The Safe Zone between Floor 10 and 11 wasn’t high-tech. It wasn’t mechanical. It wasn’t floating in the dark.

It was a forest.

A place where grass grew underfoot and filtered light poured through the trees like golden dust. There were chirping sounds—manufactured, surely—but it felt natural. A simulation of safety. A brief, silent lie of peace before the next trial.

But the Linkbreakers weren’t resting.

They were working.

Gerbert had set up near a moss-covered boulder, sketching energy diagrams in the dirt. A conjured interface hovered above the ground beside him—projection glyphs cycling through test parameters.

He tapped in a command.

A shimmer erupted across the clearing.

A hexagonal energy wall burst into form between two trees—tall, glowing with a muted blue sheen.

“Deployable Kinetic Wall,” Gerbert muttered. “Reflects standard projectiles. Absorbs kinetic shock.”

He stood back. “Someone punch it.”

Taan was already rolling her shoulder. She took a half step forward and drove her fist into the barrier with practiced force.

The wall absorbed it, rippling like a stone skipping across water.

Taan shook out her wrist. “Not bad. Less recoil than last time.”

“Because I split the energy channel into three distribution arcs,” Gerbert said, scribbling into his notes. “It's not perfect, but it'll hold against close-quarters force.”

Nearby, two mini-drones hovered out of a small conjured case—quiet and agile, each no bigger than a closed fist. They lifted into the trees, sensors blinking orange.

“Recon units,” Gerbert explained to no one in particular.

“Thermal and atmospheric sensors. Limited stealth capacity. Still not silent, though.”

One of them veered off-course and buzzed into a branch.

Gerbert sighed. “Stability’s still trash.”

From a shaded patch of ferns, Ace gave an exaggerated clap. “I love how you say that like a disappointed parent. The stability’s still trash, but we’ll keep feeding it and sending it to school.”

Gerbert didn’t look up. “If I wanted performance art, I’d go to your side of the forest.”

Ace, of course, had his own garden.

But his version of gardening was tactical.

At the base of an old oak, a set of bloom mines rested in the soil—small seed pods wrapped in bark-textured casing. They pulsed softly, warm to the touch.

He crouched and tapped one.

It burst open silently, releasing a golden pollen cloud that drifted through the air like glittering mist. The nearby tree trunk was coated instantly in sticky, fibrous threads.

“Sticky pollen,” Ace said brightly. “Slows movement. Blocks vision. Tastes awful.”

He plucked one of the pods from the ground and tossed it between his hands. “I'm working on timing the bursts. If I can sync them to delayed detonation, we’ll have soft traps that don’t kill—just humiliate.”

Taan passed by, raising an eyebrow. “That’s your goal? Humiliation?”

Ace winked. “Morale damage is still damage.”

Taan, ever focused, had anchored herself to two thick tree trunks with a tangle of resistance cords wrapped around her waist, arms, and legs.

Her sweat darkened the bandages around her fists as she launched into short, controlled bursts—jabs, kicks, pivots. Every movement snapped the bands taut, testing her balance and holding her speed in check.

“Boost,” she whispered.

Her body jolted forward in a low lunge, then halted mid-air as the cords caught her.

She held the position. Breathed through it.

“No tearing,” she muttered. “Control held.”

She recorded the results into a small scroll.

3.1x enhancement. Zero recoil. Duration: twelve seconds.

Ace watched her out of the corner of his eye. “If I moved like you, I’d wear nothing but confidence and bandages.”

“You already do,” she replied, not breaking form.

His smile widened.

At the edge of the clearing, Rann stood ankle-deep in a narrow stream that snaked through the Safe Zone. The water shimmered beneath her feet.

She inhaled slowly.

Then stepped forward—and phased.

The moment she entered the water, her body staggered.

She winced, gasped, and dropped to one knee, half-phased into the stream, her hand clutching her ribs.

The phasing collapsed.

She surfaced fully again, coughing.

Gerbert was already approaching. “Water phase?”

She nodded. “Failed. The flow disrupts the anchor. Can’t stabilize.”

“You nearly drowned.”

“I didn’t.”

She stood slowly, brushing water from her hands. Her breathing was tight, but not broken.

“But,” she added, lifting her gaze, “I can phase longer through stone now. Less strain. More depth. No recoil.”

She demonstrated—stepping directly through a tree trunk.

One second.

Two.

She emerged out the other side like a ghost.

“I couldn’t do that before,” she said.

Gerbert adjusted his notes. “That changes everything.”

They didn’t say it aloud.

But they all felt it.

This wasn’t just recovery. This wasn’t waiting out the next floor.

They were learning.

Gerbert, with deployable shields, surveillance tech, and unstable new prototypes.

Ace, refining battlefield control through plants and strategic terrain disruption.

Taan, mastering her body’s internal surge, finally able to boost without destroying herself.

Rann, pushing her limits—trading water for stone, but unlocking longer, sharper phasing windows.

No one called it what it was.

But they were no longer just survivors.

They were building something.

Together.

And whatever it was becoming—

It was strong.

It was sharp.

And it was ready.