On the other side, he stopped and waited. After several minutes of silence, he knew that he could safely continue.
He ran for a long distance.
Finally, safely down in the second level, he slowed to a walk. He was breathing heavily; it was very loud, and his footsteps echoed hollowly.
He was alone down there. He could tell that.
At the Jonson bend, he breathed a sigh of relief. Ahead was the empty corridor that led to the dead end, Forward. He could see down it, clear to the bulkhead. And as he knew it would be, it was devoid of life and movement.
He sat down to wait out the long day.
He scratched his chin.
He would have nothing to do until the closing bell. At which time he would be forced to go to the assembly area.
As would anyone else, according to the rules of the Festival as laid down by Nestir, who had not yet been sent to his Reward.
That would be a dangerous time. For then there would be no esthetic consideration. It would be a fight amongst all assembling for the final honor of Sole Survivor. One could expect no mercy: clean, quick sword stroke, no more. No suffering at all.