The Absolute Horror...that unseen terror that had driven them here...still prowled somewhere beyond the tunnel's mouth, its presence a weight they couldn't shake.
For now, they were stuck, trapped in this hollowed-out refuge, waiting for the night to shift, for the danger to pass. Their pulses still raced from the scavengers' near-miss, but as the adrenaline ebbed, a restless calm settled over them.
They didn't do much at first.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional drip of water echoing from deeper in the tunnel. They had meat—strips of sinewy flesh scavenged from the battlefield, packed into Belial's makeshift sack. It wasn't much, but it was enough to sustain them, to buy them time. They could afford to wait, to let the hours crawl by until the world outside deemed them safe—or at least safer. Raven sat against the wall, his obsidian armor glinting faintly in the dim light filtering through the crevice, his breath steady but shallow. Xin slumped nearby, his painted face a mask of exhaustion, eyes half-closed as he drifted in and out of a fitful doze.
Belial, though, couldn't sit still.
His hands itched for something to do, some way to kill the endless stretch of nothing. His gaze fell on a scattering of loose rocks near the cave's entrance, a smooth, fist-sized stones worn by time. He picked one up, rolling it between his fingers, and a flicker of an idea sparked.
At first, he thought of carving them into shogi pieces, the game of his childhood, with its intricate strategies and hidden depths. His father had taught him, back when the world was softer, before it turned to ash and blood. But he hesitated. Shogi was a demonic game, too tied to a past he tried to keep hidden. If Raven or Xin asked how he knew it, if they pressed too hard, it might unravel the carefully guarded threads of his identity.
No, that wouldn't do.
Instead, he opted for chess.
His father had preferred it...simpler than shogi, less demanding of memory, though Belial had still trounced him more often than not. The man had laughed every time, Contagious one that echoed in Belial's mind even now. He pulled his Longsword from its sheath, its edge still sharp despite the Monsters, and set to work. The scrape of steel against stone filled the cave, a rhythmic counterpoint to the stillness.
He carved a king first, its crown jagged but distinct, then a queen, her form sleek and commanding. Pawns followed, knights, bishops—each piece rough-hewn but recognizable, born from patience and a steady hand.
Raven stirred, his head tilting as he watched. "What's that?" he asked, voice rough from disuse.
"Chess," Belial replied, not looking up. "Game my father liked. Figured I'd teach you—keep us from going stir-crazy in here."
Raven grunted, shifting closer. "Fine. Show me."
Belial smirked, setting the pieces on a flat slab of rock between them. He explained the rules—kings and queens, the dance of knights, the relentless march of pawns. Raven was slow to catch on, his brow furrowing as he puzzled out moves, but Belial was patient. They played a practice game, Belial guiding him through each step, pointing out blunders with a grin. Raven lost spectacularly, his king cornered in a handful of turns, but he didn't seem to mind.
"Not bad for a first try," Belial said, resetting the board. "You'll get it."
Xin woke then, blinking groggily as he sat up. The faint glow of the cave's entrance caught the edges of his makeup, the powders shimmering faintly. "What's going on?" he asked, voice thick with sleep.
"Chess," Raven said, nodding at the board. "Belial's showing off."
Xin's interest piqued, his eyes sharpening as he scooted closer. "Let me try."
Belial raised an eyebrow, a challenge glinting in his golden gaze. "You sure? It's not as easy as it looks."
"Try me," Xin shot back, a rare spark of defiance in his tone.
They squared off, the carved pieces arrayed between them. Belial moved first, his pawn advancing with confidence, but Xin countered with surprising precision. The game unfolded in silence, each move a quiet clash of wills. Belial played with the ease of experience, his strategy fluid and aggressive—until Xin turned the tide. A bishop slid into place, a knight leaped forward, and suddenly Belial's king was trapped, checkmate staring him down. He blinked, stunned, as Xin leaned back with a smug grin.
"Well, damn," Belial muttered, a laugh bubbling up despite himself. "Didn't see that coming."
It was one of the few times he'd ever lost a game—any game.
The sting of defeat was sharp, but it lit a fire in him. The king of games is back, he thought, grinning inwardly. They played again, and again, the cave filling with the soft clack of stone pieces and the occasional curse. From then on, Belial didn't lose. Xin's frustration grew with each match, his painted brow furrowing as Belial dismantled his strategies with ruthless precision. "You're impossible," Xin grumbled after the fifth loss, tossing a pawn back onto the board.
"Practice makes perfect," Belial replied, his grin widening. "You'll get there."
Eventually, he stepped back, letting Raven and Xin face off. The two hunched over the board, Raven's cautious deliberation clashing with Xin's bold, reckless moves. Belial watched for a moment, then turned away, restlessness gnawing at him again. He needed more than games to pass the time—he needed purpose. His sword lay beside him, its blade nicked but gleaming faintly in the dim light. He picked it up, the weight familiar, grounding, and began his katas.
The tunnel was cramped, but he adapted, flowing through forms with a grace that belied the space. Each swing was a whisper of steel, each stance a silent promise of violence. He moved through the patterns his master had drilled into him—lunge, parry, strike—muscle memory guiding him where thought alone wasn't enough. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath steadying as he lost himself in the rhythm. This was his art, his edge, the thing that kept him alive when the world tried to bury him.
Xin glanced over, pausing mid-game. "You never stop, do you?"
"Gotta stay sharp," Belial said, not breaking his flow. "There's always room to get better."
Xin snorted, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes. He set the chess pieces aside and drew his own blade—a slender, curved thing that gleamed with a faint golden sheen. He joined Belial, mirroring his movements at first, then branching into his own techniques. His style was different—quicker, more fluid, relying on precision over power—but it was good. Damn good. Still, Xin knew there was a gap between him and the masters he'd seen, the ones who wielded swords like extensions of their souls.
The cave became their training ground, the air humming with the soft whoosh of blades and the clack of chess pieces. Raven, having lost spectacularly to Xin, leaned back against the wall, watching them with a faint smirk. "You two are gonna wear yourselves out before we even get out of here."
"Better tired than dead," Belial shot back, spinning his sword in a tight arc.
Hours bled into one another, the outside world a distant threat they couldn't yet face. The meat dwindled, but they rationed it carefully, chewing slowly to make it last. The Absolute Horror still lingered in their minds, a specter they couldn't see but could feel—its presence a cold hand on the back of their necks. They waited, trained, played, each moment a thread in the tapestry of their survival.