The air shimmered around them as the last of the platforms disintegrated behind their boots. Cracks of light stitched the void beneath, swallowing what was left of Game 10. For a moment, silence ruled—just breath and survival.

They had made it out.

The Safe Zone on Floor 11 wasn’t warm, nor welcoming. It was a hollow expanse beneath a fractured ceiling, lit only by pale-blue torches lining the perimeter. Stone slabs formed a rough camp. There was no music. No cheer.

Just the sound of gear clicking back into place, footsteps crunching dust, and the quiet recalibration of shaken minds.

Taan stood near the edge of the torchlight, arms crossed, ready to walk off into whatever came next. Her cloak flared slightly with each breath. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t thank anyone.

Gerbert approached carefully, weapon holstered, face calm.

“You’re strong,” he said. “Come with us. We’re not trying to win. We’re trying to end it.”

Taan turned.

For a second, it looked like she might say something.

But instead—

She struck.

No warning. No announcement.

Just motion.

Her foot cracked stone as she lunged, faster than anyone expected. Her fist blazed through the air, slamming straight toward Gerbert.

Gerbert acted instantly. His conjured shield bloomed to life, absorbing the hit with a loud THRUM as vines erupted from behind him to anchor it. The impact still shoved him a step back.

“Taan—?!” he shouted.

But she didn’t answer.

She was already moving.

Her next strike shot toward Rann, who phased sideways into a wall, only to realize—

Taan was anticipating it.

Taan’s elbow sliced into the wall where Rann reappeared, barely missing her ribs. Rann grunted, phased again—out, across the camp—and readied a counterattack from behind.

“She's serious,” Ace muttered. “Lovely.”

He spread his arms wide, and a pulse of pollen exploded from his coat.

Golden mist swirled between the torches, slowing vision, stinging eyes. Petals followed—razor-edged shurikens of pressed flower, launched in a fan toward Taan.

She ducked one, smacked another aside, and leapt through the third—using a burst of momentum to spin-kick toward Gerbert again.

This time he met her.

He raised his blaster, aiming low.

CRACK—CRACK—CRACK!

Blue bolts flared toward her legs. She slid low, blocking one with her wrapped forearm, the other ricocheting off her cloak’s edge.

She smiled—just a little.

Rann appeared behind her, half-phased in the wall, and launched a ghost-strike—a phase-accelerated jab toward Taan’s side.

Taan spun, caught Rann’s wrist in mid-motion, and threw her across the camp. Rann phased before impact, appearing upright, panting.

Ace stepped in, vines surging from beneath his boots, coiling to intercept Taan’s next charge.

They wrapped around her arm.

She tore through them.

But in that brief second—Gerbert conjured a second shield.

“You done?” Gerbert asked, his chest heaving, sweat beading along his temple.

Taan stood in the center now. Breathing heavy. Surrounded.

Ace’s vines curled defensively around the group. Rann had one arm resting on a stone, half-phased, catching her breath.

Gerbert’s HP bar had dropped, still visible through the interface. His shield flickered weakly, almost out.

Taan looked at each of them. Met their eyes.

Then—she dropped her stance.

“Alright,” she said.

She exhaled slowly, cracking her neck. “You’re worth sticking with.”

No apology. No smile.

But no malice, either.

She turned, sat on a nearby slab of stone, and folded her arms again.

Just like that.

It was done.

No promises. No sentiment.

But trust—built the only way Taan knew how.

With fists.

And resistance.

And the confidence that they didn’t break.

Not even when tested.