The Black Knight led them through the battlefield. Walking with heavy, purposeful steps.
Around them. The ground was littered with the aftermath of war.
Broken weapons. Shattered shields. And bodies in both red and black armor.
The air was thick with the scent of smoke, blood, and iron. It clung to the back of Kyle’s throat with every breath.
He kept his grip tight on Zalrielle, his tachi. The blade still faintly cold in his hand.
His knuckles were white. He didn’t trust anything here.
Not the knights. Not the silence. Not even the ground beneath his boots.
This place felt wrong. Like the entire world was holding its breath.
Eleanora walked quietly beside him. Her steps were steady, but her face gave away nothing.
She hadn’t said a word since the last fight. Not even when she was bleeding. She just kept moving, calm and distant.
Serena was limping a little. She didn’t complain.
Her glaive rested across her shoulder. And her eyes stayed on the path ahead. Unreadable as always.
But Kyle noticed the way her fingers kept twitching. Small, sharp movements, like she was forcing herself to stay in control.
Cassian was unusually silent too. The fire in him had dimmed.
He walked with a slight drag in his injured leg, his fists still wrapped in scorched cloth.
Every now and then. He glanced at the ground, as if trying to process the bodies they passed.
Cedric, on the other hand, looked sharper than before.
His grip on his sword was loose, not nervous.
His eyes scanned everything. The terrain, the fallen, the horizon. He looked more alert now. More focused.
Like the last battle had shaken something out of him.
The Black Knight eventually stopped in front of a large, Dark tent.
Its fabric was heavy and thick, fluttering in the wind.
Two guards stood at the entrance. Their armor polished but scratched, weapons crossed in front of them.
"Commander," the knight said, raising a fist to his chest. "The mercenaries are here."
A voice came from inside, deep and calm. "Let them in."
The guards stepped aside.
Kyle took a breath. Then stepped forward, pushing aside the flap.
Inside. The tent was dim. A single lantern hung from the center pole. Casting a soft, flickering light.
A long wooden table dominated the space, covered in maps, papers, empty cups.
And small daggers pressed into corners to hold them down.
At the far end sat a man in worn black armor. Not flashy. Practical.
His breastplate was dented, one pauldron missing entirely. But it was still clean and held together.
His hands were clasped in front of him.
He looked older than Kyle expected. Probably in his forties. Short black beard, streaked with gray.
One eye milky and blind. The other sharp as a hawk’s. A jagged scar stretched from his left temple down to his jaw.
He didn’t rise when they entered. Just leaned back in his chair and looked them over.
"So," he said after a moment. His voice was gravelly, but calm. "You are the ones who held the line."
Kyle nodded, cautious. "Didn’t really have much of a choice."
The Commander gave a dry chuckle. "That’s how most good soldiers start." He gestured toward the empty chairs near the table. "Sit."
They did. Slowly. Warily.
Cassian winced as he sat. His injured leg stiff and sore.
Serena sat like she always did. Shoulders straight, back straight.
Her eyes barely blinked. Eleanora sat like a statue, calm and unreadable.
Cedric stayed quiet, hands on his lap, eyes flicking to the maps.
Kyle didn’t relax. Not even a little.
The Commander leaned forward and studied them.
"You fight better than most of the mercs we have scraped together," he said plainly.
The man continued. "I don’t care where you came from. You bled for us. That matters more than banners and names."
He tapped a finger on the map in front of him.
"We are boxed in. Red Legion’s coming hard. We’re holding this pass. But just barely.
"They’re bringing another full battalion by dawn."
His tone was matter-of-fact. No panic. Just cold truth.
"If they get past us here. They’ll flank the main force. The war ends in their favor."
The five students stayed quiet. The words felt too big, too serious. Like something out of a history book.
But this wasn’t a book. This was happening.
"And I’ve lost too many men to pretend pride still matters," the Commander added.
"I need fighters. I don’t care if you’re mercs or ghosts. Anyone who can hold steel and survive three waves is worth keeping."
He looked at each of them.
Kyle. Cedric. Eleanora. Serena. Cassian.
"I’m offering a contract," he said.
"Fight with us until this battle ends. You’ll get food, treatment, armor. Coin if you live. If you die. Well," he gave a tired shrug.
"At least you’ll have died standing."
Kyle didn’t look at anyone.
He already knew what they were all thinking.
They had no supplies.
And no exit unless they completed the dungeon’s objective.
Eleanora gave the tiniest nod without turning her head.
Serena’s fingers stopped tapping.
Cassian glanced at Kyle, then gave a slight shrug.
Cedric exhaled quietly, then nodded once.
They didn’t need to say it out loud.
The dungeon had already chosen their side.
"We’re in," Kyle said, his voice steady.
The Commander’s face didn’t change much. But the edges of his mouth lifted in something close to a grin. One of his back molars was missing.
"Good," he said, rising slowly from his chair. The wood creaked under his weight.
"Then let’s get you patched up. Can’t have you bleeding out before the real fight begins."
He turned to one of the knights outside the tent.
"Take them to the quartermaster. Give them fresh bandages, something hot to eat."
"And tell the medic to fix the one with the leg." He pointed at Cassian.
"Welcome to the Black Legion," the Commander said.
Then he turned back to the map. Already thinking about the next fight.