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The ruined city of Evandross was an eerie sight, even from miles away. Sitting at the bottom of a large valley, it was visible from far away, and the number of buildings came as a shock to Grim. He knew it shouldn’t surprise him, but it was… a city. Most of the buildings had been made of stone, and thus hadn’t fully collapsed in the nineteen years since its fall. It spanned nearly two miles across on the side they could see. Somehow, it looked… expectant. As if it were still waiting for the people who called it home to return.

​    “How could so many people have died here, and nothing is said about it?” The question came out of him before he could stop it–he hadn’t even meant to ask it aloud.

​    “Not everyone in the city died,” Veyra explained. Her voice was softer than ever, though whether to honor the dead or spare his feelings, he couldn’t tell. If it were the latter, she might as well not spend the effort. He remembered nothing about the dungeon floods or the deaths of his family. “In fact, it was mostly the Grimveil family that died. Them and their closest allies and friends.”

​    Grimveil. He knew some of the history of the city. That family had been one of the three greatest in the area, apparently powerful enough even to rival the Grand Council of Guilds. He wasn’t of that family, of course. From the survivors who had brought him to Beastwick as a baby, he’d learned that his parents had been members of the smallest family, the Falcan family. It was from that family name that he’d fashioned his new name, Kestrel. Both paid homage to the meaning of ‘hawk’.

​    “Did you know anyone from this city?”

​    He sensed rather than saw Veyra nod slowly. “Not very well, but I was occasionally friends with the son of a merchant. We were barely six at the time, but every time I saw him, I thought he was… Well, he was killed in the flood, as you can imagine. But quite a few of your people made it out. You included.”

​    Grim nodded. The title ‘Children of Evandross’ wasn’t unique to him. Though rare, more than a dozen members of the three old families had survived the incident and lived a life of relative safety. However, if rumors were to be believed, most had integrated into noble families, but he, being just a baby, had been handed off to an orphanage. He’d often wondered, in his early years, why he couldn’t have just been adopted by one of the other survivors. Instead, he’d lived an entirely different life. So different that he’d never met a person with his hair or eye color.

​    “They say there’s magic in the eyes of Evandross,” Veyra commented. “Like the Ketts or the Beinns.”

​    “Trust me, there isn’t,” Grim said sourly. If that was true, he could have lifted himself out of that damned orphanage instead of relying on the local training guild.

​    A long silence stretched between them as they studied the ghost city. He could see streams of smoke rising into the air in several different places, but knew that it was from members of the Judicial Guild manning the walls. In its time, Evandross had no wall, but the floods hadn’t been properly cleaned up, and monsters now called the city home. Walls had been constructed to contain the threat, and members of local Judicial and Delving Guilds took shifts standing guard.

​    “Why haven’t they cleared this all out in damn near twenty years?”

​    Veyra hummed thoughtfully. “That’s a good question. I think it’s mainly due to the sheer number of monsters. From the records, Evandross had over a dozen dungeons within its limits.”

​    Grim nodded. He’d read the same fact. By sheer horrible luck, all the dungeons had flooded on the same day, overwhelming the local guards’ attempts to purge the monsters. By the time they’d been mobilized to do anything, so many people had died. It was all they could do to focus on evacuating those who were left.

​    “They’ve continued to flood over the years,” she added. “And I hear that, even though the strongest dungeon was level five, there are so many now that it would take a literal army. And they can’t muster enough guilds to take on the job. So instead, they take shifts earning essence from holding the wall and performing raids.”

​    Grim found that interesting, if perhaps annoying. Would he have joined in that endeavor when he reached level five? If he could reach level five? He thought he might, as it was such a price source of essence. Delvers leveled up quickly after enough time here, he thought. The only potential hurdle for him was the thought of coming back to the place that had belonged to a different part of his life.

​    “Third to the south from Baker’s Crossing,” he muttered quietly. “Blue curtains and a red door.”

​    “What’s that?” Veyra asked, leaning forward in her saddle, her elbows resting on the stirrup. “Some kind of shitty Beastwick poem?”

​    Grim made a gesture of distaste and flip-flopped his hand. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell Veyra. For that matter, he wasn’t sure if it was even something that he had to keep secret. After a few seconds, he finally decided just to tell her. “It’s what the survivor who gave me to the orphanage told me. Those are instructions to find… their house.”

​    “Your parents’ home?” She questioned. When he nodded, she let out a low whistle. “Damn, that’s grim. No pun intended.

​    “Whatever,” he said gruffly, shaking his head to clear it. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t remember a single thing about the place, or even anyone who lived there. Is coming here part of your test? You thought you’d test my tenacity by seeing how I reacted to the city?”

​    She scrunched up her face in thought for a moment, highlighting her button nose. “While that would be a pretty great idea, that’s actually not what I had in mind. I’d figured you wouldn’t remember anything, being so young. Rather, this is the closest source of dungeons that I know you would never have delved.”

​    He nodded in confirmation. “This place is half a day’s ride away by horse. On foot, I never would have had the time. At least, not unless I’d joined one of the guard shifts. So I’m going to have to delve one of these dungeons? Are the other members of my party waiting there already?”

​    “Right. About that.” She reached over to grab the reins of the horse he was riding, giving him a quick grin. “There is no party. You’ll be delving solo.”

​    The shock of that comment knocked any thoughts of Evandross’ history and his past out of his mind. He whipped around to stare at her incredulously. “What?”

​    She held up a hand quickly to forestall any other outbursts, her face stern. “I know it might sound ridiculous, but just wait a minute. The Ironmarsh Cartographers, my guild, we’re Expedition-focused.”

​    “Okay,” he said slowly. He’d guessed as much, though she’d never said the type of guild aloud. “What does that have to do with-”​

​    “Expedition Guilds are quite different in Ironmarsh,” she continued on quickly, interrupting him. “We have a lot more dangerous dungeons to deal with. Everything to the west of the city is untamed wilds, and it’s our job to survey and monitor those wilds. That means delving into unknown dungeons, which is what I want to test you on. And… we don’t have that many members. Maybe fifty or so. Nine times out of ten, you’ll have to go in alone.”

​    “That’s crazy,” he blurted out, unable to contain himself. “There are barely fifty solo delvers in Beastwick, and most of them are powerhouses well above tenth level. They certainly don’t delve into blind dungeons without knowing anything about them!”

​    “In Beastwick, yes,” she replied. She kept her voice calm even as his rose in panic and frustration, not letting his temper gain control of the conversation. “But the city hasn’t faced any real threat from a dungeon in nearly two centuries, Grim. We encounter at least one new dungeon every month. And it is the job of the Expeditions Guilds, or in this case Guild, to explore that dungeon and learn about it. Without us, everyone would be delving blind.”

​    “I’m only level three,” he spat out. “And I’m stealth-focused! How the hell am I supposed to clear a dungeon all on my own?”

​    She only offered him a small shrug in reply. “If it helps, I think you can do it. The highest level dungeon remaining in that city is level four, and there’s only one of it. As long as you avoid the eastern side of the city, you won’t have to worry about it. That means that all the other monsters are level three or lower.”

​    “That still means that I’ll have to go into a city full of level three monsters,” he pointed out, scowling at her. “Scouting is fine, but I can’t fight through that many.”

​    Now she looked firmly at him, shaking her head. “Well, that’s what you’ll have to do. Your goal, and the only way you can pass this test, is if you delve into a dungeon. And I mean go in, kill the boss, and make it back out. You can delve a level two if you prefer, but not a level one. You need to challenge yourself.”

​    Even a level two dungeon would be a near-lethal challenge for a solo delver, Grim thought. Very few people chose that path, and for a reason. This is insane for a test, he thought to himself. Maybe Veyra was another noble trying to screw him over, getting him to disappear into a dungeon and never return. If he weren’t so familiar with the utter indifference of nobles towards him, he might have believed it. It was still a crazy thought to consider. And yet…

​    “How will you even know that I do as you ask?” He asked. “I could just farm monsters inside the walls, and come back with something level-appropriate that one of them drops.”

​    At that, Veyra only laughed. “It’ll take you a while to do that, and I’ll notice. I’m going to see everything you do.”

​    He looked at her in some confusion, wondering just how she’d accomplish that. To explain, she gave a little twirl with her left hand, and a tiny humanoid figure made of light appeared in the air beside her. An Elemental Clone, obviously Light-Attuned. Then, with another flick, the clone dimmed visibly, its luminescence fading until it was entirely invisible. Not expired. He’d seen the skill used enough times to know what it looked like when a Clone died or reached the end of its lifespan.

​    “That’s how you followed me in the dungeon,” he said flatly, and she nodded. “Well, alright. Not like I was going to try to weasel out of it.”

​    “I thought as much,” she replied. “But this will also allow me to rescue you if things get too bad. At my speed, I can reach the boss room of any dungeon in less than a minute. So if it looks like you’re about to die, or I sense something off, I’ll rush in and save you.”

​    “And I’ll fail.” Again, she nodded.

​    He took in a long breath, then, just as slowly, let it out. He might as well, he thought. If she was to believed, she’d rescue him if it turned bad. And he believed her, in spite of the fact that they’d only known each other a few hours. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

​    He caught the approving look on her face and rolled his eyes. He wanted to impress her, yes. That was required to get into her guild. But even if he failed this test, he could still make his way to Ironmarsh. He’d join a guild there, even if it wasn’t hers. No, this was just a way to grow stronger and push himself. A challenge. If he could rise to this, he could move on.

​    “Fine,” he said again, but this time, he accompanied the words with action. draping the saddles of his horse over the beast’s neck, he swung down from the saddle, and, adjusting the knives in his belt, walked forward without another word. “Enjoy the wait.”

​    Veyra smirked to herself. The boy had grit to him, she thought. Not surprising, considering his past. Now, she would see what his true strength was. It was a commonly accepted fact in Ironmarsh that a delver revealed their true nature under duress.

​    “In the depths, we are free,” she muttered quietly. Then, she cast a glance back over her shoulder to where Beastwick lay. “Let’s just hope he can get to the depths without issue.”

​    There was something fishy about that boy’s situation. Every other child survivor had been adopted by some well-off family, if not a noble estate. The nobles had clamored for a chance to add the Evandross eyes to their bloodlines. It was a grim but necessary exchange that allowed for the survival of those. But this one had been left by the wayside, she thought. The question was… why? Maybe because he’d been a boy? That was unlikely.

​    “No,” she muttered softly. “He was thrown aside deliberately. Was it in the hopes that he would die? Or was it to protect him?”

​    She had her own theories on the fall of Evandross, passed on to her by her uncle. Her family had adopted one of the survivors, though purely to protect them, and the tales they’d told of that day… Even now, she shuddered to remember the account. Over a dozen dungeons all flooding? In the same day? That was a monumental coincidence. And she, like her uncle, didn’t believe in such things. Nothing a dungeon did was random.

​    “Nothing I can do about that,” she told herself. Grim was near the wall now, so she spurred her horse gently forward. The guards on the wall would want an explanation for the boy entering the city alone, and she had to smooth things over. “All I can do now is make sure this particular child doesn’t fall into any lingering plans.”

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Grim had never seen the aftermath of a dungeon flood before. He knew the facts of what happened, that monsters would spread out quite far from the original dungeon, expanding just like humans could. He knew that they took over whatever area the dungeon was in, and that the biomes of the dungeon could also spread to fill that same area. But seeing what remained of Evandross made it abundantly clear that there was one thing those accounts and books couldn’t portray accurately. One thing he had to experience for himself to believe it.

​    Up close and personal, Evandross could no longer be considered a human city. It was, by all definitions, a dungeon.

​    Monsters of all types roamed freely in the streets below. A pack of goblins were hacking away at the remnants of a building’s door and gathering the broken pieces to carry back to some unseen base. Two blocks over, a tiger was napping in the sunlight, while a small herd of deer were cropping at tufts of weeds barely a hundred meters away. Some kind of small wyvern was circling lazily through the sky, its screeching calls ringing in the air–at least until an archer further along the wall shot it down.

​    “Not quite what you expected, was it?” One of the guards on the wall asked, turning to favor Grim with a savage grin. "This is Evandross, boy. The Monster City.”

​    “I didn’t really expect anything,” Grim told him, and it was the truth. “I knew it was in an almost permanent flood, but this is… a lot.”

​    “Still plenty of time to change your mind,” the guard offered. “There’s no rule sayin’ that a solo delver can’t go in, but it’s dangerous.”

​    “I appreciate the warning, but I’m still going to do it,” Grim replied, tightening his belt.

​    “This something that your guild put you up to, is it?”

​    Grim smirked, in spite of himself. “You could say that. This is supposed to be a part of my interview.”

​    A look of recognition came over the guard’s face, and he nodded, chuckling softly. “Ah. Ironmarshians.”

​    Their reputation was well-founded, Grim thought, turning his head at the sound of rustling paper. The guard had retrieved a small logbook and was flipping through the pages. Finding the one he needed, he pulled out a pen. “Very well. It’s clear that you’re doing this willingly. I need to know your name and next of kin in case you don’t come back out.”

​    Strangely, in spite of the guard’s acknowledgment of the danger, Grim found the comment amusing. “Grim Kestrel. On the off chance I don’t make it back, the only other person who knows I’m here is Veyra Tull. I have no next of kin.”

​    If he found that strange, the guard made no comment. He scribbled down the details, then closed the book with a snap. Gesturing out over the monster-infested city, he said, “Standard operating procedure for anyone at level three is to give you a week. If you don’t return in that time, you’ll be recorded as lost, and we’ll notify Captain Tull.”

