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Chapter 66

Conflict

IAM was in the shooting range, practicing, his body tense with focus as he lined up another shot. His hands gripped the gun with growing familiarity, his stance slightly more relaxed than it had been days before. He was improving—bit by bit, shot by shot. The repetition was paying off.

The gun, still unnamed, responded more predictably now. The kick wasn't as jarring. The rhythm of pulling the trigger was beginning to feel less alien. His bullets hit the target more often than not, and there was even a consistency to the spacing—center mass, closer to the circle, sometimes just off.

Occasionally, just to push his limits, he tried firing with one hand.

The results were terrible.

Abysmal, even.

His shots flew wide. Sometimes they didn't even hit the target board. It was laughable. Embarrassing. But IAM didn't flinch. He didn't curse. He didn't complain. He simply took the loss, reset, and tried again.

Because that's how improvement worked.

He holstered the gun, exhaling slowly, and took a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. Then he reached for his water bottle, drinking deeply as his eyes swept across the range. It was empty. He was alone. No sounds except the low hum of lights and the echo of his own breathing.

He often stayed late to do extra practice. Not because he was ordered to, but because in his mind, that was the only way to really get better.

The only way to improve at anything was repetition.

Failure. And trying again. Then failing harder. Then trying even harder. Again. And again.

In IAM's opinion, talent and hard work could go lick his ass. What mattered—what really made the difference between people who rose and people who stayed behind—was obsession.

To get better, you needed more than dedication. More than ambition. You needed to be consumed.

The goal had to become part of you.

It had to bleed into your skin, into your thoughts, into every breath you took.

You had to think about it when you woke up. When you were eating. While you were trying to sleep. It had to settle in your bones and whisper in your ear like a second heartbeat.

Obsession didn't care who you were. It didn't care if you were strong, or weak, or scared, or angry.

Obsession didn't discriminate.

It welcomed all kinds. As long as you were willing to break yourself in pursuit of something bigger.

If you weren't willing to risk everything—to throw your entire life into the fire for the chance to change it—then, frankly, IAM thought you were one of the stupidest motherfuckers alive.

And yet…

Today, something felt off.

He was tired. Not the normal kind of tired, not the good kind that came from pushing yourself. It was different. A deeper ache. A kind of mental burnout.

Usually, he stayed three hours late.

Usually, he would shower, then head to Raj's workshop.

Today… he wasn't sure he had that in him.

His eyes drifted back toward the bullet-ridden target downrange.

Maybe he could take a rest for today.

Maybe—

No.

He sighed, heavily, letting the breath escape from his lungs like a slow leak from a cracked pipe.

He turned away, leaving the range behind, and made his way down the practice hall into the gym.

After spending some time there—long enough for his arms to shake and his shirt to cling to his back with sweat—he finally wandered into the closest men's shower facility. His muscles burned as he stripped down, stepping into the open shower space beneath a steady spray of cold water.

The water hit his skin like needles at first, but after a few seconds it numbed the soreness. Around him, a few other guys stood under their own showers, quiet and tired.

IAM stood still.

Letting the water fall.

And, naturally, he started thinking.

You know. The usual stuff.

The economy. Climate change. The state of the global financial market.

...Okay. Not really.

His thoughts, like always, drifted to the war.

The longer he thought about it, the more it settled in him: war here wasn't glamorous. It wasn't glorious. It was slow. Exhausting. Grueling.

It drained you.

And they weren't even that deep into it yet.

They were still in the early stages. There was so much more left. So many steps before Claw and Hope's armies would finally meet face to face in the deadly expanse of the Deadline.

Because, in this world, war wasn't just about fighting. It was about surviving the terrain.

Surviving the Deadline.

Years of experience had shaped the way countries approached it. Strategies were carved into stone by blood and failure. And over time, a pattern emerged. A process that worked—if only barely.

Step one: build military bases around the edges of the Deadline.

Like The Hold.

The Hold was one of the biggest military camps in the country. But it wasn't the only one. Dozens of others existed, spread along the Deadline's edge like teeth around a wound. Each one with its own teams, its own missions, its own preparations.

Step two: secure ten miles of land within the Deadline.

Just ten.

That zone—relatively safe—would still contain spawnlings and devilborns, but no Devils. It was the best they could do. Establishing a buffer zone.

Step three: push inward.

This was the real war. The longest part. The hardest part.

It started with strong groups of ascenders—people strong enough to carve a path through Deadline creatures and clear out the stronger threats. Devilborns and devils.

Once they did, they'd stop and set up temporary camps with supplies. Tents. Defenses. Holding the ground while another group followed behind, taking the same path and building a mini version of the Hold—a micro-base for soldiers to live and prepare.

With Path abilities, it usually took a week to build a mini base.

Then the next group would push farther.

Clear more ground.

Repeat the cycle.

This rinse-and-repeat process continued until the two sides—Hope and Claw—pushed to within five miles of each other.

Neither side dared enter through the core of the Deadline.

The core was... forbidden. Things lived there. What must not be seen. What must not be heard.

Things that sent even the strongest to their graves.

So both sides skirted it, building their advance lines in wide arcs.

When the two sides finally got close enough, they'd wait for reinforcements.

A strange cooperation formed during that time. Not quite peace. Not quite truce.

Both sides helped, indirectly, to clear Deadline creatures—knowing full well the bloodshed was still coming.

And when reinforcements arrived?

That's when the real battle began.

A short, brutal clash while still fighting off Deadline horrors.

Victory could mean claiming the other side's base. Or forcing them to retreat. Or mutual withdrawal if the Deadline creatures became too overwhelming.

Either way, once it was done, both sides pulled out fast.

No one stayed behind.

Not unless they wanted to be cleaned up by the Deadline's hungriest residents.

And thanks to a Path formation, path formations could also be used

to form contracts, it is usually made by combined efforts of rule and justice paths ascenders.

The winning side would be granted whatever spoils were agreed on before the war began. Resources. Supplies. Secrets. Masters.

IAM leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cold tile as the water ran down his back.

So yeah.

What he was really thinking about… was how long he was going to be stuck in this war.

How far The Hold had to go before they hit the front.

And more than anything…

What were his chances of survival?