The medical section of Hermes Block maintained a different atmosphere than its Ares counterpart. Where Ares had improvised partitions and makeshift cots, Hermes boasted actual beds with privacy screens, proper medical equipment, and lighting that didn't flicker sporadically. Their superior resources had always been a point of pride—and occasionally resentment—among other blocks.Eric y on one of these beds, staring bnkly at the ceiling. Unlike many of the other fighters, his wounds were retively minor—a dislocated shoulder, now reset; a deep gash along his ribs, carefully stitched; various contusions that painted his body in shades of purple and bck. His physical pain was manageable. It was the wounded pride that cut deeper.Around him, other Hermes fighters recuperated in varying states of consciousness. Some slept fitfully, others conversed in hushed tones about the day's battle—analyzing tactics, recounting narrow escapes, mourning those who hadn't returned. The medics moved efficiently between patients, their movements precise and unhurried despite the aftermath of violence.Eric's mind repyed the battle over and over—not just the fighting itself, but the moments before. The argument with Crissa. Fred's attempts at mediation. His own stubborn decision to join the fray without waiting for the others. He'd been right to go—hadn't he? Hermes Block needed fighters on the front lines, not strategists endlessly debating optimal approaches while blood spilled elsewhere.His brooding was interrupted by the medical bay doors smming open with enough force to rattle nearby instrument trays. The sudden noise caused several injured fighters to wince, and a medic dropped a roll of bandages in surprise."WHERE THE HELL IS ERIIIICCCCC?"The voice—female, familiar, and furiously loud—cut through the retive quiet like a bde. Eric closed his eyes briefly, a grimace forming on his face that had nothing to do with his physical injuries.Crissa stormed into the medical bay, her eyes scanning the rows of beds with ser-like intensity. Behind her followed four others—Nick with his perpetually furrowed brow, Harry looking uncomfortable as always in confrontational situations, Vanessa maintaining her calcuting composure, and Fred, whose expression combined concern with obvious exasperation.When Crissa's gaze finally locked onto Eric, her face tightened with a complex mixture of relief and renewed anger. She marched toward him, the others following in her wake like debris caught in a hurricane."You," she hissed, reaching his bedside and grabbing the front of his medical gown with surprising strength for someone so slender. "What part of 'wait for us' did your combat-addled brain fail to process?"Every patient and medic in the vicinity was now watching the spectacle unfold. Eric maintained eye contact with Crissa, refusing to be the first to look away."Hey, let's all calm down," Fred interjected, pcing a gentle hand on Crissa's shoulder. "We're in a medical bay. People are trying to recover."Crissa released Eric's gown but didn't back away. "Recover from wounds they might not have if we'd executed the pn correctly," she retorted, though she did lower her voice slightly."The pn," Eric finally spoke, his voice rough from both disuse and the dust of battle, "was taking too long. While you all were talking, people were dying.""And what about you?" Vanessa asked, stepping forward. Her tone was measured but carried an edge of accusation. "You could have died out there without backup. Is that what you wanted?"Eric's ugh was sharp and bitter. "Listen to yourselves. We're in DarkTale, not some corporate team-building retreat. We fight. We survive. Or we don't.""So your solution was to charge ahead alone?" Nick questioned, arms crossed over his chest. "That's not bravery, Eric. That's just stupidity."Harry, normally the most reserved of the group, spoke up unexpectedly. "We were worried about you, man. That's all.""For what?" Eric challenged, struggling to sit upright despite the protest from his ribs. "To sit around and talk about feelings? To pn and strategize while watching others do the actual fighting? To die slowly instead of on my own terms?" His gaze flicked briefly between Fred and Crissa. "Or maybe just to romance each other between strategy sessions?"The barb hit its mark. Crissa's face flushed with angry color, while Fred's expression hardened into something rarely seen on his usually diplomatic features."That's what this is really about, isn't it?" Vanessa said, her analytical mind cutting through to the heart of the matter. "You're jealous that Crissa chose Fred instead of you."The medical bay grew impossibly quiet. Even the wounded fighters who had been pretending not to eavesdrop abandoned the pretense, watching openly now.Eric's face remained carefully bnk as he stared directly at Crissa. He didn't confirm Vanessa's assessment, but he didn't deny it either. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspokenhistory."That's... that's childish," Crissa finally said, but her voice had lost some of its conviction."Maybe I am childish," Eric replied with dangerous calm. "But I'm also unlike the rest of you. I wasn't built for sitting around while others fight. I'm sorry if that doesn't fit with your perfect little team dynamic."Fred sighed deeply, passing a hand over his face before stepping forward. The tension in the room shifted as he moved past Crissa to stand directly beside Eric's bed."Okay, okay. Enough, all of you," he said, authority creeping into his usually genial tone. His gaze swept across the group before settling on Eric. "Look, man, no one's questioning your abilities. You're one of the best warriors Hermes has. But we need each other here—all of us, with our different strengths."Fred extended his hand toward Eric. "Let's stop this fighting among ourselves. Next time, we go together. As a team."The entire medical bay seemed to hold its breath. All eyes focused on Eric's face, then on the offered hand, then back to his face.Eric looked at the outstretched hand for a long moment. Then, without taking it, he simply