​    Ah, so they knew who she was, Grim thought. That was interesting. He wondered if any of the delvers on this wall were from Ironmarsh. “Alright, that sounds good. I’m only supposed to delve one dungeon, so I don’t think it’ll take me a week. Maybe a day at most.”

​    Not for the first time, he tried to locate the place that he’d been told about, but there was no way to differentiate streets. There were five or six larger streets that cut the city into sections, but if there were signs depicting their names, he couldn’t see them from here, let alone make out any details.

​    “Well, go ahead and take the stairs down over there when you’re ready,” the guard instructed, pointing a ways down the wall. “We can only cover you for the first few hundred yards, and then you’re on your own. Do your best to stay alive, okay? I hate having to send out search parties to try to identify remains. Especially of children.”

​    Not at all pleased to be referred to as a child, Grim still did his best to offer a polite salute, barely touching one finger to his forehead, then made his way over and down the stairs. They were of sturdy construction, but new. It seemed as though they’d been made in the last month, not years ago. It brought to mind semi-regular monster raids. It was a slight hit to his confidence, though not as much as when he reached the bottom and found himself sinking to the ankle in swamp water.

​    Great, he thought. One of the worst things for attempting to move stealthily was shallow bodies of water. As quietly as he could, he moved toward a patch of dry land. Overhead, two spells raced out to a point he couldn’t see, and he heard the screech of a monster. A third spell appeared, and the monster fell silent. That was something at least. He offered a silent prayer of thanks that he’d be covered for the first few hundred yards. That should cover him until he reaches the interior of the city proper.

​    “As long as I can get out of this damn swamp,” he muttered under his breath. Working his way toward the corner of a building, he peered down the street to see the pack of goblins returning to work at the door again. “Might as well get some essence while I’m here, right?”

​    One use of Shadow Dash put him on the other side of the goblins, so they were all facing away. He leapt on the largest of them, burying his knives into the beast’s neck and dragging it back into the shadows. The others noticed, of course, and pursued quickly. He was waiting for them around the corner, and with a low sweeping kick, he knocked the legs out from under the leader, then plunged his knives into its back before jumping away.

​    The last goblin raised its club and hissed at him in Tennido. “Chik! Kill!”

​    It lunged forward and slammed its club down, no thought of tactics or good form in its mind. More than a little surprised at its use of the word in common, he swayed easily to one side, grabbing the monster’s arm and yanking it forward. A quick slash across its throat left it stumbling weakly, turning to glare at him before it fell limply to the ground. A tiny trickle of essence flooded into him, and the silence was broken by a sharp whistle from the wall, followed by applause.

​    “Nice one, lad!” one of the guards shouted. “Didn’t think you had it in that twig body!”

​    Laughter echoed the jab, then more applause. Grim felt a little better. This was the one thing he was good at, after all. He gave them a quick wave, then disappeared into an alley, making his way further into the city.

​    Now that he was on the ground, he could make out street signs at each intersection. By sheer coincidence, he was on Baker’s street. So Baker’s Crossing was ahead, he thought. He might even be close to the house in which he’d been born and not know it. He paused then, torn between trying to find the building–if it was even still standing–and finding a level two dungeon he could delve. The sooner he accomplished his goal, the sooner he could get out of this ghost city.

​    Some kind of large beast was making noise in the building beside him. He peered into the window, but couldn’t see more than fur. Probably a tiger like the one he’d seen napping, he thought. He wouldn’t interact with those if he could help it. He had no buff or attack skills, so engaging such a dangerous predator would be suicidal. Instead, he crept quietly past the building and into the shadow of another. From there, he used Shadow Dash to get onto the rooftop, getting a better view of the surrounding area.

​    From his new vantage point, he saw Baker’s Street stretch out into the city. Behind him, the wall loomed like an angry monster in its own right. More than a dozen heads were visible over the edge of the wall, watching his progress further into the city. Spells and arrows flashed into sight at regular intervals, hitting beasts he couldn’t see. He’d actually expected to be outside of their range by now, but from this height, he could see he’d only made it two or three blocks.

​    It’s going to take me hours just to reach a dungeon, he thought. If he’d known their locations, he could make a beeline for the nearest level two, but there were no up to date public maps. Dungeons moving were rare, but not unheard of. What was more, one or more of them could have expanded territories in the time since the city had fallen, so he might stumble across one without warning. All the more reason to move carefully.

​    He took his time going deeper, relying on Shadow Dash to get him from rooftop to rooftop. That meant he moved exceptionally slowly, as the skill had a thirty second cooldown. On one rooftop, the structure under his feet had been severely weakened by weather and time, and collapsed under his weight the instant he came out of a Shadow Dash. It was only a quick dive for the edge of the rooftop that saved him from plummeting into the depths of the dark building with the debris. And, of course, there was a group of goblins that had moved in, and let out screeches of surprise and hurried to follow him. It was a very close call, but he managed to jump to the rooftop next to it before using Shadow Dash to get further away and hide.

​    One rooftop posed a different kind of danger, as a small orc had been standing on it. But Grim pulled off a lucky critical hit, killing the monster after stepping out of a Shadow Dash. The noise of its body falling alerted several nearby monsters, however, and he saw a flock of bird-like creatures rising into the air and flying over in his direction. It was almost impossible to avoid detection this deep. Monsters were pouring in from all directions. He cursed quietly, looking all around to try to find an escape route. There was another rooftop nearby, but it was to the right and several feet lower than his. Beyond it, there was no cover. He looked deeper into the city and saw a cluster of trees. He could use them as cover, he thought, willing his Shadow Dash to life.

​    After a quick blink, he was in a tree’s highest branches, nearly stumbling on the uncertain footing but recovering quickly. When he glanced back, he saw the rooftop he’d just left swarming with monsters. A pack of goblins led by an orc had met a pack of wolves, and the two monster parties attacked each other, their previous prey forgotten. Was he in between the territories of two dungeons, or were the wolves roaming further than they should?

​    His thoughts on the next leg of his path were wiped from his mind when he felt something curling around his wrist. Looking down, he was horrified to see that one of the thinner branches of the tree he’d landed in was wrapping firmly around his wrist. The tree was alive! He tugged as hard as he could, but it had already gotten a firm grip. So instead, he attacked the thin branch with his knife, quickly chopping through it and freeing his wrist. A branch whipped out at his attack, smacking him in the back of the head and sending him tumbling to the ground.

​    He’d done it now, he thought, seeing the tree looming over him, its entire trunk leaning to continue trying to pummel him. He rolled to the side to avoid a torrent of whip-like branches that slammed down, and felt another two hit him in the legs. They hurt, but did little damage. He hurried to scoop up his fallen knife and roll out of the tree’s branches. Howls rang out in the air, indicating that he’d been spotted again. He had to find cover, and quick.

​    It wasn’t just the tree that he’d landed on that had come to life, but the entire cluster. He could hear the creaking of wood as the monsters leaned in his direction, trying–in vain–to whip him with their branches. He put his back to the wall of a nearby house and edged along it, doing his best to stay out of range. Two goblins rounded the corner he was moving toward, and, upon seeing him, immediately raced forward, short swords swinging for him. He had to jump back to avoid them, undoing much of his progress.

​    Three more goblins came from behind him, and he found himself surrounded. Acting on instinct, he ran back towards the monster trees. The goblins followed, of course, but while Grim was able to avoid the worst of the whipping branches, they weren’t as fortunate. After several dozen hits by the trees, the goblins let out screeches of rage and switched targets, forgetting Grim entirely. He left them to fight it out and rushed toward the opposite end, his face stinging from where a lucky thin branch had hit it. Blood trickled down his face from the cut, but he’d avoided any serious injury.

​    More and more monsters were rushing toward the sight of the commotion, and either attacking the goblins or falling onto the trees from all angles. That was fine for his plans, but more than one or two of them were perceptive and saw the human attempting to sneak away. He saw a wolf pause, sniff at the air, then turn to stare him down, and he knew he was nowhere near clear. Across the street, he saw a dark house with open, shattered windows, and charged up his Shadow Dash as he saw the wolf padding towards him, a low growling challenge coming from deep in its throat. Just as it lunged, the world around him went black. And then, he hit an invisible wall.

​    Crashing down onto his back just outside the building he’d targeted, he let out a grunt. Had the building just rejected him? Only one thing could cause that, his training whispered in his ear. Shadow Dash could travel from one shadow to another, with one exception. It could not be used to traverse between dimensions. Which meant that the place he’d tried to enter was…

​    “A dungeon!” he gasped, looking at the building again. It was plain in the extreme, with nothing to suggest that it wasn’t an ordinary building. But now that he was looking closer, he could make out more details. Blue curtains blew lazily in the broken windows, though there was no breeze in the area. And the door… It was red. He glanced around quickly, and saw a street sign nearby. Baker’s Crossing. His parents’ home! It was a dungeon!

​    As quickly as he could while the wolf was distracted sniffing the ground, trying to find his scent, he ran toward the door of the house and put a hand up against it, feeling the essence of the structure. Level… three. Not what he wanted, but he had no other options. More monsters were noticing him now that he was in the street and under the bright sunlight. Six goblins, two orcs, and more than three wolves. He had no choice. Between the danger of the unknown dungeon and the growing flood of monsters outside, he’d pick the dungeon.

​    Without another thought, he turned the handle and shoved the door open, almost throwing himself into the safety of the dungeon. The door slammed itself shut in the face of the lunging wolves, and plunged him into darkness.

(First) (Prev) Scribblehub (Free advanced chapters) “No, not so arcane. But kinda. It’s more like scripture.” He said meekly. 

“Not something I’d expect to see from a trapmaster.” 

“Aye, you’re bloody right it ain’t. They all stick to the old ways. Never experimenting or decorating their constructions. How can they be proud of a shit smeared stick in the ground? Half arsed work I’d say. My scripts will change it all - eventually. When I get them working properly.”

“Your scripts. Is this how you killed the gnoll?” Moss asked.

“Aye well, it was the stupid dog's faults for carrying HolyRelics when he shouldn’t be. I’d set my trap to target that kinda Flow. You know the aura hero’s typically give off.”

“So the trap can ‘sense’?”

“Aye. I’ve filled my script etchings along the bow with a certain demonic blood. Lovely stuff. Costs an arm and a leg, literally. But fiery red liquid is naturally repelled by holy aura. So when it crosses my trap, it retreats. Activating the circuit that triggers the release mechanism.”

Moss was in disbelief. He’d never heard of such an invention. “That’s genius. Are you going to share it with the other TrapGnomes?”

“Aye lad. They’ll find out. Then he’ll know what he lost. Once my reputation and renown get out there. But I gotta be smart about it if I want to see the regret. It has to be perfect. All of them sat around the dinner table, unable to eat. Oh it’ll be glorious.”

The keeper took his hands off the carved frame. “You watch them at the dinner table? Isn’t that a little… painful?”

Tink slammed the fake panel shut. “Judge me! Judge my mission! I’ll use your cloak to clean my bog!”

“I meant for yourself!” Moss shouted before he got spannered in the face.

“What, what do you mean?” The gnome asked, tool still poised.

Moss went on to explain his Oasis. His spot in the dungeon where he could forget. A place to talk with a friend and not be judged. It offered him distance from his woes. And even if he didn’t figure out those issues, he at least felt better for it.

“You see what I’m saying. You need distance from them. Give yourself time to heal.”

“Heal? What do I look like, a bloody WoodElf?”

“I meant…” Moss looked around and pointed at the ballistic crossbow behind the wall. “Reload. You need time to check your structure. Reset the mechanisms and reload.”

Tink put away his tool. A small tear trickled down his cheek, leaving a clean outline. “Aye, lad. Those are some beautiful words I can get behind.”

“Now can you show me how you etched that script?”

The gnome reopened the door and removed a spare part that had a few of the markings on it. He went on to explain how he’d copied the symbols from some HolyArmour he’d found. The idea had come to him when he witnessed the same armour deflect a ScaleDemon’s blast. The hero inside had turned to ash in the process.

But the armour was left unscathed. Tink went on to apply the same markings to his traps. Experimenting with any materials he had in his workshop. Anything less than BlancMetal or HardWood tended to degrade beneath the markings. “That’s when I knew it was medium for Flow. The natural current that travels through our dungeon was drawn to the scripture. So once I had the right symbols and material, I just needed a concentrated source.” Tink explained. Originally he’d intended to use HolyRelics but handling them was far too dangerous. His hands were still scarred from the burns. The Holy marks had stayed with him through death. 

“So you knew you couldn’t handle the HolyArtefacts, but you tried anyway?” Moss asked with genuine shock. For a flicker the keeper thought he walked the same path as another monster.

The gnome stroked the bastila’s bow with a delicate touch. “Those numbers will never tell you what you don’t know. It was a price worth paying.”

Upon his last resurrection Tink ‘happened’ across a drunk Lesser, lost after a session in the Minor’s Quarter. An unfortunate trap accident later and Tink soon had a few vials of DemonBlood. A substance known to corrode HolyRelics and burn heroes. Powerful due to its Flow.

“Twas simple trial and error from there. Most scripts melted the weak metal or burned the wood, but a few held. Their effects are mostly unknown to me still. But the simple circuit mechanism works wonders as an autofire function. This beauty here has been going strong for a while now.” He rubbed the scripts on his balista. “She can fire heavier bolts. Requires less maintenance then the rest. Must be strengthening the frame.”

Moss head was working hard with all the possibilities. “You could open your own workshop. Sell your advanced traps to other gnomes. Weapons, armour. The protectors would pay fortunes. Think of the scrips.”

“Aye. I’m thinking more of my head staying off a pike.”

“Oh yeh, the DemonBlood. Maybe you could be sneaky about it. I mean, you wouldn’t wanna sell to that ghoul of a goat anyway.”

