Ryland Carter sharpened his blade in the dim corner of a tavern, watching three men argue over cards at the next table. He needed hunters—loyal ones who wouldn't run when the undead got close. His family had become those monsters because of him, because of the cursed blade he'd forged with too much pride. Now he hunted the undead to make it right, but doing it alone wouldn't be enough. He needed a squad, people who would follow his orders without question. The next morning, he stood before an old warehouse he'd bought with months of hunting bounties. The building's roof sagged and its walls needed work, but it had good bones. He pulled out a wooden sign and hammer from his pack. The sign read "Ryland's Training Arena" in bold letters. He nailed it above the entrance, each strike echoing through the empty street. Inside, he marked spaces on the floor with chalk. One section for combat drills. Another for weapons practice. A third for studying undead behavior and weak points. He dragged in practice dummies and set up racks for blades and crossbows. By sunset, sweat soaked through his shirt. The arena wasn't perfect, but it would serve its purpose. Here he would test recruits, weed out the weak, and forge the strong into something better. Here he would build the squad that would help him make things right. He locked the door and walked back into Deadville's streets, already thinking about where to find his first hunter. The next day, Ryland returned with a cart full of materials. He needed something to test his recruits with, something that would show him who had real skill and who would freeze up. He spent hours building a training dummy that looked like the undead—tattered clothes hanging from its frame, arms positioned to grab. He stuffed it with sand and straw until it had weight. When he finished, he set it up in the combat area and stepped back. It wasn't his family staring back at him, but it was close enough to make his chest tight. This dummy would show him which hunters could face the real thing. His arena was ready. Now he just needed to find people brave enough or desperate enough to walk through his door. The problem was simple—nobody knew about his arena yet. He grabbed a piece of dark wood from his supplies and started carving. His hands moved steady as he burned letters into the surface. "Join Team Ryland everyday at 6 a.m." He drew a hunter fighting an undead creature beneath the words. The image was rough but clear. When he finished, he carried the sign through Deadville and mounted it where people gathered. He stepped back and studied his work. Tomorrow at dawn, he would find out if anyone would answer his call. His training arena stood ready. His dummy waited for its first strike. All he needed now was someone willing to fight beside him, someone who wouldn't quit when things got hard. He walked back toward the arena, already planning the first day's drills.

Dawn broke cold over Deadville as Ryland unlocked the arena's heavy door. His breath fogged in the air. Six o'clock came and went with no footsteps outside. He crossed his arms and waited by the entrance, watching the empty street. Minutes dragged past. His jaw tightened. Maybe nobody would come. Maybe hunters in this town were too scared or too smart to trust a man they didn't know. Just as doubt crept in, a figure rounded the corner—then another behind them. Three people approached his door, rough-looking and scarred. Ryland straightened. His first recruits had arrived. He led them inside without greeting. The arena felt bigger with people in it. Their eyes scanned the combat zones, the weapons racks, the training dummy he'd built. "Listen up," Ryland said, his voice cutting through the silence. "This isn't about teaching you to survive. It's about making you loyal. Following orders keeps you alive when the undead come." He walked to the center of the floor. "You'll train here every morning. We'll drill until you move without thinking. Until you trust the person next to you more than yourself." One recruit shifted his weight. Another crossed her arms. The third just nodded. Ryland pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. "But not here. Not yet." He'd bought something else—a fortified training bunker with dark gray brick walls and boarded windows. A place where real tests happened, where he could push them hard without witnesses. "Tomorrow we go there. Today, you show me you can follow one simple order." He pointed at the dummy. "Hit it until I tell you to stop." The first recruit stepped forward and drew her blade.

Ryland watched the third recruit lower her blade, chest heaving from the drill. They'd followed orders without complaint, striking the dummy for an hour straight. But following orders in an empty arena meant nothing compared to what waited in Deadville's darker corners. He needed to show them what they'd face—real undead territory, places where hunters earned their scars. Tomorrow's training at the fortified bunker would push them harder, but first they needed to understand the world they'd chosen. He dismissed them with a nod and locked the arena behind him. The streets outside held abandoned buildings where undead gathered, old factories where screams echoed at night, safe houses where experienced hunters traded information for coin. His recruits would learn every location that mattered, every place where loyalty got tested and the weak got buried. He pulled his coat tight and headed toward the hunter's quarter, already planning which dangerous sites to show them first. The hunter's quarter stretched across three blocks of converted buildings. Ryland stopped at a bronze statue planted in the main square—a hunter stood with boot pressed against a fallen zombie's chest, blade raised high. Fresh scorch marks scarred the undead's bronze face. Someone had carved names into the base, hunters who'd made their reputation here. This was what his squad could become. Victories that people remembered. Stories that drew the kind of fighters who wanted more than survival. He traced one of the names with his thumb, then moved on. Past the statue, light spilled from a pub's windows. The sign above the door showed faded paint and old wood. Ryland pushed inside. The pub smelled like smoke and ale. Hunters sat at worn tables, speaking low. A woman with a crossbow leaned against the bar. Two men near the door compared scars on their forearms. This was where the serious ones gathered after dark—not just to drink, but to find work and measure each other up. Ryland ordered nothing and watched. These were the people he needed. Experienced. Hard. Looking for something better than scraping by on bounties. He listened to their talk of undead sightings and failed contracts. When he left an hour later, he'd learned which hunters were available and which crews were falling apart. Tomorrow his recruits would see the bunker. But soon he'd bring them here, to show them what a real hunter looked like—and what they'd need to become to earn a place in his squad.

Ryland stepped out of the pub and into the cold night air. His recruits would need more than drills and lectures—they'd need to see what made a real hunter. He walked three blocks west to a building marked only by a dented metal sign. Inside, weapons lined the walls in neat rows. Blades, crossbows, and modified tools hunters used in close quarters. He ran his hand along a reinforced spear shaft, testing its weight. His recruits would train with standard gear first, but eventually they'd need to know what worked best against different undead types. A scarred hunter near the counter nodded at him without speaking. Ryland nodded back and left. Tomorrow his squad would sweat in the bunker, but soon they'd stand in places like this, choosing their tools like professionals instead of desperate survivors. The walk back took him through streets he rarely traveled. Jagged concrete chunks jutted from the sidewalk beneath his boots. Grass pushed through the cracks, stubborn and green despite the cold. Even here, where death ruled, small things refused to quit. He'd built his blade with arrogance once, certain of his skill. That confidence had killed everything he loved. Now he saw the world differently—nothing stayed perfect, everything broke eventually, but some things kept growing anyway. His recruits were like that grass. Rough, scarred, but still fighting. He just had to shape them into something useful before Deadville ground them down. A lookout platform rose ahead, its wooden beams weathered and cracked. Twisted vines climbed the structure, wrapping around the crossbeams. Bright red berries hung in clusters against the old wood. Hunters used spots like this to scan for threats, to watch the streets below for movement. Ryland stopped and studied it. His squad would need high ground sometimes, places where they could see danger coming instead of walking into it blind. He made a mental note of the location. Training wasn't just about swinging blades—it was about knowing the city, using what it offered, turning broken places into advantages. He pulled his coat tighter and headed home. Tomorrow the real work began, and his recruits would learn what loyalty actually cost.