said, "All right," before turning onto his side, presenting his back to the group and signaling the end of the conversation.Fred stood there for several seconds, hand still extended, before slowly withdrawing it. He exhaled heavily, disappointment evident in the slump of his shoulders.Crissa raised her hand as if to touch Eric's shoulder, then let it fall, scoffing under her breath. "Unbelievable," she muttered.Vanessa, Nick, and Harry exchanged gnces, a silent conversation passing between them."Let's go," Harry finally said, gentle but firm. "He needs to rest. We all do.""Rest and take care," Fred added quietly to Eric's back. "Please."The group began to withdraw from the medical bay, their departure observed by every conscious patient and staff member. As they reached the door, Crissa gnced back once more at Eric's motionless form before allowing herself to be guided out by Fred's steady hand on the small of her back.As the door closed behind them, the medical bay gradually returned to its previous rhythm—conversations resuming, medics continuing their rounds, injured fighters settling back into recovery. But Eric remained motionless on his side, eyes open, staring at nothing in particur as his mind churned with conflicting emotions.He wasn't wrong to fight. He knew that much. But the look in Crissa's eyes when she'd found him wounded—fear mixed with fury—stayed with him, as unwelcome as the pain from his injuries.In Poseidon Block, a simir scene was unfolding, though with characteristically different results.Bluestone stood in their own medical area, his imposing frame seeming even rger against the sterile backdrop. Unlike the orderly setup of Hermes or the improvised functionality of Ares, Poseidon's medical facilities reflected their leader's personality—utilitarian, sparse, and uncompromising. Strength was valued above comfort; recovery was expected to be efficient rather than coddled.A group of five fighters had cornered Bluestone near the supply cabinets, their voices rising in what they believed to be justified criticism of his battle decisions."—completely unnecessary casualties," one was saying, gesturing emphatically. "If you had just waited for our fnking maneuver—""The timing was wrong," another interrupted. "We should have coordinated with Hermes before engaging Owl Court directly—""And the alliance with Ares?" a third questioned. "Since when do we trust Kiret and his—"Bluestone had remained silent throughout, his face betraying nothing as the criticism mounted. Those who knew him well would have recognized the danger signs—the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible tensing of his massive shoulders, the way his breathing had become measured and deliberate.The compiners, unfortunately, were not among those who knew him well."—we demand a strategic reassessment before the next—"The movement was so sudden that several nearby patients gasped in surprise. Bluestone's fist connected with the loudest critic's jaw with precision that belied the raw power behind it. The man dropped immediately, consciousness fleeing before his body even hit the floor.Bluestone looked at the unconscious form dispassionately, then raised his eyes to the remaining four, who had backed away instinctively."Anyone else want to demand something from me?" His voice was surprisingly quiet, almost conversational, which somehow made it more terrifying.The silence was absolute."Good." He stepped over the unconscious man, not sparing him another gnce. "Get him treated, then get him and yourselves out of my sight. We fight how I say we fight. If you don't like it, there are otherblocks."The four conscious dissenters scrambled to comply, lifting their fallen comrade and retreating from Bluestone's presence with as much dignity as fear allowed.As they departed, Bluestone rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly at the movement. His own injuries—a deep stab wound to his left thigh, three broken ribs, and numerous cerations—had been treated perfunctorily. He had refused pain medication; crity of mind was more important than comfort of body.One of the medics cautiously approached. "Sir, you should really let us finish treating your—""Later," Bluestone cut him off. "Check on the others first. Particurly those who fought well."The medic hesitated only briefly before nodding and moving away. In Poseidon Block, Bluestone's word was final, even when it contradicted medical advice.Alone again, Bluestone allowed himself a moment of reflection. The alliance with Ares Block had been unexpected, even to him—a tactical decision made in the heat of battle rather than through careful pnning. Yet it had worked. Against the highly regimented forces of Owl Court, their combined chaos had proven effective.The question now was whether that alliance could—or should—hold beyond immediate necessity. Kiret was cunning, his fighters adaptable. They could be useful allies... or dangerous enemies if the winds shifted.Bluestone's thoughts were interrupted by a messenger approaching with obvious trepidation."Sir, communication from Ares Block. Kiret requests a meeting to discuss next steps."Bluestone considered this for a moment, then nodded once. "Tell him tomorrow at neutral ground. Bring no more than two others." He paused, then added, "And tell him to bring that new fighter—Amerson."The messenger acknowledged the instructions and hurried away, clearly relieved to have completed the interaction without incident.Bluestone turned his attention back to his injured fighters, his mind already calcuting possibilities and contingencies. Unlike the dissenting voices he had silenced, he understood that the real battle was just beginning.In Ares Block, the initial chaos of post-battle triage had given way to a more organized recovery effort. As night deepened, the medical section settled into retive calm, punctuated only by occasional groans from the more severely wounded and the soft footsteps of medics making their rounds.Amerson had finally succumbed to exhaustion, the medication Detzy administered pulling him into a dreamless sleep. His