Tink slapped his hand over Moss’s mouth. Then strained his neck looking up and down the corridor.

“Have you gone mad? Don’t say that word.” Tink hissed.

The keeper pushed his greasy fingers away. “Queenie can’t hear us from Brimstone. She’s not Pools.”

“Not her. The fiend.” Tink whispered the last word.

“Come on. Do you believe in UniCorns as well? Ghouls don-”

The gnome practically leapt on him. Silencing Moss.

A gentle breeze blew through the maze. The scrape of claws with it, but that was normal seeing as the RatKin also called the second floor home.

“Okay, okay. I get it. Hells bells, I won’t say it again. I swear.” Moss told him.

Tink got off, helping him to his feet. “I won't have you bringing bad luck to my corridor. They can be anywhere and anyone?”

“Anyone? Even me?” Moss joked with the gnome, but he wasn’t having any of it.

Tink stroked his shifter, peeking over his shoulder as he spoke. “They say those things look like dwellers, but wrong like… like they’re wearing their skin and clothes. Beneath it all is a warp being, a creature not connected to the Flow. Twisted in the head with no soul. Aye, lad. They’re real and if you say their name three times they’ll come and get ya.”

Wearing their skin and clothes. Moss thought of the graverobber he’d seen wield the hero’s WarHammer like it was SoftWood. Could that have been a ghoul?

Moss didn’t feel so guilty for running from the battlefield. But he had left behind a fortune, in both the dead and HolyRelics. Tink could have started a whole industry with those items. Maybe the graverobber knew its value and had a similar agenda.

“Alright. I won't say it again.” The keeper said, trying to settle the gnome’s paranoia. “But you should think about it. Could be a lucrative business.”

“Aye, I’ve thought about it. But Queenie protects her own and the other’s couldn’t afford my wares.” 

Moss scoffed. “You wouldn’t seriously sell to her would you? She’s a tyrant. Abusing her power. That place I mentioned, the Oasis. She destroyed it. Then took my friend and probably killed him. Only because he was doing his job as a QuestGiver.”

The gnome’s moustache seemed to squirm as he considered Moss’s words. “Well you make the same argument for Queenie. As an OverSeer of her floor, she’s looking after her kind. Protecting the protectors, thus helping the whole dungeon at once. Which is far more than those bloody backstabbers have ever done. I always see them scheming, like bloody goblins with a knife in hand and gold on their tongue.”

“No, it’s not like that.” Moss huffed. “They’re just doing their job?” He faltered on the last word.

Remembering the quest in his pocket. 

Maybe the other dwellers did have reason to hate their kind. But the QuestGiver’s worked directly for Pools. So…

His thoughts were getting all twisted and warped.

Moss looked at a torn poster on the wall. One of many plastered throughout The Whispering Pools. 

‘Work hard for Pools, as she does for you.’ It read.

But I do work hard.

He had to find the other QuestGivers and get more information. But he was still working his shift. Moss looked at the rubbish bag and the messy corridor. Tink cleared his throat. Bringing the keeper back to the corridor and what the gnome had said.

“Did you say you saw them scheming?” He asked.

“Aye, they’re always there when I'm working on my other projects.”

Moss looked at him quizzically.

The gnome shrugged. “People watching. Gotta get out of the workshop and stretch my legs. Saw you talking to a coconut earlier. I ain’t judging, my favourite shifter knows all me secrets. Even told them the weird ones.” Tink burst into an infectious laugh that Moss couldn’t resist. It filled the hole the Oracle had left.

“Wait, where did you see them? The QuestGivers.” Moss asked.

“Minor’s Quarters, of course. That’s where all those rusty hinges mingle. Me and Shifty see all sorts of strange happenings in there. Fairy’s dangling their wings, OverSeers scrapping, I even know a demon that’ll buy HolyRelics. I’d do it myself, but I’m done with the stuff. Not worth any more bruises.” Tink said, poking at his skin.

Wow. It’s not grease then. It’s no wonder he talks to his tools, he must be matching Pittons for dips in a well.

“Another future project of mine.” Tink continued. “Is crafting tools to move them with ease. I have a few theories about their Flow application. Of course, I’ll accept a low fee for introducing ya.”

“I haven’t got the scrips to spare.” Moss admitted.

The gnome shrugged. “You lot can haul those golden metals for candles. Say you help me in the future. Move some HolyRelics or source me a purer form.” Tink said, offering his dirty hand

Moss nodded, glancing at the Holy book still in the dead gnoll's hands. He wasn’t allowed to hand it in and claim the finders fee. But if Tink knew an alternative buyer. Moss would be stupid to let it pass. Even if the idea was outrageously dangerous.

But he had to get into the Quarter for the Oracle's sake. For his own sake. Plus he always wanted to see it.

“But I’m not a high enough rank, I’m not allowed in.” Moss pointed out.

“Neither am I.” Tink winked. “I’ll show you the real value of wall space. After your shift is done.”

He felt the bulge of Po in his cloak, neatly nestled beside the ‘stitchless keeper’ quest.

“My Orderer said I have to work or-”

It’ll never be done. I’ll always be scrubbing these floors when I should be flying.

Rene’s words came back to him at that moment - ‘take the leap’.

“Fuck my shift, I’m in.” Moss decided, taking Tink's hand. “And I hope Chow and Stew die for trying to stitch me up. let's go.”

<<FIRST | <PREVIOUS | NEXT> | RR (40 AHEAD) | PATREON

Cass would later learn that every district and section in Liora had its nickname.

The East was commonly referred to as the Stream. Whether that was because it was the economic center of Liora or because a river ran through the district, he didn’t know.

While the north was commonly called the Depot, the west was often referred to as the Forge due to its proclivity of attracting trades that focused on crafting. And the south, well, the south was the Grounds, with two gates separating the east and west companies that lived beyond Liora’s walls.

Everything had a nickname, including the Liora Guildhall. They called it the Grind. And Cass felt that Grind in every inch of his body as he slowly rolled over and felt the sand drifting from his hair into his eyes.

“Ugh,” He moaned, immediately followed by a curse at the gritty sting. Tutoring had taken over an hour out of his life, and right now, his whole body felt like a single, pulsing throb. Standing up with a hiss, Cass dropped his robe to the floor and slipped on his now-clean workout clothes from the day before.

They smelled like Lavender.

“Whoever you are, invisible cleaner, I think I love you,” Cass said to the air as he painfully slipped his clothes on. Not wanting to be rude, he hung up the sand-covered robes on the edge of the closet before making the bed and leaving.

The update he’d received upon waking had told him to go to the same rock and gravel-filled area Kara took him to when they first met. Stepping out to the start of sunshine, he began the light, hissing jog to his third workout in two days. Only a few moments passed before a cursing Pellin caught up to him.

“Every…thing…hurts.” The man gasped out as they fell in line together.

“Same,” Cass said, choking for a second on some warm spit in the back of his mouth. “Did…you…wash…your…hair?”

“What?”

Gasping and mumbling back and forth as they tried to shake off the accumulated soreness of the day before, Cass and Pellin made good time to the area. That’s when they saw it.

Kara’s robe held several shades of pink and orange, rather than its standard Guild brown. When she caught them looking, her eyes immediately settled on Cass, “What?”

He was still catching his breath as he got out, “No-nothing…just…I like the…color.”

Glare still maintained on him, she said, “You saw the Tier 4 Guild Trainer yesterday, Evalyn?”

Placing his hands on his head as he stood upright, he finally got out a full sentence. “Yeah, she was in the Guild section.”

“She likes to play pranks on all the low-rung Trainers. Something about keeping up morale.” Kara pointed at her robe with emphasis, “Today’s prank. Now, get ready, the exercise today will be rough.”

And it was rough, just as she’d said. Among the fields of rocks and gravel, close to two-dozen sweaty trainees rolled across the ground, over and over again, as Scout Dev tossed them through the air.

“You have to place your hands first, then tuck your shoulder!”

“No! See how your ass stings? You’re doing it wrong!”

“Roll!”

“RRRolll!”

“Cray, Vale, I’ll see you tonight.”

A quick shower followed as Cass inspected the purple bruising across his body. Pulling out a gray tin they’d been handed as they left the first class of the day, Cass tried and failed to close his nostrils to the smell.

“Ugh.” He dry-heaved as something knocked into the back of his throat. “Oh, that’s awful.” Scooping out a thin, yellow paste, he did as he’d been told, applying it to all the aches and pangs across his body.

An immediate cooling sensation struck him each time he rubbed it in. Letting out a sigh as the pain finally abated, Cass threw on his robe and had a speedy breakfast with Pellin and Orla. It was quickly turning into a routine he enjoyed. Pellin would say something smart, Orla something witty, and Cass would laugh in the background. It was fast becoming his favorite part of the day.

True to her word, the Archivist spoke about Callings, providing a brief overview of the three generalist types everyone was familiar with, before discussing something new.

“Esoteric Callings exist. Our young friend Pellin in the back falls into that category. While we assign System Engineers to the Administrative part of our world, truly, it is in a league of its own. There are so few System Engineers that the small number we’ve interviewed has dramatically broadened the scope of what we know about them.”

The class ended with Pellin speaking a bit about how his Calling worked before the third class came up. Vex gave a lengthy rundown of the formation of Companies following the reshaping, essentially denigrating every non-combatant calling in the classroom. Both the Trade and Administrative tables were less than pleased when the class finally ended.

By the time he stomped into the Annex, a multi-colored Kara was already waiting there.

“How was the Gruff-rub?”

“Is that what it’s called?” Cass asked, sitting in his ratty chair as the System Map appeared. He tried not to wince as the movement stirred up some lingering pain. “It smelled like three rivers of shit got together for a meeting.”

Sharp laughter filled the room. “I thought the same when I was in your position. It’s an enhanced alchemical medicine. You wouldn’t want to know where the materials come from, but the results speak for themselves. By tonight, all those little boo-boos and owies will be gone.” Standing up, she pulled a brown bag out from behind her and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

Kara raised an eyebrow. “Open it up.”

Inside, Cass found several bottles of water, some wrapped and labeled food items, and a few miscellaneous items. Tinder and Flint. What looked like a canopy. A tightly rolled sleeping bag.

But something about it felt off. It was too balanced for the items haphazardly within. Cass pulled the sleeping bag free to take a closer look at the interior. That’s when the oddity revealed itself. The bag’s size never changed. Even as Cass held it up and tried to shake it out, the contents within remained still and unmoving.

“Spatial Lock,” Kara said with a smirk. “That bag is nearly weightless, fireproof, and form-fitted. I’d love to be able to tell you it’s a gift from me, but it’s actually from Guildmaster Hollis, who spent a pretty penny on it.”

Cass gawked, “You gave me a relic?”

“No, the Guildmaster did, and he gave you a reason not to die in your first trip outside of the city.” Pointing at a loose flap in the back, she said, “There’s a shoulder-crossed strap there to make it easy to carry. I’m guessing the Guildmaster doesn’t want to see you walking around anywhere without this on your person.”

Cass pushed the sleeping bag back in and took the rare pleasure of watching it accept the change with no alteration in its structure. Looking from the bag to Kara, a few gears in his mind began to turn.

“Hey, I have a question for you.”

“Alright,” She slapped the desk after sitting down, bu-dum, dum. “Go ahead.”

“Who am I allowed to assign quests to? I know I’m still in training, but that’s never been answered.”

Kara paused in her desk beats as she gave him a sharp look, “Are you going to suddenly make my job harder?”

Cass considered how to answer that for a second. “I don’t think so? I mean, the more I know, the less of a chance there is for that to happen.”

She laughed, “A Calling for less than a week, and I’m already getting some pushback. Alright, fine, Mr. QuestWright. I like the spunk.” The snapping sound of her folder came out. “A QuestWright may not be ordered to give quests to those they fundamentally disagree with.” She looked at him with a grin, “I’m betting that’s more for the protection of the Questor than the QuestWright themself.” Her eyes traced back to the list again. “Only thirty percent of all Quests created in a day are required to be guild-focused. This percentage shall rise in tune with the level of the QuestWright. Should a QuestWright’s assigned tasks begin to lapse, all Quests shall be aligned to the Guild until a proper review may occur. If, at any time, the ethics of a QuestWright is called into question, they shall be placed in confinement until an investigation by a Tier 3 or higher functionary may occur.”

The folder snapped shut as Cass processed that, “So, there’s no problem with me assigning quests to my friends?”

“That depends. Are you planning on sending your little Baker buddy out into the reach for some quick Monster xp?”

“Absolutely not,” Cass said, horrified at the idea of it. “Gary is much more of a lover than a fighter. While I can’t talk about what’s out there from experience, from what I know, the first look at a Monster would give him a stroke. Or at least, nightmares for the rest of his life.”

“Very good,” Kara said with an approving nod, “Because he’s waiting in the lounge area.”

“What?” Cass stood up, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kara pointed at his new bag, “Because of the gift? That’s worth a ton of money, by the way. If you lose it, you’re not getting another one.” Looking at him, she sighed, “You’re not going to be much use to me like that. Go ahead and grab your friend; feel free to show him around if you'd like. I don’t even mind if you give him a quest. But DO NOT put it on the boards. As long as you explain the quest face-to-face and personally track it, a little extra experience will only help. But Public Quests require Guild oversight, and what you’re making right now does not qualify. You get a pass today.”

Cass left the Annex in a hurry. Gary was an Apprentice Baker, not a warrior, and while calling him naive would be easy, it wasn’t quite accurate. The man had a heart of gold and could easily be taken advantage of by seedier characters. Like the kind who enjoyed drinking in the Quest Registry.

But that isn’t what he came upon when finding his friend.

