The rookies went silent. Frozen. Each one weighing whether to attack her.
I could see it in their eyes—the calculation, the fear, the desperate hope that someone else would make the first move. They wanted her ribbon. They wanted her dead. But they also wanted to live.
Cowards. All of them.
It was stupid, really. Worthless. Why kill each other over one person? One strip of silver fabric that meant nothing outside this floating hell?
Rela looked back at me. Her four arms shifted, axes glinting in the dim light filtering through the blood-streaked deck above.
"Jump off," she said. Her voice was calm. Controlled. Like she was discussing the weather. "Before I left the inner decks, I saw a medical room. There might be potions—things to help you recover faster."
I nodded. Couldn't speak. My throat was too dry, too tight.
I slid off her back.
My legs nearly buckled. The Shaman of War had taken everything—my strength, my stamina, my Lumin. I was running on fumes and stubbornness.
Rela widened her stance, both axes open wide. Her muscles coiled. Her eyes swept the crowd like a predator sizing up prey.
"I'll clear a path."
Then she launched herself like a missile.
The first two adventurers never saw her coming. The ranger was mid-draw, arrow notched, when Rela's axe took his head clean off. It bounced twice before rolling to a stop against the far railing.
The mage had time to scream. Once. Then her axe opened him from shoulder to hip.
Both bodies split open before they hit the ground.
Blood sprayed. The crowd recoiled.
I wasted no time. I ran.
My legs screamed. My lungs burned. Every step sent fresh agony through muscles that had nothing left to give. But I kept moving. One foot. Then the other. Then the next.
Behind me, I heard Rela's axes singing their deadly song. More screams. More bodies falling.
Don't look back. Just run.
My eyes burned, heavy as stones, but I forced them open. I weaved through fighters, past clashing steel, over fallen bodies. The deck was a slaughterhouse—limbs everywhere, blood pooling in the gaps between wooden planks, the rain doing nothing to wash it away.
A woman with a halberd sprinted toward me, faster than the others. Her eyes were wild, desperate. She'd seen me escape. She wanted my ribbon.
I grabbed a smaller blade from my belt and threw.
It caught her shoulder—not deep, but deep enough. She stumbled, cursed, grabbed at the wound. Her halberd clattered to the deck.
I kept running.
The interior hatch loomed ahead. Dark. Open. Waiting.
I dove through.
Silence.
Not complete silence—I could still hear the screams and clashes above, muffled now by layers of wood and distance. But compared to the chaos I'd just left, it was peace.
I stumbled down the stairs. My hand trailed along the wall, keeping me upright. Past rooms—some open, some closed, some with blood seeping under the doors. Past corridors that branched off into darkness. Past bodies that hadn't made it this far.
Then I saw it.
A red cross. Painted on a door larger than the rest.
Medical bay.
I kicked the door open, claymore raised—then immediately lowered it. I could barely hold the thing. The Shaman of War had drained me dry. If anyone attacked me now, I'd be dead before I could swing.
But no one attacked.
Twenty beds. White curtains between each. White-painted floor. Clean sheets. Neatly folded blankets. The smell of antiseptic and herbs.
Silence.
The contrast hit me like a wave. No screams. No clashes. No dying. Just... quiet.
I walked through the room, my footsteps echoing off the walls. Each bed was perfectly made, untouched. Waiting for patients who might never come.
At the far end, I stopped.
A steel safe dominated the wall. Bigger than a carriage. Taller than me. Wrapped in navy-blue chains that gleamed even in the dim light. A blue lock at the center—mithral, same as my claymore.
I examined the lock. Heavy. The size of a book. A small keyhole at its center, barely visible.
Secure. And I can't even lift my blade to cut it.
I tried anyway. My arms shook violently. The claymore barely rose an inch before crashing back to the floor.
Crap. Energy zero.
My senses sharpened.
I turned.
An old man stood in the corner. White cloak. Full white hair, thick and wild. Deep wrinkles carved into his face like riverbeds on a map. A massive red cross embroidered on his coat—the same symbol as the door.
He raised his hands—not in surrender, but in calm acknowledgment. His eyes were docile. His lips straight. No fear. No aggression. Just... patience.
"Who are you?" His voice didn't shake. Didn't waver. Like he'd seen a hundred bloody adventurers stumble through that door and knew exactly how to handle them.
I tried to straighten. Failed. Leaned against a bed frame instead.
"Zain." My voice came out cracked. Weak. "Rookie. Currently trapped in whatever hellhole this ship has become." I gestured vaguely at the ceiling, where muffled screams still filtered through. "You know. That."
I tried to raise my claymore again. My arms refused to obey. They just hung there, limp and useless.
The old man studied me for a long moment. Then he lowered his hands.
"My name is Raemon." He stepped forward, movements slow and deliberate. "Ship healer. Sent by the Adventurer's Association." He gestured at the nearest bed. "You're injured. Tired. Sit."
I didn't argue. I stumbled to the bed and collapsed onto it. The sheets were soft. Clean. Civilized. After hours of blood and chaos, it felt like another world.