broken hand rested on his chest, rising and falling with each breath.Nearby, Kiret sat on a folding chair between two occupied cots, his own injuries bandaged but clearly causing him discomfort. He hadn't allowed himself the luxury of a bed—not while his fighters occupied them all. Instead, he maintained his vigil, speaking quietly with those who were awake, sitting in solidarity with those who weren't.Watcher approached silently, moving with the careful grace that had earned him his moniker. Despite participating fully in the battle, he appeared retively unscathed—a few superficial cuts, a darkening bruise along his jawline, nothing that impeded his movement or alertness."Report," Kiret said softly, not looking up from the comatose fighter whose hand he was holding."Bluestone has agreed to meet," Watcher replied, keeping his voice low. "Tomorrow, neutral ground. He specifically requested Amerson's presence."Kiret's eyebrows rose slightly at this st detail. "Did he now? Interesting.""Should I wake Amerson to inform him?"Kiret shook his head. "Let him rest. He earned it today." His gaze drifted to the sleeping fighter. "Besides, I suspect our friend will need all his strength for what's coming."Watcher followed Kiret's gaze. "He surprised even me today. The way he fought Persic at the end..." He trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant."It wasn't just technique," Kiret completed the thought. "It was something else. Something raw.""Something dangerous," Watcher added.Kiret nodded slowly. "Yes. But the question is—dangerous to whom?"Before Watcher could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. Detzy was arguing with someone—unusual, given her typically unfppable demeanor."—told you, no visitors right now. These people need rest, not interrogation.""This isn't optional." The responding voice was female, authoritative, and completely unfamiliar to either Kiret or Watcher. "Direct order from above."Kiret rose from his chair, wincing slightly as his body protested the movement. Watcher was already moving toward the disturbance, one hand drifting toward the concealed knife he never relinquished, even in the medical area.As they approached, they saw Detzy blocking the entrance, her small frame somehow managing to fill the doorway as she faced down a woman neither of them recognized. The stranger wore nondescript clothing simir to any other DarkTale resident, but her bearing was different—a confidence that bordered on arrogance, the stance of someone accustomed to authority.Most distinctive was the tattoo curling around her left temple—a scorpion, rendered in intricate detail, its stinger poised as if to strike."What seems to be the problem?" Kiret asked, his tone deceptively mild as he came to stand beside Detzy.The woman's gaze shifted to him, assessing. "I need to speak with Amerson. Immediately.""As I was expining," Detzy said, tension evident in her voice, "my patients are not receiving visitors. Especially not unannounced ones in the middle of the night.""This isn't a social call," the woman replied coldly. "This is DarkTale business.""Everything in DarkTale is DarkTale business," Watcher observed quietly. "Yet I don't recall seeing you before."Something flickered across the woman's face—irritation, perhaps, or recalcution. "My name is Scorpion. I report directly to Mr. K. That's all you need to know."The mention of Mr. K caused a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Even in Ares Block, where independence was prized above most things, that name carried weight.Kiret studied the woman for a long moment before speaking. "Amerson is unconscious. Medication. He won't be conversing with anyone until morning at the earliest."Scorpion's eyes narrowed slightly. "Wake him.""No." Detzy's response was immediate and firm. "Medically inadvisable. And I don't care if you report to Mr. K or to God himself—in my medical section, patient welfare comes first."For a tense moment, it seemed Scorpion might escate the confrontation. Then, surprisingly, she nodded once."Fine. I'll return in the morning." She fixed Kiret with a penetrating stare. "Don't attempt to move him before then."Without waiting for a response, she turned and departed, her footsteps eerily silent on the metal flooring.As soon as she was gone, Kiret turned to Watcher. "Find out everything you can about her. Now."Watcher nodded once and melted away into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Kiret and Detzy alone at the entrance."Well," Detzy said after a moment, "that was unusual.""Indeed." Kiret's gaze remained fixed on the now-empty corridor. "And I don't like unusual. Not in DarkTale."They returned to the main treatment area, Kiret moving to check on Amerson personally. The fighter remained deeply asleep, unaware of the interest his presence had suddenly generated."Should we wake him?" Detzy asked quietly, coming to stand beside Kiret. "Warn him?"Kiret considered the question seriously before shaking his head. "No. Let him have this reprieve, at least. Morning will come soon enough."As if in response to his words, Amerson shifted slightly in his sleep, his broken hand twitching as though reaching for something—or someone—beyond his grasp.Elsewhere in DarkTale, in rooms and corridors unknown to most inhabitants, preparations were being made. Pieces moving into position. The board reconfiguring itself for the next phase of py.And hundreds of miles away from DarkTale, in a sleek, minimalist office complex that bore no external markings, Mr. K sat before an array of screens, watching the facility pulse with activity like a living organism. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the armrest of his chair—not nervous, but anticipatory."And so it begins," he murmured to the empty room, satisfaction evident in every sylble as he observed the distant chaos he had orchestrated.In the darkness of Ares Block's medical section, Amerson slept on, unaware that he had become the focal point of forces gathering like storm clouds on the horizon—forces that would soon break over DarkTale with devastating intensity.