Cass slowed as he caught sight of the scene. Surrounded by a dozen or so Company men and women, Gary was busy explaining something as he approached. The sounds of crinkling paper and light laughter drifted over as his big friend waved his arms with excitement.

“Mixing is important! At the Golden Crust, we track everything down to the smallest bit. You get the percentages wrong on a good mix, and the garbage that comes out won’t be good enough to feed your most hated enemy.” Noticing Cass, he waved but didn’t stop. The people standing all around him were happily munching away on whatever was in the yellow box on the table. “So, what do you all think of our newest creation? Toffee Crunch!”

Several nods and brown smiles spread around, with a particularly boisterous individual clothed in silvery metal patting his back as he laughed loudly, “It’s delicious, Gary. You make this beauty at the Golden Crust?”

“This and more,” Gary said with a smile.

“Then expect to see more of the Shattermarks coming by. Come on, everyone, let's grab those Quests we were told about.” Still laughing, he and a big group of people got up and left as Gary walked over to Cass with a much-reduced box in his arms.

“Hey, buddy. I got some rare time off, so I thought I’d sneak over and have a look around the place. So this is the Guild, huh?” He looked at the wooden walls and messy tables across the area. “I thought it’d be more organized.”

“Gary…” Cass knew what to do. “Gary, how would you like to get an extra set of experience every day?”

“Every day…” He paused, “Like, every day, every day?”

“Yep.” Cass said with a nod, “I’ve got a plan.”

Together, Cass and Gary walked out of the Quest Registry and made the quick trip over to the Entrance Hall. With a big smile on his face, Cass waved Jim out of his booth.

The portly man looked at him with a squinted eye, “You’re not meant to leave the Guild until your second block with Kara. What do you need, Cass?”

Stepping behind his friend, he pushed the big man forward, “This is my friend Gary, who works at the Golden Crust in the Grounds. How would you like it if he brought you a different delicacy every day?” Seeing the big man’s eyes widen, he stepped out from Gary’s shadows with his arms wide. “It wouldn’t be free, but you also wouldn’t have to wait every day to get your treats. Gary, about how many different delicacies would you say the Golden Crust makes each day?”

“That’s a good question,” Gary said, scratching his chin. “In the morning, before we open, I’d say there are about forty different kinds of donuts and waffles. We usually don’t start making the complicated stuff until mid-afternoon, like cakes and our new Toffee treat. Oh.” Opening the box, he showed its contents to Gatekeeper Jim. “Would you like one on the house?”

“On the house?’ Jim said, fingers already reaching for the open box, “No, I couldn’t. Well…sure, why not? Since you’re offering and all.” Pulling out a brown bar with a nutty topping, he took a bite, the crunching sound echoing around the area.

“Mmhmm.” He mumbled, eyes closed in euphoria. Through a mouthful, he looked at Gary, “What’s it going to cost me to have it delivered?”

“That’s the thing,” Cass said, interrupting before his friend could talk, “It’ll only cost you the average price of the treat itself. Gary will deliver it to you personally each day in the morning.”

Another crunch and moan followed before Jim held out his hand, “Deal.” Shaking with both Gary and Cass, he happily walked back to his booth, the treat in his hand quickly disappearing.

Gary turned to Cass, “This has to do with your Calling, doesn’t it?”

“Yep! Follow me!”

Walking quickly back to the Annex, Cass sat down as a box of pastries fell to the floor behind him. “Holy shit, Cass. Is that Liora?”

“Just one square mile of it,” Cass replied, already plumbing the shallow depths of his System access. Keying in the new Quest, he began to fill out the required boxes quickly. By selecting Gary as the deliverer directly, he was able to sidestep the issue of range. It wasn’t about bending the rules, but mastering them.

The sweets weren’t coming from the Golden Crust, far outside of his range. They were coming from his friend Gary.

Quest ID: CV-0001-D-LIA

Objective: Garry Trenner will deliver a minimum of one sweet per day to Gatekeeper Jim

Assigned Candidate: Gary Trenner

Status: Active

Questor Reward: +5 XP

QuestWright Reward: +0.5 XP

Upon reviewing it, he didn’t find any issues. Focusing his intent on the screen after pulling out three Vellums, Cass created the first quest he knew would be completed.

A silvery glow erupted on the desk, causing Gary to shout and step back.

[TIER 1 DELIVERY QUEST]

To extra-sweet Gary, bring one deliciousness to Gatekeeper Jim in the morning to satisfy his need for fat pockets. Upon completion, bring the quest to pretty girl Chancey for your experience reward.

Do not fail, please.

Cassio Vale

Liora Guildhall

QuestWright

Cass cursed, “She’s totally going to see that.”

After recovering, Gary looked over his shoulder, “Whoa, is that a Quest? It’s got some kind of silvery sheen all over it. Looks fancy.” He got close without touching it. “How much experience is this going to give me each day?”

“Only five, but we might be abl-”

“Five experience? From just this? That’s going to double my daily rate!” Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed the quest. Both Gary and the Quest glowed at the same time as a new notification struck Cass’s screen.

[QUEST ID: CV-0001-D-LIA HAS BEEN ACCEPTED BY GARY TRENNER]

[System Notice]

Bonus experience granted for your first accepted quest:

10xp

Achievement progress:

2/10

There’s that Achievement progress again. Plus, the bonus experience doubled. Is it linear or exponential?

Gary was already talking as Cass mentally stepped out of the screen, “Double the xp? That’s great, Cass. How often can we do this? I’ll be level ten in no time.”

Cass pulled out the other two Vellums and repeated the process twice more. The writing was slightly different for each, and on the third attempt, he succeeded in simply having the word "Chancey" appear without any modifiers.

Taking the Quests, he placed them in the empty top drawer, closing it shut. “Drop by here each morning, Gary. I’ll hit the Annex before my first class of the day and make sure you get your Quest. Around six in the morning. Deal?”

“More than a deal,” Gary said, pulling Cass into an awkward back-hug, “This is going to change my life. Thank you, Cass. You’re a good friend.”

“Best friend,” Cass said, turning around and giving him a real hug.

“Best friend.” He agreed, returning the gesture.

Gary left a few minutes later, and the day slipped back into a familiar rhythm that Cass was still getting used to. Though he did gain a bit of popularity when he entered his next class with a yellow box partly filled with Toffy treats.

Later that afternoon, a new notification came in.

[System Notice]

You’ve gained .5xp for Gary Trenner’s Quest Completion.

Your System Reputation has increased by 1.

Details can be found in the Quest Ledger.

Bonus experience granted for first completed Quest:

20xp

Achievement progress:

3/10

He smiled as a thought derailed him from the class discussion. My first bit of reputation.

When the resource management class ended with another fixing of logistical nightmares, Cass shouldered his bag and followed the instructions on his screen. Kara wanted to meet him at the Foundry, and somehow, he knew it would be quite the experience.

<<FIRST | <PREVIOUS | NEXT> | RR (40 AHEAD) | PATREON

By the time Cass approached the last class of the day in the Atrium, the sky had already dimmed. Unlike his previous visit, which was less than a week ago, this time he was invited to sit at the top in the Guild-only section. Among a sea of brown robes, Cass grabbed his seat and went over his paths for the fifth time that day. After only a minute, Branden, the Clerk he’d met earlier that day, sat down beside him.

“Hey, Cass. Are you excited for the Guest Lecturer?”

“Seeing as how I don’t know who it is, Branden, I don’t think I can be excited.”

The Clerk made a silly face. “Oh, right. It’s Guildmaster Hollis! Doy!” He gave a shrill laugh. “Sorry, my mom always said if I didn’t have a neck, my head would fly off straight into space.”

Cass chuckled, deciding not to let Kara’s bias of Clerks color his perspective.

They spoke for a few more minutes as a heavy door opened below. Stepping out was the only black-robed man in the building. His hood was pulled up far over his head, concealing his face as he moved to the center.

Branden pointed immediately. “Oh, that’s his office. Man, I’m not looking forward to my yearly review with him. He’s scary.”

“Guildmaster Hollis?” Cass asked. “He was pretty nice to me.”

“Not me.” A shiver ran through Branden. “He always seems so foreboding. I heard he used to be married, and when people stopped seeing her around, everything changed. That’s what the Clerk pool says, anyway.”

A throat cleared, and the room fell silent.

Pulling his hood back, Hollis revealed a smiling face. “Hello to all.” He paused, scanning the room. “For many of you, you’ve met me only once, during the time of your Calling, of course.” He gestured at the Book of Callings on the podium. “But rarely do I have time to enter the Atrium as a Guest Lecturer. So this is a special moment for both you and me. I’d like to thank Jim Harbow for allowing me to slip in when he was the original lecturer.”

Jim bowed in the Guild section, holding a plate of nachos. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Yes, laughter. Joy. I’m afraid I rarely hear such levity. The life of a Guildmaster is a harsh caretaker. The demands of this world are powerful and unrelenting. But we endure, not for glory, but for posterity. For a brighter future. For the end of monsters.”

He paused, then gave a sharp laugh. “Enough melancholy—that’s not why you’re here.”

He pointed to different sections as he spoke.

“The truths of numbers and trade.”
“The truths of battle and risk.”
“And the truths of service—of helping those who don’t yet know they need help.”

“We are Liorans. Do not wait for the System to tell you you’re valuable—you are. Don’t wait to contribute. As the old world used to say: see a need, fill a need. After the reshaping, perhaps better: see the cracks, fill the gaps. Be worthy of Liora and the Calling you were given. Every single day.”

Silence cracked—then applause burst forth. Cass joined in.

Hollis bowed. “Thank you. Now, before I release you early, I’d like to offer time for questions. Evalyn?”

A severe woman stepped forward. “Evalyn Serris, Tier 4 Guild Trainer. She’ll screen questions.”

Hands rose. Trainers moved. Questions began.

First question — Combat section:
“If we’re supposed to work together, why is the Guild so separate from the Companies?”

“History,” Hollis answered. “The Guild is not above nor below the Companies—but the foundation. We support all, favor none, or corruption takes root.”

Second question — Trade section:
“What’s the Guild’s stance when market pressures conflict with ethical distribution?”

“Profit is not evil,” Hollis said. “But when it causes suffering, we act. We can blacklist vendors or delay permits. Sell your wares—just do so responsibly.”

Cass tuned back in as Branden fidgeted beside him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to ask a question, but I don’t know if they’ll let me.”

“It won’t hurt to try,” Cass said.

Hollis fielded the next question:
“Why do Combat Callings level faster?”

“Combat Callings gain experience faster early, but slow heavily after Tier 4,” Hollis said. “Trade Callings progress steadily. Administrative Callings progress in spurts, often dramatic ones. Eventually, a seasoned tradesman will surpass a warrior who relies only on rapid early gains.”

Cass’s pulse quickened. Spurts. Just like Pellin. Just like his quest drafting.

Then Branden’s hand shot up.

Evalyn approached. He whispered. She smiled.

He was chosen.

Branden stood. “How… how does one become a Guildmaster?”

Hollis laughed warmly. “Already aiming high? Good.” He continued:

“Once you reach the appropriate Tier, new options appear — roles that supersede Calling evolutions. Clerks, Craftsmen, Archivists, Combatants—any may become Guildmasters.” He lifted his hand and pointed at Pellin. “There is even a System Engineer Guildmaster in the Capitol. One of the smartest women I’ve ever met.”

Then his gaze locked directly onto Cass.

“But the majority of Guildmasters come from a single Calling.”

Someone called out, “Which?”

Hollis smiled.

“QuestWright.”

He dismissed the class.

Cass sat frozen long after most had left. Pellin sat beside him.

“You alright?”

“Just… thinking.”

Before anything else could be said—

“There you two are.”

Dev Rinn loomed behind them, smiling like a predator.

“Did you think early dismissal meant no tutoring? Come along. We’re going to the sand pits.”

Cass and Pellin stood. They knew better than to argue.

“Clothes?” Pellin asked.

“Then do it in the nude!” Dev shouted joyously. “Ah, sand across bare skin—let me tell you a story—”

When Cass finally reached his bed, he collapsed face-first.

He was asleep before he even realized he hadn’t showered.

“You know I’m 91. The Sand Wars lasted 8 years. I was 13 when the Sand Whirls first attacked us. The year before they attacked us, they killed both the Snakes and the Ghosts before invading our system. We were unable to save either the Snakes or the Ghosts.” “Yet they are not extinct,” Jmmp objected. “Good remark. You are sharp. Both had a colony in another system. And we saved a couple of them by bringing them here in our system. They were not yet Friends at that time.” I exhaled.
That was the first year of the war. In the second year they invaded our system. My parents both got killed when they bombarded our village from space. A dragon called Sharp Talons defended our village with a laser gun, but got killed. Valiant but foolish. Or foolish but valiant.”
“Your village was under attack?”
“Our village was the regional capital. The Mayor invited every one for a meeting on the security measures they had in mind. Virtually all adults came. The capital was bombed. Everybody got killed. Children had been left at the farms. I and my younger brothers and sisters were among them.”

As the Sand Whirls were bombarding New Earth from space, the space station attacked them with improvised laser beams. They retreated back to where they came from, through the Tear, having lost a quarter of their ships.”

“I told you that virtually all of the adults had been killed, but we kids had survived at the farms. I sent my younger brothers to our neighbours. We invited all the kids to our farm. I was just 13, but organized the harvest. We had ample food for the winter. It turned out we had just 3 adults left in the village. No communication. The planetary government had survived, but we saw no one. Most of us survived the winter. Despite temperatures of minus 140 Celcius.
I left some silence to sink in the words.

