Morning came quietly.
Too quietly.
The sun rose somewhere beyond the cliffs, unseen from beneath the bridge, yet its presence was felt in the pale light that crept across the stone walls. The group stood once more before the tunnels—those same gaping, floorless passages carved into the underside of the bridge that would take them to the other side.
This time, however, the reality of what they were about to do pressed down on them with full force.
Yesterday, it had been theory. A briefing. Words spoken in stone rooms by powerful people who did not have to climb.
Today, it was real.
Here they stood—practically children—about to crawl through a tunnel suspended above a raging river where falling was not an if, but a death sentence. The wind hit them hard even at the base of the stairs leading up to the tunnel entrance, slamming into their bodies in uneven bursts, howling like something alive.
Arin swallowed.
The wind alone could knock someone off balance.
And they weren’t even climbing yet.
He stood near the front of the group, his height—just over 1.8 meters—making him look more confident than he felt. His face was unremarkable, the kind that people forgot easily, neither ugly nor striking. His brown hair had grown longer than he liked, brushing his collar, but there hadn’t been time to cut it.
Right now, none of that mattered.
What mattered was the weight.
His body felt wrong under it.
The backpack strapped to his shoulders was massive—almost ridiculous in size—yet every gram inside it was necessary. With enhanced stats came enhanced metabolism, and that meant they burned through energy frighteningly fast. Each of them carried three days’ worth of water, which alone made the packs heavy enough to strain the spine.
Then there was the food.
Five kilograms.
Five kilograms of what could only be described as gray sludge.
Nutrient-dense. Efficient. Compact.
And utterly revolting.
When they’d been handed their provisions that morning, several people had seriously considered quitting on the spot. They had endured brutal training, near-death combat, and resurrection itself—but this?
In the old world, Arin was fairly sure this substance would’ve been classified as a war crime. Whoever invented it would have been tried for crimes against humanity, publicly executed, and remembered with hatred for generations.
Sadly, it was “the best option.”
They were also limited in weapons. Arrows were bulky, and space was precious. Each person carried around a hundred arrows secured beneath their packs, along with extra arrowheads, feathers, and basic survival tools. No beds. No comforts.
They would sleep on stone.
If they slept at all.
“Right,” Arin said, clapping his hands together and brushing off the excess chalk powder. “Everyone ready?”
No one answered.
He looked around at the grim faces—friends, family, people he had grown up with. He heard Bill muttering quietly to his right.
“If they’re going to send us to our deaths,” Bill grumbled, “could they at least feed us proper food?”
A few weak chuckles rippled through the group, but they died quickly.
Arin nodded once.
“Let’s go.”
He turned and began climbing the stairs.
Each step brought them closer to the tunnel entrance, and with every meter gained, the wind grew stronger. It battered his body, tugging at straps and loose fabric, roaring so loudly it drowned out everything else.
Halfway up, a cold realization settled into his chest.
We’re going to lose people.
Not to goblins.
Not to combat.
Before they even reached the other side.
At the top of the stairs, Arin stopped.
The tunnel loomed before him—three meters tall, five meters wide, carved with strange, deliberate precision. The walls were rough enough to grip, but the emptiness beneath them was absolute. The river far below churned violently, its sound distorted by distance and wind.
He forced himself not to look down.
Instead, he thought of the map.
They’d been given three hours that morning. Three hours to memorize what might be the only guide through this madness. Scouts had mapped part of the tunnel system before the goblins reached the bridge, but even then, the map was incomplete—only about a quarter of what they believed existed.
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Thirteen points.
Thirteen moments where they had to switch walls, change lanes, adjust their route based on depth and angle. The fastest path, they believed, determined by airflow patterns and the way the river moved beneath them.
There were many tunnels they hadn’t explored.
Many paths that led who-knew-where.
Arin had burned the map into his memory, again and again, until he could see it when he closed his eyes.
He exhaled slowly.
“Alright,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
He stepped into the tunnel and began climbing.
Immediately, the discomfort set in.
The walls were solid, full of handholds and footholds, but the weight of his backpack pulled relentlessly at his center of gravity. His bow—disassembled but still a long, curved piece of wood nearly 1.6 meters long—kept catching on the stone.
This is going to be a problem.
They moved slowly and steadily, careful not to rush. Talking was impossible. The wind screamed through the tunnel, tearing their words apart before they could travel even a meter.
At the first intersection, Arin paused, turning his head slightly as if hoping to hear confirmation that everyone was still with him.
Nothing.
No voices.
No reassurance.
Only wind.
They had no choice but to continue.
Kilometers passed.
Time blurred into muscle memory—reach, grip, step, breathe. The climb itself wasn’t technically difficult; they had trained for this. But never for this long. Never under these circumstances.
The repetition gnawed at his mind.
The cold crept into his hands.
They had to climb bare-handed to maintain proper grip, and now his fingers were red, raw, and numb. He knew he would pay for this later—hours of pain, maybe worse.
The tunnels shifted subtly as they went, sometimes digging deeper into the stone, sometimes shallower. These changes allowed them to switch lanes, to reposition themselves—an intentional design, no doubt.
Whoever had built this place had known exactly what they were doing.
Okay, Arin thought as they approached the next major switch. This is the scary bit.
The tunnel curved upward into a full circular section.
To proceed, they would have to climb up, across the ceiling, and then descend on the other side.
Like spiders.
Arin swallowed.
He signaled for the group to stop and glanced back. Bertho was directly behind him, eyes sharp, watching every movement.
Good.
“If I mess this up,” Arin thought grimly, “at least he’ll know how not to.”
He nodded to Bertho.
Then he began climbing up.
His heart pounded.
This is dumb, his mind screamed. I am never signing up for anything without reading the fine print ever again.
At the peak of the tunnel, he was forced into an awkward position—not quite hanging, not quite braced. His arms trembled under the strain.
“Okay,” he muttered silently. “Breathe.”
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
As he exhaled, he swung his right leg across, carefully wedging it into a crack in the ceiling.
Good.
Then the left.
That fits.
A rush of relief surged through him.
“Yes. Okay. Again.”
He repeated the motion three more times, moving with controlled urgency. He couldn’t afford to linger; holding this position for too long would destroy his stamina.
Within two minutes, he was descending the far side.
When his feet found solid grip again, he nearly laughed.
Instead, he turned and nodded to Bertho.
“Your turn,” he mouthed.
Bertho followed flawlessly.
Arin moved ahead to make room, continuing forward while his thoughts spiraled despite his efforts to stop them.
How many will fall?
How many will freeze?
He forced himself to keep moving.
When he glanced back again, Bertho was still there.
He nodded.
Everything was alright.
For now.
Arin turned forward once more and continued the climb, the wind howling around him as the tunnel swallowed them whole.
