Ray chose the room because it was simple. One entrance. Smooth walls. A ceiling low enough that anything big would have to crouch. Thin grooves ran along the edges of the floor and gave off a weak green spill, just enough to pick out corners without turning the chamber bright. Water dripped into a shallow depression in one corner and collected cleanly. The sound was steady, and steady was useful.

  He stood just inside the threshold with his sword up and made himself look properly. Ceiling first, then walls, then floor, then the corridor again. His chest injury pulled when he shifted weight. His left arm carried a dull ache down into his fingers. He kept the blade where he could use it and let the pain sit in the background. It didn’t need attention. It would take it if he gave it a reason.

  At the corridor mouth he stacked three stones into a narrow tower. He set it where a passing shell would brush it, then widened the base so it would topple easily. He dragged two heavier rocks into place as well, not to block the entrance, to force anything coming through to scrape. Once the corridor was set, he moved to the far corner and sat with his back to stone and the sword across his lap.

  He stayed still and listened until the room stopped feeling new. The drip in the corner didn’t change. The faint green spill didn’t brighten. No shifting grit, no scrape, no distant movement that turned into something closer. He let his muscles loosen a fraction, just enough to stop wasting strength on tension he couldn’t afford.

  Time passed in small pieces. Drip. Silence. Then a cadence that didn’t belong.

  Click. Click.

  It wasn’t in the corridor yet. The sound came from further back, softened by distance, and it carried more than one rhythm. One set of clicks was heavy and even. The other was tighter and impatient, shifting pace. Ray pushed himself up and moved to the threshold again, careful with his footing and careful with his weight. He kept the sword high and the carapace shard ready, and he made sure his retreat line back to the room stayed clear.

  Two shells appeared at the bend. The first was broad-backed, thick plates stacked into a low wedge, pincers built to crush. The second was smaller and ridged through the joints, legs tapping in quick bursts. It didn’t stop behind the larger one. It tried to slip to the side straight away, searching for a route the bigger body couldn’t take.

  Ray stepped forward just enough to draw them in, then eased back into the corridor where the floor was flatter and his retreat line to the room stayed clean. He didn’t give them his corner. He didn’t give them his back. He gave them space he could control.

  The smaller crab surged first. It snapped low at his shin. Ray met it with the shard and rolled the strike away rather than catching it dead. The impact still jarred his arm. He answered with a short cut at the nearest leg joint, shallow and precise. Dark fluid welled in a slow bead. The crab clicked sharply and hopped back a half step, then angled wide again, searching for a path around his front.

  The larger crab moved in behind it, steady and patient, filling space rather than chasing speed. It pushed toward the rocks Ray had dragged into place and the stone scraped as it met resistance. The scrape wasn’t loud, but it was the kind of sound that carried in a corridor. Ray used it as a marker. He didn’t need eyes on the bigger shell every second if he could hear exactly where it was.

  Ray stepped to the side of the entrance and drove the sword point into the larger crab’s pincer hinge as it pressed forward. The blade scraped, then bit a little. The crab jerked back and clicked hard, more annoyed than hurt. The smaller crab tried to slip past the bigger one’s shoulder and found a wall instead of open room, its legs tapping faster as it realised the angle wasn’t there.

  Ray held position, carapace shared raised as a shield, sword point steady. The smaller crab darted in again, a quick jab at his calf. He shifted his foot and let the strike glance off the shard instead of giving it something solid to catch. He punished the hinge again when the bigger crab pressed, then moved back a pace before the smaller one could turn the exchange into a pile-on.

  They reset. The smaller crab gave ground first, the quick tapping fading a step at a time. The larger one followed, shell scraping lightly as it turned. The clicks retreated down the corridor until they were only echoes again.

  Ray stayed where he was for a long moment, sword still up, listening for a rush that didn’t come. When the corridor stayed quiet, he rebuilt what he’d moved. He set the rocks back into place, tightened the stone stack so it would tip easier, then returned to the room and sat again.

  Before he settled, he went back out once more and checked the corridor bend they’d come from. He didn’t chase deep. He just took a knee and looked at the scrape marks in the dust where the smaller crab had tried to angle wide. The taps were sharper, more scattered, and the spacing suggested lighter weight. Useful detail. If it came again, it would try the same thing. He scraped a line into the dust with the tip of his sword, marking where it had first surged, then another where the big one had pressed. It wasn’t a map. It was a reminder he could glance at when his head was foggy.

  His left forearm throbbed where the earlier scrape had opened. He tore a strip of bandage and wrapped it tight, then flexed his fingers until the ache stopped spreading. His chest injury held, but the pull was still there, a steady reminder every time he shifted wrong. He checked his kit by touch, made sure his potion vials were still where they belonged, then pulled one out and turned it in his hand for a second before putting it back. He wasn’t desperate yet. He didn’t want to burn his safety net because he’d taken one bad scrape and a shove.