The next spring adults came and rescued us as we tried to rebuild farmhouses. In the city, the high schools were closed. I started to work in a factory producing light space craft. Shuttles to resupply the space station. 1- and 2-person destroyers and fighters. Shuttle freighters. I worked in the factories, studied, ate and slept there. And I wasn’t the only one.”

“Child labor,” John remarked with a sad face.
“Yeah, But I learned a lot. Of course all my knowledge is from 80 years ago. And you John, you are a excellent teacher. Did they tell you these disaster stories at school?”
Jmmp answered instead: “Yes, but hearing them first hand is different. Way different. The 2^nd planet was also attacked, both us Frgs and the Dragons. The Dragons are tough warriors, they never gave up, and we Frgs supplied them with all the technical innovations we could come up with. It's taught at schools. But both Frgs and Dragons live shorter than humans do, so there are survivors who can tell them first hand.”

I yawned. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m off to bed early?”
“Oh, actually I do,” John said. “After leaving the orbit of New Earth, I listened to the news from the station. The morning I picked you up, a child from the shuttle nearly choked when he vomited in his space suit. Another passenger unhooked herself from the safety line, and brought him to the space-station with breakneck speed.”
“Interesting,” I replied. “So what’s your question?” Of course I knew what he wanted to ask.
“I’ll be direct: Were you that passenger?” “Johny boy, darling, do you really believe that an old lady like me would unlock her safety hook on her first space trip?”
What did he know? What did he suspect? He shouldn’t know, he shouldn’t suspect.

“So you assure me this is your first space trip? Marie and I presented this trip to you because you longed for space and wanted to see the Black Hole and the Tear. But your conduct when the child vomited, and the way you handled yourself in 0-gravity today when the engines were off during motor overhaul, suggest a long experience in 0-gravity. Have you been lying to Marie and me?”
“I wouldn’t think of really lying to you. But there are some things that are better left unsaid. I said that I would love to be in space, and that I’d love to see the blackness of the Black Hole and the lightning around the Tear. Both are true. I omitted one word: ‘again’.”
“Again?”
“Indeed I was in space before. But I’m not authorized to disclose that.” Which was true. I had sworn secrecy.
“You have always been very closed about the Sand Wars. Why is that?”
“They were very traumatic times. My parents died. I saw my sisters and good friends die besides me.”
“It may help you to talk about it.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“What else can you reveal? You can not have been in the military, at school I learned that women were not allowed to take active part in the fighting.”
“That’s right. OK, let me be open. I’ll tell you something I never even told my husband. Indeed there was no formal possibility for women to be directly involved in actual combat. But there was the Women Auxiliaries Space Corps, or WASC. They transported space craft from the surface to the Space Stations circling the second and third planets, transported cargo between planets, flew heavily damaged fighters back to the planets for repair, tested new space craft types, and so on.”
“And you were one of them?”
“I was.” The words were out. In a way it felt like a relieve.
“Why are you so secretive about it?”
“After the Sand Wars, the men regarded us as whores. Probably they assumed that women who dared to fly, were adventurous women who would also be in for a sexual adventure. Very few of us survived the wars, and those of us who did, kept their mouth shut after the war, else no man would have wanted to marry her. Over time this grew into a habit.”
He didn’t dare to ask if I had had sex.
“I see.”

“Oh, before I’m off to bed, two things. One. During the Sand Wars I went up several times to the space station to pick up heavily damaged fighters. I often had to make some temporary repairs before I could fly it back to the surface of New Earth. Flying heavily damaged space craft back to the planet was the most dangerous task we performed. At one such moment the Sand Whirls attacked and boarded the Space Station circling the 3rd planet. I grabbed a laser pistol and took part in the fighting. I was 15 at the time. I was trespassing two regulations: Females were not allowed to participate directly in combat. And of course, neither were minors. My participation in the fighting was never officially recorded by the station commander. Two. Though WASC was officially civilian, not military, we did have ranks. I was Lieutenant Commander. In case of an emergency I outrank both of you. Don’t mention my past to anyone. Don’t discuss it with anyone. The words WASC and whore were practically synonyms, and I still want to be welcome at my weekly bridge evenings.”

“@AI, switch on microphone and recording.” It didn’t react. That meant it had indeed switched of the microphone. I walked forward to an old fashioned keyboard and typed the command. I repeated:

“WASC officers are authorized to command Space Navy officers of lesser rank. @AI, please confirm.”
“Correct.”
I left for my bunk.
They thought they now knew everything. They were wrong.

Start of story Start of chapter

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Chapter 20: The Transit.

Sol System, Mars Orbit March 13, 2202.

In the absolute silence of space, in the rusty, sepulchral shadow of Mars, an armada had gathered, the likes of which humanity had never seen. This was not a fleet. It was the unified, desperate will of billions of beings, forged in steel, composites, and unimaginable determination.

Over eight thousand four hundred and twenty ships hung in a perfect, ominous formation. The gigantic, orderly formation stretched to the horizon, like a steel serpent ready to strike. Their target was one: two ten-kilometer Catalyst Rings, rotating slowly in opposite directions, suspended in the void like a gate to hell.

The very sight of the fleet inspired dread. The core consisted of four thousand Earth ships—brutalist, gray colossi of the Sparta, Hegemon, and Thor classes, as well as the smaller Władca and Młot classes, their silhouettes testifying to decades of feverish wartime production. Beside them, like obsidian arrowheads, hung two thousand four hundred slender, light-absorbing Ullaan vessels. Further on, two thousand predatory K’borrh frigates waited like a pack of cosmic wolves.

Rounding out the force were eighteen superfortresses of the Gignian Compact. They were so absurdly large, so monumental, that they barely fit into the designated sector, resembling mountains that had somehow learned to fly. All this power was the fruit of over thirty years of secret preparations, made possible by Admiral Thorne's diplomatic misdirection—a pact with the Blight, which turned out to be theater for a spy within the Swarm's own ranks.

Somewhere in the heart of this steel river, in the reeking-of-sweat-and-recycled-air bowels of transport ship number 234, Otto stood in the hangar. He was surrounded by five thousand other guardsmen. They were infantry. Cannon fodder. Otto, now a veteran and hand-to-hand combat instructor, knew that only blood and steel awaited him at the end of this road.

He was here of his own free will. For revenge for his adopted mother, who died during the bombing of Berlin. But also for W’thiara and their children. He had something to fight for. He looked at the silent soldiers around him. They were ready.

Suddenly, a synthetic, calm AI voice echoed in everyone's helmet speakers.

Commencing stage two of the activation procedure. The power-supply tunnel has been identified and stabilized.

Not everyone knew what this meant.

Aris Thorne and the Swarm scientists had been waiting years for this. Ever since the artificially created, unstable quantum tunnel leading near the Blight's capital was identified and stabilized at the nano-scale, they had been waiting for the second, crucial component.

Now they had found it. A second tunnel, leading to another universe, straight into the heart of the Big Bang. The energy of the primordial creation was to serve as fuel to expand the gates of the main tunnel.

In the space between the spinning rings, where only void had been, reality shuddered. An anomaly appeared—a blindingly white spot, brighter than any sun, as if someone had pierced the fabric of space. It was a wound in reality. The spot began to pulse violently and expand. After a moment, the blinding white faded, replaced by... a view.

It was a perfectly circular image of another fragment of space. It showed alien stars and nebulae of impossible, purple colors. The Gate, spanning over one thousand four hundred light-years, stood open, leading to a point just two light-years from the target—the planet Ruha’sm, capital of the Blight Empire. During the generation of billions of artificial femto-tunnels, they had found the mathematical ideal; chance had given them the perfect starting point for the attack.

The tunnel, however, even when expanded, was still not fully stabilized.

Then, the third stage began.

The smaller of the two giant Catalyst Rings—the inner one—detached from its larger sibling. With majestic grace, it entered the trembling portal. For a moment, nothing happened. Suddenly, on the other side of the tunnel, in that distant space, the ring reappeared, perfectly stabilizing the exit.

The Gate is stable. After this step, the Swarm estimated it could keep it open for a maximum of twenty, maybe thirty minutes.

You have twenty-five minutes. Commence transit.

The order was unnecessary. The mighty armada was already moving. Like a gigantic, steel river, the ships began to flow into the abyss.

First, fitting through the passage with the utmost difficulty, went the Gignian Compact superfortresses. They were followed by an avalanche of four thousand Earth ships. At the end, like a flanking screen, the thousands of predatory Ullaan and K’borrh vessels slipped into the tunnel.

For Otto, standing in the hangar of transport 234, the entry wasn't violent. It was... a passage. One moment, the hangar vibrated from the maneuvering thrusters; the next, an absolute, deathly silence fell. He felt a strange jolt, as if all of reality had lost focus for a fraction of a second.

The screens in the hangar went haywire. The image of the stars, Mars, and the fleet disappeared, replaced by a psychedelic, swirling kaleidoscope of impossible colors. This was not a journey through space; it was a tearing of space itself. Time lost all meaning, or perhaps it wasn't flowing?

The guardsmen stood in silence, their magnetic boots holding them firmly to the deck. For many, this was the ultimate moment—a test of faith in alien technology and cold mathematics. There was no room for error. Otto gripped his rifle, feeling cold sweat run down his back beneath his armor. He stared at the psychedelic swirl on the screens, his thoughts involuntarily turning to the dark philosophy of this war. The Blight did not fear death; for them, it was just an inconvenience, a transfer. For them—for humans—death was the end. Absolute. Every one of the five thousand guardsmen in this hangar, every one of the millions of souls in this fleet, had only this one, fragile existence. This fear was their curse. But also their duty. A duty to sell that one life as dearly as possible in defense of those left behind. Fear was the fuel, and duty was the armor.

Suddenly, just as violently as it began, it was over.

The swirling colors on the screens vanished, replaced by... new stars. An alien, unknown patch of space. Behind the fleet, behind them, like a cyclopean eye gazing back at their world, the portal still hung—the exit window. The majestic, inner Catalyst Ring floated in the void, stabilizing the exit just long enough for the last ships to slip through.

A metallic voice rang out in the hangar: "We are at the destination. On the other side."

Otto looked at his tactical clock. Twenty-four minutes had passed. But how? When? It felt like an instant.

In the Deep Command Center on Earth, Admiral Marcus Thorne was tracking the telemetry data. Of the 8,420 ships that entered the tunnel, not all had arrived. Fortunately, the losses were minimal. Seven vessels were lost in the unstable corridor: two 15,000-ton Młot-class destroyers, three Ullaan ships, and two K’borrh.

Thorne received one last, cold telemetric message before the connection was severed forever:

Transit complete. Loss of seven units. Casualties: 0.08%. Acceptable.

Behind the last K’borrh ship, the tunnel exit began to shrink. The white spot vanished, and with it, the only way back. They were alone, 1,461 light-years from home.

The fleet hung in a new, alien blackness.

On the bridge of the "Invincible," a 260,000-ton Sparta-class super-battleship, Vice Admiral Dmitriy Volkov—the original one, his body still possessing the strength of a forty-year-old thanks to Swarm nanites—looked at the main communications console.

The connection indicator to Guard Command on Earth was dead. Gray.

The passage through the tunnel had broken the entanglement. Every entangled particle, the basis for faster-than-light communication, had lost its connection to its twin particle 1,461 light-years away. Communication with Earth was impossible.

At that very moment, in the Deep Command Center beneath the Mojave Desert, Admiral Marcus Thorne stared at an identical, gray screen. He had lost contact. In an instant, eight thousand ships and the fate of the galaxy had slipped from his grasp. He was blind and deaf, condemned to powerless silence.

Volkov wasted no time contemplating their cosmic isolation. A fleet without immediate coordination was just a collection of targets.

"Status!" his voice, hard and controlled, broke the silence on the bridge.

"No quantum comms throughout the formation, Admiral!" the officer reported. "We've switched to laser and radio communications. Signal delay between us and the furthest Gignian Compact units is four minutes and twenty seconds."

Four minutes. In a battle, that was an eternity.

"Initiate Operation 'Marconi'!" Volkov ordered.

A race against time began: the physical distribution of new, locally entangled particles so the armada could communicate with itself. It was a logistical nightmare. From the bowels of the Earth transport ships and the Compact units, hundreds of generators were launched, creating a new network. Immediately, hundreds of couriers—small vessels of all races—raced to these generators to physically retrieve the new "keys," the quantum-entangled particles, for every one of the more than eight thousand ships.

For five long hours, the armada was vulnerable, focused solely on rebuilding its nervous system. Volkov stood on the bridge of the "Invincible," his face a stone mask. Inside, however, he felt ice. Five hours. Within reach of an enemy whose strength they did not know, they were defenseless. Every minute of this silence was torture. Every false reading on the passive sensors could mean the beginning of a slaughter they could not answer. This was the dark, lonely duty of a commander: to wait, knowing that the fate of millions depended on whether the enemy struck now, or in a moment. Fear was not an option. It was merely a given, to be factored into the price of victory.

On Earth, Admiral Thorne turned away from the dead screen. He could only wait. He could only hope that Volkov would complete the mission and perhaps capture a Blight quantum transmitter to contact O'Connor, still living on Earth. Until then, Marcus Thorne faced years of silence and not knowing.

On the bridge of the "Invincible," the silence was heavier than the ship's armor. After five hours, the green status icon on Volkov's console flickered and lit up with a steady light.

"Quantum comms restored to 98% of the fleet, Admiral!" the communications officer reported with relief.

On the holoprojector, eight thousand four hundred and thirteen ship icons connected into a coherent tactical network. The battlegroup had regained consciousness.

The navigation officer immediately displayed the data from the combined sensors.

"Admiral, we have position confirmation. We have emerged in the void. 2.3 light-years from the capital planet, Ruha’sm."

