his core, nothing more than a baseline human with a rifle and a sharp mind. He could ambush, lay traps, pick off the careless or the isolated. Surprise and positioning were his strengths; in the right circumstances, they were lethal.

But this?

He watched Initiate-level combatants clash, watched bodies fall to forces he had no meaningful way to counter.

This wasn't his arena.

If I stay in this, he realized with cold clarity, I die.

No heroics. No gradual edge. Just an inevitable end.

One vacancy was enough, he decided.

With fewer candidates left and more slots suddenly open, he could present himself as a survivor—someone perceptive, composed, who had maintained situational awareness throughout the crisis. That kind of narrative carried weight. It always did.

More kills wouldn't improve his position.

They would only leave traces, he thought. Patterns. Questions.

The equation was simple: diminishing returns balanced against accelerating risk. And for once, restraint wasn't weakness—it was optimization.

He slipped back from the alley, abandoning its shadows for routes that promised structure and safety. Fortified corridors. Chokepoints. Places where chaos thinned and survival favored the cautious.

Tonight was no longer about seizing opportunity—it was about not miscalculating one.

My advancement comes first, he reminded himself, the thought cold and grounding as the Initiate threshold loomed within reach. And advancement means nothing if I don't live long enough to claim it.

So he chose endurance over ambition, patience over blood, and vanished into positions meant for those who intended to see dawn.

I'll take the one kill. Let chaos claim anyone else.

That's enough.

Has to be.

-----

The corridor continued its grinding death royal.

Ants feeding on everything. Covenant specialists dying with religious smiles. Crownhold operatives realizing their alliance had become a nightmare. The candidates surviving through perfect coordination and desperate determination.

Bright's spatial foresight tracked it all, commanded through chaos, kept his people alive moment by moment.

*

Just need to survive.

Around him, the four-way battle raged.

And somewhere above, the artificial sun was finally beginning its ascent, bringing light that would reveal how many had died during the terrible Clear Light's Eve holiday.

The corridor churned with violence.

And Bright kept his group alive.

One second at a time.

One command at a time.

One desperate choice at a time.

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