  He drank from the corner depression and rinsed his mouth, then spat the gritty taste onto the stone. The water was cold and clean enough to use, so he washed his hands and wiped the worst of the crab fluid off the shard and sword hilt. He didn’t want a slick grip in the next exchange. When he finished, he sat with his back to stone and the sword across his lap, then stood and started moving with purpose.

  He ran sword forms inside the space he had, slow and controlled. Three swings. Pause. Two steps. Pivot. Guard up. The chamber was too small for wide arcs, so he tightened the movements until the blade stayed clear of the walls. He focused on the parts that had failed him earlier, the moment when a step went wrong and the monster got leverage. He repeated the same pivot until his boots stopped scraping. He repeated the same guard until his wrists stopped wobbling on the return.

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  When his arms started to shake, he switched to bracing work instead. Forearm pressed into stone, push and hold, then release under control. He repeated it with his shoulder. Then with his core, forcing the body to take load without folding. It wasn’t impressive. It was the sort of strength that only mattered when something heavy tried to pin you to a wall.

  A soft pulse touched his awareness.

  [Training recognised. Strength +1.]

  Ray looked at the words until they faded. “No comments?” he muttered.

  Nothing answered. The drip continued.

  He went back to work. Footwork next, short steps and tight turns, rehearsing the last-beat shifts that kept him from being herded. He moved in small circles, then straight lines, then angles, forcing his ankles to adjust without panic. He stopped regularly and listened down the corridor. Clicking stayed distant. The room stayed quiet. When he heard nothing but the drip again, he moved once more, and when his chest pulled too sharply he paused and reset his stance instead of pushing through and paying for it later.

  Another pulse followed.

  [Practice recognised. Agility +1. Mind +1.]

  Mind. Ray held that word for a moment, then let it go and sat again with the sword across his lap. It was the first reward that felt aimed at what he was actually trying to do. Survive by learning, not by charging forward.

  Interface work.

  There was no button. No clean mental handle to grab. He had to find the tug behind his eyes that used to mean “status” and force it into shape through will. Pressure built immediately, enough to make his temples throb. He kept going anyway, steady rather than hard, the same way he treated bracing practice. Push too much and something tears. Push too little and nothing changes.

  A fractured panel flickered into existence, edges patched with faint green seams.

  The panel shuddered as if it wanted to tear apart. Ray kept his focus fixed on it and held the shape in place.

  A line slipped in beneath the fractured edges.

  [Interface patch applied. Health readout stabilised.]

  The panel flickered, then settled.

  Ray stared at the number until it stuck. It didn’t take the pain away. It gave him a ceiling and a reference point that wasn’t guesswork. He let the panel fade before it collapsed on its own and sat with his back to stone again, feeling the throb behind his eyes slowly ease.

  He did a quick calculation in his head and didn’t like it. Forty-two out of four hundred and ten, seven an hour, and that was only the natural tick. He didn’t have time to lie around waiting for full health. He needed enough to move and enough to survive the next mistake. He pressed a palm to his chest and held the pressure there for a few seconds, then released and checked the cloth. Dry. Still holding.

  He went in a second time, aiming for a broader window. Something that told him who he was, not just whether he was dying.

  The first attempt came out messy, text smearing and tearing before it could settle. Ray waited until the pressure eased a fraction, then tried again with the same steady pull. He kept his jaw set and his shoulders still. The more he tensed, the worse the panel behaved.

  A new panel formed, smaller and unstable, edges tinted with faint green.

  The text trembled, then held. Ray watched it for a few seconds, long enough to make sure it wasn’t going to collapse and tear itself apart. He didn’t touch More Info+. He didn’t need a new problem while his head was already pounding. He let it fade on his terms, then rested his head back against the stone and stared at the dim grooves until his eyes stopped trying to manufacture movement.

  He used the remaining time for small, practical work. He adjusted the rocks at the corridor mouth so the scrape would be louder. He moved loose debris away from his resting corner so it couldn’t clatter under his elbow. He drank from the depression in the corner again, then wiped his hands on his trousers and checked his blade edge with a thumb. The crab fight had left a tiny burr near the tip. He scraped it against stone until it smoothed out, then oiled the edge lightly and set the sword back within reach.

  The stone stack at the entrance clicked once.

  Ray raised the blade and held still, listening.

  No rush followed. No scrape. The corridor stayed quiet again. Whatever brushed the stones didn’t push in. It didn’t commit. The sound faded back into the dungeon.

  Ray kept watch until his legs started to protest, then eased his shoulders down a fraction and stayed in place anyway. “Not tonight,” he said softly.

  The drip continued. The grooves gave their faint green spill. Somewhere out in the dark, something tested the edges of his room and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

  Ray stayed where he was and kept his attention on the only thing he could control.

  Making tomorrow survivable.