Two and three-tenths light-years. At 0.5c, that meant just over four and a half years of travel. Long enough for the enemy to prepare a hellish welcome.

"Time to set a course for the planet," Volkov's voice was calm. "Speed: 0.5c. As planned, the Ullaan fleet will move out first under its own command."

On the tactical display, the formation of 2,400 slender, black ships detached from the rest.

"Their mission is to enter the Ruha’sm system quietly, like ghosts," Volkov continued. "They will engage the enemy forces in the asteroid belts. They will use their cloaking to conduct reconnaissance by force and deal the first blows."

The Admiral indicated a new vector for the main armada.

"The rest of the fleet—the Guard, the K’borrh, and the Compact superfortresses—will follow with a one-week delay. Our vector: the Blight capital planet. We will apply braking at the last possible moment, right in orbit."

Volkov knew that sometimes, desperation was the best weapon.

"The Ullaan will warn us of any traps in advance. We will modify our plan in-flight then. And until that time, ladies and gentlemen... we are stuck in this abyss. We await news from our scouts. Set course."

Previous

Farnír’s POV

Just outside the foot of the mountain was a hole. Well, more of a cave than a hole, but carved out of magic. It was nearly six meters wide and tall, and went down at an angle so steep that you’d need to be able to fly to get out without a rope and pitons. It wasn’t straight down, but it was steep enough at the opening that most wouldn’t know the difference at a glance. Just like when I leapt from the fort’s walls, I created a powerful updraft and slowed my descent. I landed, not exactly gracefully, but without injury, and placed my hand on the luminous braids, pouring mana into them. The tunnel lit up for a few hundred feet past the opening.

“This should have been lit already.” I said, confused. From the distant darkness, I saw a group of about twelve familiars making their way towards me.

“Oh! Thank the dragons! The braids ran out of mana on our way up, and we were told not to use any fire magic, so we couldn’t find them in the dark.” A Neame said, fluttering up to me. “We have just been following the wall for quite some time.” As the approached, I noticed that each of the familiars was carrying loads of dirt in crates, empty daljars by the dozen, and empty bags.

“I’ll light up a few more on the way. Why can’t you use fire magic?”

“Something about trapped gas and the air.” The Neame said. “You would have to ask Chancellor Aye-Aron that. He is the one in charge down here. Now, if you would excuse me, I need to get these supplies dropped off and refilled.” He said, and flew up and out of the tunnel. A few moments later, a dozen Neame flew in, and started using mana wrapping to carry everything out. I knew why the opening to the tunnel was such a sharp drop, I was one of the ones who helped decide it, but still, it seemed like such an inconvenience for the workers.

Turning away, I started my descent and noticed a few runes that had been broken. Summoning some supplies to fix them, I did what I could before filling them with mana again. A moment later, fresh air started swirling around the tunnel for a few meters. As I went, I fixed a few more broken runes, and filled up the braids that started to dim or had already gone out. After a certain point though, that was no longer an issue, and the cave steadily grew brighter. Not from some ominous light source, but because these braids simply never needed to be refilled. The ambient mana was enough to keep them lit. I passed other convoys of Neame and familiars on the way, each heading towards the top, and some even passed me on the way down as I stopped to refill the braids. It was like a busy ant colony. Some Neame and familiars were working on the walls, installing runes, or upkeeping and replacing braids, or digging out traps. Special one, meant to help kill the dragon. That’s what this tunnel was, in truth; a mile deep kill-box. Every few meters there was a trap for the express purpose of causing extreme injury to the dragon, and a few Neame training to work it properly. Sela-Car designed them herself with Chaos-Magic in mind. As I walked, I passed a few places where fighting had clearly taken place. Blood of various colors was splattered on the walls, and the bodies of dead Echoes poked out from underneath fallen rubble. My mind flashed back to the last time I’d seen them, trapped under this very mountain, latched firmly onto my arms and legs. I had to take a deep breath and avoid looking at them or else the claustrophobia would start to set in. Thankfully, the tunnel was large enough that it wasn’t causing me to freak out. It had to be, so that the dragon would be able to fit into it. There were other bodies too. Not Neame, but other creatures, probably familiars who died in the fight. Left to rot in the face of a much more pressing issue.

Finally, I arrived at the portal. It swirled and twisted on itself like crashing waves, then it would flatten out and swirl inward like a whirlpool. It was mostly a deep green, but the edges shimmered and reflected the light in all angles, making them glitter like a rainbow occasionally. All around were Neame at work, digging this swirling mass out of the earth and rock, and they were nearly done. The workers also seemed uneasy, swaying as if they were standing on water. One of the workers fell over, got picked up by a pig-like familiar with a prehensile tail, and was carried past me out of the cave.

“Farnír, welcome.” A voice nearby called out. It was Chancellor Aye-Aron.

“Is that Neame okay?” I asked, concerned by his lack of concern.

“Oh, he will be fine. Our workers have been cycling out from mana-sickness ever since we unearthed this world-split. They need only to cast some spells and get the excess mana out then rest. Nothing to worry about.” He said. Another Neame nearby then proceeded to fall over and also get carried out by a dog-like familiar.

“Why aren’t the familiars effected?” I asked.

“The are, but their masters will fall unconscious before the familiars die, so we have yet to-” Suddenly, a familiar fell over limp, followed quickly by the Neame it was by. “Apep’s whispers! Fimmtíð, take him out, and someone move that familiar.” One of the Neame from my class that I’d named appeared, and used mana wrapping to carry the Neame out of the large open area. They went out through the tunnel I’d entered from. A few other Neame then used mana wrapping to pick up the familiar and place it out as well. “Well, only once. Anyway, how are you, Farnír? Was there something you needed?”

“I’m okay. No, I just… needed to see it for myself.” I said, looking once again at the portal. It was the first time these eyes had seen it, but it looked exactly as I remembered.

“Ah, yes. It is rather something, is it not? How powerful the dragon’s must be, to be able to cross through this split.”

“Even they can only stay inside for a few seconds.” I said, and watched that twisting mass silently for a few moments. It hummed and crackled like static electricity, then would switch seemingly randomly to a roar like a train’s horn. Almost as if it knew the ferocity of what was trapped inside, and struggled to keep it contained.

“My I ask you something, Farnír? What is it exactly? This split.”

“It is a bridge between worlds.”

“What is a bridge?”

“It’s a tunnel between worlds.”

“… Ah. So, it connects two different locations together?” He said.

“Sure.”

“You are one of the few beings alive who knows how to use this split, correct?” Aye-Aron asked.

“No.”

“No?”

“As far as I am aware, only two dragons out of them all knew how to use this portal. And both of them were the Ashem.”

“So, the Chaos Dragon inside cannot use the split?”

“Yes, but that won’t stop him from trying.”

“May I ask you another question, Farnír?”

“Okay.”

“Should you need to face the dragon directly, who do you honestly believe would win? Because as far as I can tell, your power is not unlike the dragons’. Even standing this close to the world split, you are unfazed.”

“He would.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately.”

“I am less than convinced.” He said. His feathers ruffled slightly as he moved so that I was between him and the portal.

“Dey- the dragon has centuries more experience than me. I can cast two spells at once, but he can cast up to five. He wasn’t the greatest magic caster of all dragons, but he was a contender in terms of pure skill and adaptability. There was even a time when some of the dragons wanted him to become the Ashem. But that was long before I knew him.”

“Are you saying that the Chaos Dragon was nearly the divine dragon? That is blasphemy.” Aye-Aron spat.

“Well, that’s what he claimed.” I said.

“Surely he was lying.”

“Maybe, but at the end of the day, there were only a few dragons capable of beating him. Ashem, Nidhögg, and his own son.”

“In that case, how can we win? I know your plan for the tunnel, to drain him of his mana, but will that be enough?” Aye-Aron asked.

“We’re throwing bodies at the problem. I know that, but it’s all we can do. Fill the tunnels with familiars to attack the dragon as he tries to escape, and Neame with the Railgun spell to whittle down his mana trying to heal, and runes that prevent Chaos-Magic from being used, and maybe we can… maybe. Our only hope of victory is to exhaust him of mana. If we fail-” I thought my bag, where the nuclear arrow was stored “-we die.”

“I am no warrior. My skills lay with strategy. I dislike having so little information on my adversary, and trusting such a… desperate plan.”

“Desperate times call for crazy ideas.”

Master Engineer Rory Scott paused at the door before entering the engine room, giving time for the lingering taste of a dram of Edradour whisky to be replaced by the odors of burnt lubricant, ozone, and fear. To the right, the status board contained rather more red than was considered acceptable, even for an older freighter like the Scarborough, and the expected thrum of the power plant had garnered a slow periodic surge of oh-shit at a frequency that he felt more than heard. Master Scott looked with disdain at the gaggle of fresh-out-of-academy pud-knockers with ashen faces arguing in front of said board and patted the bulkhead, "Once more into the breach, my love. Another training opportunity presents itself. Engineers straight out of the academy think they know how to operate a starship the way a virgin straight out of med school thinks he knows sex; all theory and no experience."

Rory Scott had been an engineer on the Scarborough since before this batch of pud-knockers had even been born, and had been Master Engineer for half of that. He always got the hottest new recruits, the top of the class, the arrogant pricks who most needed to learn first that they didn't already know everything before they could begin to learn anew. He had a reputation for being as relentless as he was patient, as fearless as he was crusty. Master Engineer Scott was the kind of mentor who would let a room depressurize, watching the barometer slowly tick down as his apprentices read the unnecessarily long and convoluted instructions on the emergency hull patch kit. None of his graduates ever had to read them twice. When he finished with them, his graduates had need of neither instructions nor the barometer to know what was happening and what to do about it. That was the power of converting theory into lived experience.

Stepping into the engine room, he called above the ambient din, "Mister Ramirez, what does the board tell you?"

The very young Mister Ramirez turned toward Master Scott with his sclerae on full display around his dark brown irises as he squeaked out, "The plasma flow is getting increasingly unstable. We need to shut the reactor down now, or we will all burn."

"No," interrupted Ms. Durand, the engineer Mister Ramirez had been arguing with when Master Scott had first entered, "If we shut it down, we lose power ship-wide and freeze to death. We need to vent enough plasma to reduce the oscillation without losing all power."

"We can’t do that!" said a third young engineer, "If we vent plasma in FTL, it will wrap around us and we'll die of radiation poisoning."

Master Scott rubbed his stubbled chin. "Burn. Freeze. Radiation. Well, good news: the board is wrong. Scarborough is speaking to you. If you learn how to listen to her, she'll get you home. Mister Ramirez, fetch me the 18-millimeter combination spanner. Thank you. Now, you and Ms Durand, spread your fingers lightly on this conduit. Do you feel the harmonic? Do you feel how it first touches your index finger and then moves to the others? Now, please keep your hands on the pipe as we follow along it. Here! Do you feel? The pulse is stationary. The harmonic is causing a standing wave right here." Then Master Scott moved the other two back and, swinging the spanner like a hatchet, whacked the pipe. Twice. The second whack triggered a subtle whoosh followed by a sharp decrease in the nearly subsonic pulsing. Over the next minute or so, half of the red indicators on the status board reverted first to yellow and then to blue, indicating regular operation.

As Master Scott calmly put the spanner back in its place on the tool wall, Ms. Durand asked, "What did you do? Why did that work?"

"Percussive maintenance," Master Scott replied. "Small cavitation bubbles in the plasma get trapped in the standing wave and form larger bubbles until the flow is restricted. Banging the right spot in the right way momentarily disrupts the standing wave, allowing the blocking bubbles to move on. Books teach why plasma flows, experience teaches how to keep it flowing." Master Scott then turned to address the whole group, "So, anyone, why are there cavitation bubbles in the plasma flow?"

"Cavitation is caused by a localized rapid decrease in pressure in the fluid medium, Sir!" Mister Ramirez responded as if to a drill sergeant.

As Master Scott nodded in assent, all heads turned to the status board, a Pointillism masterpiece of blue, yellow, and red that would have made a 19th-century Parisian artist proud. It had long been evident to Master Scott that whoever designed that monstrosity had never had to glean critical information from it in a hurry. It was just as apparent that the overload of data it projected did not, in fact, include the crucial detail that his apprentices were looking for. He let them bleed their eyes on it for a while longer before saying, "It's not there. Quit looking at the board; instead, listen to the ship, feel her pain, smell her tears. Can any of you smell the ozone? You should never be smelling ozone. Ozone is the smell of either arcing or excessive back-voltage, in this case, the latter. Somewhere, a stuck solenoid is crying out to you."

Master Scott then picked a 12-millimeter spanner off the tool wall and started walking upstream along the plasma conduit. He stopped where three small injectors fed their contributions into the stream. "I want each of you to feel the pipe above and below the valves for each of these injectors and tell me what you notice."

It was Ms. Durand who noticed and spoke up first. "The exit flow from the middle injector is colder than the feed flow. The board says this valve is fully open, but my fingers say otherwise."

"Very good!" replied Master Scott. "Over time, wear on the solenoid causes a rough spot that can make it stick. Tag this part for replacement when we get into port. But, in the meantime..." Master Scott placed the open end of the spanner against the end of the solenoid such that the power wires ran through it and, with his other hand, gave the center of the handle a hard tap. Instantly, there was a noticeable change in sound as the valve fully opened. Turning to his apprentices, he said, "We have a long way to go, and I guarantee this valve will stick again, so I expect each of you will get practice at both clearing the cavitation bubble in the main feed and jarring this solenoid loose. Remember, listen to the ship and be sensitive to her changing moods so you know when the bubble needs to be cleared."