"Why send a healer here?" I asked. "Won't other adventurers target you?"
He reached beneath his coat and pulled out a chain. A golden pendant dangled from it—a slain dragon, wings spread, mouth open in a final silent roar.
"Healers are protected." He tucked the pendant away. "No one touches us. The consequences are... severe."
He pulled gloves from his pocket and began putting them on. Slow. Methodical. Like he had all the time in the world.
"Remove your gauntlets and vest."
No room for argument. I unstrapped my gauntlets—fingers fumbling, muscles screaming—and pulled off my vest. The fabric stuck to my skin, wet with blood and sweat. I tossed them aside.
Raemon's eyes swept over my torso. His expression didn't change, but I saw something flicker in his gaze. Recognition, maybe. Or concern.
"The necklace?" I nodded at his pendant. "Does it make a shield or something?"
He nodded once. Didn't elaborate.
Then his hands began to glow—faint green at first, then brighter, until the light spilled between his fingers like liquid emerald. He stepped closer and placed a thumb on my forehead, where blood still trickled down from a gash I hadn't even noticed.
"This may hurt. Stay still."
I braced.
Pain flared—intense, white-hot, racing through my skull like lightning. I clenched my jaw. Grip the sheets. Didn't scream.
Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
The sensation that followed was strange. Like flesh reattaching itself without stitches. Like someone was knitting my skin back together from the inside.
Seconds later, Raemon stepped back. The glow faded from his hands.
"Your body is incredibly strong." He moved to my chest, where a massive bruise spanned my torso—a gift from Dell's final attack. "Berserker?"
I flinched as his hands made contact. The healing sensation was different here—deeper, more intense. Like he was working on something beneath the skin.
"Yeah." I forced the word out between clenched teeth. "How'd you know?"
"Fifty years of healing." His hands moved in slow circles, tracing the bruise. "You learn to see classes. Bodies. Behavior." He paused. "Berserkers heal faster than most. Even without help. The rage does something to your Lumin—makes it work harder, faster."
I hadn't known that. Made sense, though.
His hands kept moving. The bruise began to fade—slowly at first, then faster, until the skin underneath was pale but whole.
"They say," he continued, almost conversationally, "that mages are logical or cowardly. Tanks are the joy of the tavern. Berserkers are quiet and stoic. Rogues are observant and antisocial. Fighters and warriors are energetic."
He chuckled softly. "More classes than that, but that saying would take all day."
The bruise disappeared completely. He moved to my forearms, where deep gashes still wept blood.
"How many classes are there, exactly?" I asked. The pain was fading now, replaced by a warm numbness.
"So many." He worked on my left arm. "And they're still discovering new ones, my boy." He paused, considering. "Fighter. Warrior. Mage. Rogue. Tank. Bard. Ranger. Berserker. Sorcerer. Warlock. Necromancer."
He moved to my right arm.
"Last time a warlock and necromancer appeared was a century ago. Violet, the Queen of the Dead. Wife of Emperor Basilio the Eighth of Zendorium."
I blinked. "So classes can go extinct?"
"In some regions." He worked on my legs now, his glowing hands tracing wound after wound. "In others, they flourish." He glanced up at me. "Take Drakva. So many berserkers their royal family is made of them."
I filed that away for later. Draka's homeland. Made sense.
When he finished my legs, he stood and walked to the safe. I watched, curious.
He touched the lock. It clicked open. The chains fell away with a heavy clatter. He pulled open the steel door—and I gaped.
The safe wasn't just a safe. It was a room. Shelves lined every wall, stacked with potions and bottles and containers. More supplies than I could count. Enough to treat an army.
Raemon returned with a glass bottle. Nearly two liters. Purple liquid glowed inside, faint and steady.
"What's that?"
"Lumin fatigue bottle." He handed it to me. It was heavier than it looked. "Restores energy. Speeds recovery. Drink it all."
I examined it. The liquid swirled slowly, like it was alive. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet." He walked back to the safe, already pulling the door closed. "Survive first."
The door boomed shut. Chains re-wrapped themselves, slithering like serpents. The lock clicked into place.
Raemon. I'd remember that name.
I opened the bottle and drank.
Apple juice. Sweet. Refreshing. Cold in a way that made no sense given where we were. Nothing like that ritual concoction in Drakva.
I finished it in long, desperate gulps. Set the empty bottle aside.
Then I stood.
The difference was immediate. My legs didn't shake. My arms didn't tremble. My head was clear—sharper than it had been in hours.
I strapped on my gauntlets. Pulled on my vest. Buckled my belt.
Picked up my claymore.
Light. Familiar. Ready.
I looked at the safe one last time.
Thank you, Raemon. I won't forget.
Then I walked out.
The corridor was dark. Quiet. But above, I could hear them—the screams, the clashes, the endless violence of the battle royale.
My knuckles tightened on my claymore.
Somewhere up there, Rela was fighting. Dominio was scheming. Other rookies were dying.
And somewhere, a silver ribbon waited for me.
I climbed the stairs.
Back to the chaos.
Back to the fight.
Back to the battle royale.