We walked back in silence. Not because there was nothing to say—quite the opposite. My head was buzzing with too many thoughts, and any words felt heavy, unnecessary, redundant. The forest around us slowly released its tension, exhaling with us after the “Pulser” had been shut down. The fog thinned, leaving behind only damp, cool air and the sharp tang of ozone that lingered in my nose long after.

  I walked last. Step by step. Slowly. Not just because of the pain—though my left shoulder throbbed like some tiny, relentless creature had sunk its claws into it—but because my body refused to hurry. As if speeding up now would leave part of my consciousness behind, stranded there in the hollow, beside the deep-blue-black mass of energy.

  My arm was fine. At least on the surface. The skin hadn’t burned, the bones were intact, but it felt strange—like wearing a glove that was too thick. I flexed and relaxed my fingers, staring at my dirty nails. It moved. It obeyed. But the feeling of absolute precision the skill gave me… was gone.

  [Will to Live] was quiet. Not deactivated or suppressed. Just… silent. Too silent. Like an engine whose vibrations you no longer feel under your feet, leaving you to wonder if it stalled in the middle of the desert. That unnerved me more than physical exhaustion.

  “Don’t stare at the ground like it owes you money,” Zeno said without turning. His voice carried sharply through the quiet forest.

  I exhaled shortly, careful not to disturb my breathing rhythm.

  “Just thinking.”

  “It shows. Too much noise from your thoughts.”

  We walked a little further. Twigs cracked underfoot, a bird squawked somewhere in the distance—sharp, unpleasant. Ordinary forest. Ordinary morning. And that felt wrong. After nearly becoming a pile of ashes, the world behaved… too normally. Too mundane.

  “You expecting me to say ‘good job’?” Zeno suddenly asked, stopping and turning toward me.

  “No,” I said quickly. Then, hesitating, added, “Maybe. A little.”

  Zeno chuckled.

  “You did everything right, Iron. And if you think that makes things easier—forget it.”

  “Why? We sealed the point. Everyone’s alive.”

  “Control isn’t a reward,” he squinted at my battered armor. “It’s responsibility. It doesn’t automatically make you stronger or happier. It just takes away the excuse that you ‘didn’t know what you were doing.’ From now on, you’ll always know what you’re walking into.”

  I nodded. Somewhere inside, I already felt the weight of his words. Not the pleasant weight of a job well done, but the burden you carry from then on.

  “And what if I make the wrong choice someday?” The question slipped out before I could filter it.

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  Zeno stayed silent for a long moment, staring at the tree crowns tangled with the remnants of fog.

  “Then you’ll learn the price,” he finally said. “Like everyone else. And trust me—you’ll pay it yourself. No skill can save you here.”

  He turned and continued down the path. The conversation was over. Not another word was spoken until we reached the camp.

  We arrived at the site close to noon. The other hunters and mages dispersed almost immediately. Kael retreated to his tent without even glancing my way, utterly drained. Bram collapsed onto a pile of branches, closing his eyes. Exhaustion hit everyone at once.

  I sat against the wall of our cabin without even removing my armor. Just lowered myself to the ground, feeling the chill of the soil seep through my clothes. It felt… good.

  About five minutes later, my hands started shaking. At first, it was barely noticeable—a light vibration. Then stronger. My fingers jittered as if I’d drunk too much strong coffee or had been hauling rocks all day without a break.

  “Fuck…” I muttered, trying to clench my palms.

  I tried standing. My legs obeyed, but it felt ridiculous—like controlling a marionette with loose joints. My body lagged behind my brain by a fraction of a second. That tiny delay drove me insane. I sat back down, leaning against the logs.

  My breathing became uneven. Not panic. Recoil. A delayed reaction of my body to the shit I’d channeled through it when I worked as a grounding conduit for Bram.

  [Will to Live] stirred. Very cautiously, almost politely, it suggested… fixing it. Smoothing the tremor. Restoring nerve conductivity. Flattening the edges. It whispered: “Just let me, and you’ll be back to normal. You don’t have to feel this.”

  “No,” I said aloud. “Not now. Handle it yourself.”

  The skill froze. And in that moment, fear gripped me—not because I was weak, but because I realized: if I let it “fix” me now, I would lose the boundary. I’d stop knowing where Iron ends and the survival algorithm begins.

  The shaking intensified. I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and just breathed.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Slowly.

  Images of the fight flashed through my mind. What if the anomaly’s strike had been just a little stronger? What if Bram hadn’t held? What if I’d miscalculated the conductivity of my armor? I caught myself counting potential catastrophes instead of successes. There were far more than I’d anticipated in the heat of battle.

  When my hands finally calmed, exhaustion came. Deep, viscous, like a swamp. Not something a short nap could cure.

  I began stripping off my armor. The bone plates clinked softly as I leaned them against the wall. They looked fine. Even strange—after that overload, not a single crack. The damping system had worked. Mechanics didn’t fail. Biology did.

  I crawled inside the cabin and lay down. Not on the bed—just on the floor, on the old mat. The ceiling above was dark, cracked, and mysterious. I stared at it, unblinking.

  [Will to Live] was still there. I felt its presence as a subtle pressure at the base of my skull. It wasn’t pushing me to act, wasn’t trying to seize control. It just existed. A reminder.

  “You can survive anything,” it seemed to say. “But I won’t promise it will make sense.”

  I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. My body ached honestly, without filters or anesthesia. My thoughts tangled into a vague hum. And somewhere in that hum came a simple, almost childlike thought: “What if I don’t want to just survive anymore?”

  The thought made it heavier. Because survival is simple. You’re given a goal, tools, and you just follow protocol. But living… living means taking responsibility for every choice. No excuses. No autopilot. No skill that always knows “what’s best” for keeping your skin intact.

  [Will to Live] responded quietly, deep in my mind. Not arguing. Just noting.

  And that calm scared me more than any monster in the fog. Because you can hit a monster with a pulse of mana. But negotiating with yourself? Far harder. Especially when you’re an engineer in a world that wants to eat you, and your only ally is a skill—besides Zeno—that could devour you even faster.

  I finally fell asleep. Heavy. Dreamless. Smelling of ozone and scorched grass. Tomorrow, I’d need to repair the straps on my pauldron. But that would be tomorrow. Today, I simply let myself be a tired human.