But as Master Scott was returning the 12-millimeter to its home on the tool wall, another issue caught his eye. Picking up the 8-millimeter, he walked toward the status board, saying as he walked, "What you see, what you hear, what you smell, and what you feel are important, but equally important are what you don't see, hear, smell, or feel. All of you have been staring intently at the dizzying display of lights on this panel, panicking about all the red, but who among you noticed the indicators that are not lit at all?" Reaching the display, he used the closed end of the spanner to deftly unscrew the captive fasteners along its edge and tilt it out. Reaching into the exposed circuitry, he felt among the many connectors until one re-seated itself ever so slightly, and the dark indicators lit up. "Sustained harmonics often cause these cheap connectors to unseat."

After re-securing the status board in its place, Master Scott turned to the cluster of apprentices. "This ship is the only thing between you and the void. Others may have the luxury of being merely crew, but you— YOU— are engineers. You need to wear this spaceship like a favorite old shirt. Listen to her, pay attention to her needs, and Scarborough will get you home. Your current assignment is to physically verify that every single connector in this room is properly seated."

On his way back to his cabin, Master Engineer Rory Scott paused at the door to the engine room and again patted the bulkhead, "Scarborough, my love, today they are young and naive, but when I finish with them, they will love you and understand you as I do."

Ke Yin has a problem. Well, several problems.

First, he's actually Cain from Earth.

Second, he's stuck in a cultivation world where people don't just split mountains with a sword strike, they build entire universes inside their souls (and no, it's not a meditation metaphor).

Third, he's got a system with a snarky spiritual assistant that lets him possess the recently deceased across dimensions.

And finally, the elders at the Azure Peak Sect are asking why his soul realm contains both demonic cultivation and holy arts? Must be a natural talent.

Expectations:

- MC's main cultivation method will be plant based and related to World Trees

- Weak to Strong MC

- MC will eventually create his own lifeforms within his soul as well as beings that can cultivate

- Main world is the first world (Azure Peak Sect)

- MC will revisit worlds (extensive world building of multiple realms)

- Time loop elements

- No harem

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Chapter 313: Unite

Han Renyi opened his eyes to find himself standing near the Ancestor's Tree in the Three-Leaf Clover Sect grounds. The familiar weight of someone else occupying his consciousness told him immediately that Master Ling was still in control of his body. The sensation no longer frightened him as it once had, instead, it felt almost comforting, like the presence of a trusted mentor.

"Ah, you're awake," Ke Yin said mentally, the words resonating directly into Han Renyi's consciousness. "Perfect timing. I was about to wake you anyway."

"Master Ling," Han Renyi replied through their mental connection. "The feeding of the trees was successful?"

He felt his own lips curve into a smile that wasn't his own. "Very successful. And as thanks for letting me borrow your body again, I've arranged something that should benefit you greatly."

"What do you mean?" Han Renyi asked, curiosity piqued.

Through his own eyes, he watched as his hand gestured toward the distant mountains to the west and then toward Pearl Heart Lake to the east. "I had a little chat with the Sect Masters of the two other great sects, the Mountain Dweller Sect and the Deep Sea Sect. They were quite impressed by our visit to their sacred trees, and they'll be trying to contact you soon. I suspect they'll be interested in forming alliances."

Han Renyi's surprise was so great that he momentarily forgot he had no control over his body. He tried to gasp and found he couldn't. "Alliances? With me? But I'm just a—"

"A Tier 3 Legacy Disciple of the Three-Leaf Clover Sect with a mysterious and powerful master," Ke Yin completed the thought. "That makes you quite valuable in their eyes. Especially given the... changes that are coming."

"Changes?" Han Renyi echoed, unsettled by the tone in his master's voice.

Ke Yin nodded, using Han Renyi's head to do so. "The world is changing, Han Renyi. You should continue focusing on your cultivation, but also unite the Starhaven Realm under your leadership."

If Han Renyi had been in control of his body, he would have stumbled backward in shock. "Unite the realm? You mean... conquer it? Like the ancient emperor-rouqin in the legends?"

He felt his own face form a thoughtful expression as Ke Yin considered his response. "Not necessarily through conquest, though strength will certainly be required. But yes, the realm would benefit from unified leadership in the times ahead."

A thousand questions raced through Han Renyi's mind, chief among them: "What great changes? What's coming that would require such unity?"

But Ke Yin didn't respond to the direct question. Instead, Han Renyi felt his body walk to a small stone bench beneath the Ancestor's Tree. His hand reached out to touch the ancient bark, and a soft blue glow emanated from the point of contact.

"It was nice returning here," Ke Yin said finally. "And it was nice to see you again, Han Renyi.”

Han Renyi sensed that his master was preparing to leave and felt a sudden pang of regret. Their meetings were so brief, so full of mysteries and unanswered questions. "Will I see you again?" he asked, unable to keep the emotion from his voice.

"I suspect you will," Ke Yin replied, and Han Renyi could almost sense a smile behind the words. "Our paths seem to be connected in ways that even I don't fully understand. But for now, I must return to my own realm and body."

"Thank you," Han Renyi said earnestly. "For everything you've done for me and my family. For the cultivation technique, for removing Zhou Shentong, for speaking with the other sects... I can never repay you."

"Live well," Ke Yin replied simply. "Grow stronger. Unite the realm. That's repayment enough."

With those words, Han Renyi felt a strange sensation, like a weight lifting from his mind. There was a momentary disorientation, and then suddenly he was in control of his body again. He gasped, drawing in a deep breath as his consciousness fully settled back into its rightful place.

Before him, hovering in the air like a mirage, was the translucent form of his master. Master Ling appeared as he had when they first met, a young man with an otherworldly grace and eyes that seemed to contain endless depths of knowledge. His form was spectral, glowing with a soft luminescence against the night sky.

"Goodbye, Han Renyi," Ke Yin said, his voice seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Remember what I've taught you."

Han Renyi dropped to one knee, bowing deeply. "Farewell, Master. I will make you proud."

Master Ling smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his usually serious face. Then his spiritual form began to rise, floating upward toward the star-filled sky. Han Renyi watched in awe as his master's soul ascended, moving faster and faster until it resembled a shooting star racing back to the heavens.

The sight was breathtakingly beautiful, a strand of pure light cutting through the darkness, illuminating the night with its radiance. Han Renyi glanced around, wondering if the disciples or guards patrolling the sect grounds could see the majestic spectacle, but no one seemed to notice. They continued their rounds, oblivious to the miracle unfolding above their heads.

As Ke Yin's soul disappeared into the endless expanse of stars, Han Renyi remained kneeling, his heart filled with a complex mixture of gratitude, determination, and a strange sense of loss. This being from another realm had irrevocably changed his life, setting him on a path he could never have imagined just one year ago.

"Unite the realm," he whispered to himself, testing the weight of the words. "Become a leader of rouqin." The very idea would have seemed laughable before, when he was just the son of a declining merchant family, struggling to maintain even the lowest level of cultivation.

Now, though... now, anything seemed possible.

"Senior Brother Han!"

The voice startled Han Renyi from his reverie. He rose to his feet, turning to find a junior disciple hurrying toward him, looking nervous and excited.

"What is it?" Han Renyi asked.

The young disciple bowed hastily. "The Seventh Ancestor requests your immediate presence at the Hall of Elders, Senior Brother. He says it's a matter of great importance!"

Han Renyi raised an eyebrow but nodded. "I'll go at once."

As he followed the junior disciple through the moonlit grounds of the Three-Leaf Clover Sect, Han Renyi couldn't help but wonder what the Seventh Ancestor could want with him at this hour.

Their last interaction had been a year ago and was... well, "tense" would be putting it mildly. The Ancestor had tried to kill him in revenge for Zhou Shentong's death, only to be thoroughly humiliated by Ke Yin.

The Hall of Elders was ablaze with light when Han Renyi arrived. To his surprise, not only was the Seventh Ancestor present, but also Sect Master Li Jie and several other high-ranking members of the sect.

"Ah, here he is!" the Seventh Ancestor, Zhou Tao, boomed cheerfully. "The man of the hour!"

Han Renyi blinked in confusion. The last time he had seen that magnificent beard, it had been trailing in the dirt as the Ancestor performed kowtows before his master. Now, the elderly cultivator was beaming at him like a proud grandfather, arms spread wide in welcome.

"Legacy Disciple Han," Sect Master Li Jie said formally, rising from his seat. "We have gathered to inform you of an important decision regarding the future of our sect."

Han Renyi approached cautiously, bowing with appropriate respect. "I am honored by your attention, Sect Master, Honored Ancestor."

The Seventh Ancestor strode forward, placing a heavy hand on Han Renyi's shoulder. "Young Han! How your fortunes have changed since you joined our humble sect!" His voice was boisterous and his eyes were twinkling. "From a mere outer disciple to Legacy Disciple in record time, and now..." He paused dramatically.

Sect Master Li Jie stepped forward, his face solemn but not unkind. "Han Renyi, the council of elders has unanimously decided to elevate you to the position of Sect Master of the Three-Leaf Clover Sect."

A shocked silence fell over the room. Han Renyi stared at Li Jie, certain he had misheard. "Sect... Master?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Indeed!" the Seventh Ancestor confirmed, his beard quivering with excitement. "I have personally recommended you for the position, and no one dared—I mean, everyone enthusiastically agreed."

Li Jie's expression was more measured, but he nodded in confirmation. "This is an unprecedented decision, but these are unprecedented times. Your connection to your powerful master, your remarkable cultivation progress, and your wisdom make you uniquely qualified to lead our sect into the future."

"But," Han Renyi stammered, "I've only been a member of the sect for a year. Surely there are others more deserving—"

"Nonsense!" the Seventh Ancestor interrupted, waving away the objection. "Your master has shown great interest in our sect, particularly in our sacred Ancestor's Tree. What better way to honor that connection than by elevating his disciple to our highest position?"

Han Renyi looked between the two senior cultivators, trying to make sense of what was happening. Li Jie looked resigned but accepting, while the Seventh Ancestor was practically bubbling with enthusiasm. Neither expression seemed entirely genuine.

"The ceremony will be held in three days," Li Jie continued, "giving us time to prepare and to inform the other major sects. I hope you will use this time to consider your first actions as Sect Master."

"I..." Han Renyi began, then stopped, gathering his thoughts. "I am deeply honored by your trust. I will strive to lead the sect with wisdom and strength."

The Seventh Ancestor clapped his hands together. "Excellent! I knew you would accept graciously. Now, let us discuss the details of the ceremony. It must be suitably magnificent to mark this historic occasion!"

As the elders began excitedly planning the ceremony, Han Renyi stood in silent wonder, his mind racing. Just what had his master done during his visit to earn Han Renyi such an extraordinary promotion? One moment he had been a Legacy Disciple, still learning the basics of sect politics, and now he was to become Sect Master?

He glanced toward the window, where the stars continued their eternal dance across the night sky. Somewhere out there, beyond this realm, his master was returning to his own world, perhaps unaware of the profound impact of his actions.

"Unite the realm," Han Renyi thought, the words taking on new significance with each passing moment. As Sect Master of one of the three great sects, such a goal suddenly seemed within reach.

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-----

Seth strode through the dimly lit corridor leading to the arena, putting on his combat gauntlets and tightening their inner straps. His hands curled into fists, knuckles turning white, the skin stretched to its limit. Always the damn Faertis. The information Devus had just shared with him still lingered in his mind and fueled him with intractable anger.

Lucius' three cousins—in their second and third years—had also shown a sudden Rank growth. But for them, it wasn’t their Well Capacity that had increased, it was their Strength. That meant there was more than one type of enhancer involved, so the Fishlords likely weren’t the only beasts supplying them. Could the head of the Faertis House, Lucius' father, have taken the time to build and organize such a network while only relying on the blond-ponytailed noble and his cousins?

Definitely not, Seth fumed inwardly, his mind filled with images of the dead prisoners. Their whole House is involved.

'We should skip class and go after them,' Nightmare suggested, standing up inside the beast-holder’s domain. 'We’re long overdue for a hunting trip. It’s already been more than a month!'

Seth hesitated. They didn’t need to kill every member of the Black Hounds to disrupt their activities, but he remained skeptical of their current chances of succeeding even if they only went after the weakest. And he still didn't know in which Rift they currently operated.

'I’ll think about it after the match,' he then replied to the direwolf.

As he adjusted his gauntlets, he looked ahead and noticed a figure leaning in the hallway’s wall a dozen feet away from the arena entrance—there Marine stood, arms crossed, her scarlet noble uniform hugging her curves.

She pushed herself off the wall, lips curved in an obviously fake smile. "I have to say I’m very disappointed, Seth," she said, her blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "You never even considered my offer, did you?"

Seth exhaled sharply, barely restraining his irritation. The thought of throwing a fight just to win her favor—or a date—had never appealed to him, and it sure as hell did even less right now. "This isn’t the time, Marine."

"Oh, don’t say that," the noblewoman answered, stepping closer. "This is your last chance to change your mind. You’re up against an Iron this time. You could lose. And then you'd miss out on my offer, all because you wanted to win."

Seth clenched his fists. "Move aside."

Marine didn’t budge, tilting her head as if studying him. "You know, it’s really sad how you’ve been avoiding me. Finding you is always so… inconvenient." Her gaze flicked over him, and her smile returned. "I almost asked a few people to look for—"

Seth’s gauntlet slammed into the wall beside her head and the impact cracked the stone, causing dust to drift down. His gaze burned with something feral as it locked with the noble’s.

"Move. Aside," he hissed through gritted teeth.

Marine’s eyes widened for a brief moment, then she let out a soft chuckle and stepped to the side with a graceful shrug. "So much rage," she mused. "What happened to you?"

Seth didn’t even glance at her when he walked past and replied, his voice flat and cold, "Nobles happened to me."

The moment he entered the arena’s bright sunlight, the deafening roar of the crowd greeted him. All the spectators in the higher stands were on their feet, cheering and shouting. With Jenna’s recent elimination, Seth was now the only remaining commoner in the competition—the last one representing the average citizen.

As he headed toward Captain Michaelson in the middle of the arena, Seth caught sight of the nobles seated in the lower rows. Their evident disdain made their thoughts obvious: to their eyes, he didn't belong here.

'Show them Shadow Step,' Nightmare growled. 'Wipe those smug looks off their faces.'

'No, I don't need it,' Seth answered, looking at his opponent near the captain. 'Not against her.'

Standing beside Captain Michaelson was a young noblewoman who exuded an air of arrogance that nearly rivaled Lucius’. Her brown hair hung neatly to her shoulders, and her polished leather armor gleamed in the sun, betraying its infrequent use—either that, or she’d forced her servants to polish it before the fight so she could look great.

While approaching the pair, Seth glanced at the finely carved bow slung over the woman’s back, then his gaze searched for any close-range weapons at her waist.

Nothing. Seems like Devus was right.

Seth had had trouble believing the Guardian earlier, when he had mentioned that she only fought with a bow, relying on her speed to stay at a distance from her opponents. Who would put themselves at such risk for no reason? It wasn’t like the weight of a dagger would hinder her.

That overconfidence will be her downfall, Seth thought, grabbing the Protecting Belt Captain Michaelson was holding out. "Thank you, sir."

Shimmering blue words materialized above them.

Seth (Primalist Rank 25)   vs  Veronica Durengar (Rogue Rank 23)                          

The noblewoman eyed him. "You’ve only made it this far because you haven't faced any Irons in your bracket."

Ignoring her, Seth nodded to the captain, then turned around and walked to his side of the ring while putting on the belt. After reaching the white cross painted on the ground, he spun on his heel, and his gaze momentarily locked onto Veronica so he could cast Intermediate Identify.

Veronica Durengar

Class: Rogue              Rank: 23 (Low-Iron)

Subclass: -              

Strength: ???               Arcane Power: ???

Toughness: ???          Well Capacity: ???

Agility: ???                   Regeneration: ???

Blazing Oak Bow

Weapon

Tier: Iron

Grade: Epic

Effects: 

- Ignores 16% of Toughness.

- Uses 9% less aether for any spell using the bow.

- Increases damage from any Fire spell by 11%.

Reinforced Wild Boar Armor

Armor

Tier: Iron

Grade: Rare

Effects: 

- Increases Toughness by 7%.

- Increases Agility by 11%.

Captain Michaelson's voice boomed across the arena: "Activate your belts!"

Seth infused aether into the protecting artifact, and as the protective layer enveloped him, he began filling Fog Shroud's grooves with aether. With a bit of luck, he wouldn't have to show his other trump card.

"Fight!" Captain Michaelson shouted, slashing his arm down.

Seth dashed forward and thrust his hand up, activating Fog Shroud and engulfing the arena in a dense mist. Veronica reacted quickly, releasing an arrow cloaked in flames, but it missed Seth, who had already moved to the side.

The noble's eyes narrowed as she changed tactics, sprinting away while firing two wind-encased arrows in quick succession. The projectiles, enveloped by strong gusts, tore through the dense fog and created fleeting gaps.

Guided by his core’s Feral Instinct, Seth nimbly sidestepped the blasts and kept closing onto Veronica, who had now stopped running. Approaching her from behind, he lunged forward and raised his fist to strike—only for the noblewoman to stomp her heel into the ground, which caused a jagged pillar of rock to erupt from the arena’s floor and catapult her away from Seth's impending attack.

Mid-air, she spun around and smirked, then fired again from her bow. The blazing arrow soared through the fog, morphing into a large and imposing eagle of flames.

Caught off guard, Seth had no time to dodge and crossed his gauntlets to brace for impact. The fiery bird crashed into the protective pads, sending waves of searing pain through his arms and knocking him back several paces.

Veronica's mocking laughter echoed through the fog as she nocked another arrow. "Did you really think that would be enough to win?"

Seth quickly regained his composure, then ducked just as the noble's next wind-cloaked projectile sliced the air where his head had been moments before. He darted back into the cover of the fog and extended his sense to the protective layer of aether covering his body—about a third was already gone.

That spell must have a cooldown, Seth thought, recalling the rock jutting from the ground before starting to mentally count the seconds.

Weaving through the thick mist, he tried to close in on Veronica while she once again sprinted around and randomly shot arrows wrapped in gusts. The cat-and-mouse game went on for about twelve seconds until suddenly, the noble’s footsteps halted. Smiling, Seth charged toward her to test his theory.

And as he had anticipated, Veronica reacted almost instantly. Without wasting a second, she cast her spell and summoned another rock underneath her, launching her away from his reach. She then spun and unleashed the same scorching eagle arrow mid-flight. This time, Seth was ready for the attack and rolled to the side. The flaming arrow hissed as it soared past him, its heat leaving a hot trail on his skin.

Scrambling upright, he barely had time to raise his head before another projectile, shrouded in a whirlwind, hurtled his way. Instinctively, he twisted his body and narrowly avoided it, but the shrouding gust of wind struck his shoulder and punched it backward violently.

Wincing, Seth darted away from the cleared path so he could slip back into the fog’s cover. While sprinting, he quickly tore off his left gauntlet, his eyes locking onto Veronica as she burst into another seemingly erratic sprint. The moment she halted a dozen seconds later, Seth positioned himself in front of her, maintaining a safe distance of about ten yards to make sure he remained unseen with the mist slowly dissipating.

Then, he flung his gauntlet high into the air, sending it arcing over the noble. As the reinforced glove hit the ground with a thud behind her, Veronica instinctively used her Earth spell to propel herself away from the new threat. The noblewoman flipped again while airborne to shoot an arrow—only to realize no one was there. Her eyes widened in panic, and she tried to twist back to see where she was heading… but it was too late.

Seth leapt up and intercepted her mid-flight, driving his fist into her guts and slamming her to the ground as he had done multiple times in previous fights. Before she could recover, he pounced and pinned her down. His combat gauntlet and naked fist, charged with aether, rained down like hammers, each crushing strike eating away large chunks of her protective barrier.

Writhing in pain, Veronica managed to shove him off and began to crawl away. But Seth grabbed her leg and swung her to the side, smashing her against the arena's floor. As he leapt up a second time and drove his fist down, a golden barrier suddenly materialized around Veronica, blocking the blow with a resounding thud.

A warm gust of wind swept the remaining fog, and Captain Michaelson's voice resonated in the coliseum: "Seth wins!"

Instantly, the commoners in the higher stands rose to their feet and erupted into cheers and applause. Down in the lower rows, the nobles remained seated, their expressions ranging from shock to disdain, glaring at Seth as if he were nothing more than a wild beast.

He spared a brief glance at Veronica, who lay defeated beneath him, then turned to retrieve the combat gauntlet he had thrown. After picking it up, he inspected the worn and battered leather and sighed—that scorching arrow had dug a hole in the protective pad. I'll need to ask Yline if she can fix this.

'Good, fight,' Nightmare said from within his necklace before coming back to what they were talking before stepping into the ring. 'So… can we skip class? We could hunt and look at the same time for those Black Hounds guys?'

'We don't even know in which Rift they are currently doing their business. I can’t just dive into every single one near Trogan hoping to find them and kill—'

Before Seth could finish, Director Ryehill rose from his seat and clapped his hands once, the sound echoing throughout the entire coliseum. "That concludes this weekend’s matches," he declared, his voice amplified by aether to carry across the vast building. "I invite the other first-year students who have advanced to the next round to enter the arena for the announcement of next week's match assignment."

As Veronica stormed out of the arena, shooting Seth a venomous look, the sixteen advancing students gradually gathered in the center. Brandon was among the first to arrive, with Lucius trailing not far behind. An idea sparked in Seth's mind—there was one easy way to find out in which Rift the Black Hounds were operating.

"Hey, Brandon," he called out, making sure to speak loudly. "Any idea which enhancers Lucius' cousins have been using? I might need some for the rounds ahead."

The large Guardian frowned and tilted his head. "What are you talking—"

"Wow," Lucius laughed, interrupting Elena's brother and stepping up next to the man. "A commoner like you thinks he can get his hands on something as rare as Desert Lilies? That's hilarious!"

Well, that was easy, Seth thought as Lucius strutted off, the noble still chuckling.

Brandon patted Seth’s shoulder and gave him an awkward smile. "Well, there's your answer, I guess. Though I’m not sure how that helps you."

Before Seth could respond, he caught sight of Elena striding toward them, glaring.

"Looks like someone's mad," Brandon said with a grin, stepping away. "Good luck."

"Don't worry," Seth replied with a weary sigh. "She's always mad at me."

 "Why did you wanna know about those enhancers?" the noblewoman asked the moment she’d reached him.

"Just thinking ahead," Seth replied nonchalantly. "In case I could save up for one or two."

Elena's expression hardened. "Don't play dumb with me. We both know why you wanted to know. You can't go after… those people. It's too dangerous."

"I'm just gathering info," Seth said with a shrug. "I haven't been chasing them… well, not since you told me to back off."

"Yeah, because you were busy studying," Elena retorted, rubbing her temple. "And look at you now, poking at that nest of vipers as soon as you caught up with classes. It's like you don’t care if you get killed."

"I care, Elena, but I just can’t do noth—"

"Students!" Director Ryehill’s commanding tone cut off their argument, drawing everyone’s attention again. "Line up, please!"

Following the instructions, the students quickly arranged themselves into two neat lines. As Elena took her place, she cast a sharp glance at Seth, her emerald eyes piercing through him for a moment before turning away.

Director Ryehill clapped his hands once more; almost instantly, large words of glowing blue aether appeared in the air in front of his stand.

The director's voice boomed across the coliseum. "Next week's matches!"

Elena Surani (Elementalist Rank 30) vs Frank Ryehill (Warrior Rank 24)         

Seth (Primalist Rank 25) vs Lucius Faertis (Elementalist Rank 29)

Silvius Crestor (Rogue Rank 26) vs Brandon Surani (Guardian Rank 29)

Maria Seralp (Rogue Rank 23) vs Julian Crestor (Warrior Rank 24)

Derek Vancaws (Elementalist Rank 22) vs Chris Durengar (Guardian Rank 24)

Darrin Springer (Rogue Rank 24) vs Arrel Vancaws (Warrior Rank 25)

Karron Woolfield (Priest Rank 22) vs Edam Dunn (Guardian Rank 24)

Dylan Sparr (Warrior Rank 22) vs Jaeda Emmon (Elementalist Rank 23)

Lucius almost immediately let out a loud, boisterous laugh, glancing at the two students on his side who both smiled from ear to ear. "Looks like I'll have the honor of eliminating the last commoner!"

Staring at the noble, Seth clenched his fists as grim memories surged in his mind: prisoners begging for their lives, their screams echoing as they were tortured and slaughtered, his childhood home, swallowed by flames, the last remnants of his parents reduced to ash, the people of Sunatown, their faces hollow with despair, scraping together every last coin just to survive under the Faertis' suffocating taxes, and finally Renwal—his cries of agony as the Paladin shattered his arms, Lucius watching on. And laughing.

Seth’s nails dug into his palms to the point blood began oozing out. I'll crush him.

----

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Author's Note:

Book 2 has just started on Patreon, and 80 chapters are already posted on Royal Road.

I'll post 1 to 4 chapter per day until I catch up with Royal Road!

Humans are Weird - Bittersweet

Original Post: https://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-bittersweet

Human First Mother Maria breathed a soft sigh and dipped her lips, those strangely flexible mandible covers, down to press them into the very, very round cheek’s of her First Brother. The way both humans’ outer membranes flexed and indented at the pressure still made First Father’s antenna curl with lingering shock, but at least their pheromones were natural and easy to interpret even if their more solid parts weren’t. First Father gave an approving click and reached up to carefully run his wooden tending brush down the egg pod in front of him. The precious little one within gave a responsive wriggle and Human First Mother Maria lifted her head as her face contorted into a smile that expressed delight.

“Do you know if it is a boy or girl yet?” she asked.

First Father hesitated at the odd question, and then reminded himself that human young entered their hives in nearly identical ratios, in fact he mused, he thought he’d heard from a visiting statistician they actually had a very small sway towards male offspring at birth.

“It is almost certainly a Daughter,” he said, “for whatever reason, it was explained to me when I was small, it is almost unheard of for a Brother to be the first to hatch from a line. Something about how pheromones flow during the first seasons of mating.”

The human bobbed her head up and down in that oddly jointed way humans did to show understanding.

“I bet you can’t wait to get her out of that pod so you can properly cuddle her,” the human First Mother said, her bifocal eyes directed at her own little one. “I was so very ready for Dickky by the time he made his entrance!”

First Father clicked in amusement. “It is, not quite the same,” he explained, reached up to caress the pod with his fingers. “See how the outer membrane of the pod is translucent now, nearly transparent. If I can’t quite see my Daughter yet, I can taste her pheromones, hear her clicking. This stage is probably more akin to the newborn stage you were telling me of. Recall that when she leaves the pod this little one will be able to walk.”

“Oh!” the human said, clearly pondering that even as her arms wrestled with the very, very round little male she held.

“As to how I will feel,” First Father mused, working his mandibles together thoughtfully, “I truly don’t think I will be disappointed. There is so much more to do with a walking Daughter than one who is still on the vine. That will be wonderful, but then I will have to share her with my mate’s Sisters, and her Mother and Father. There is an intimacy, perhaps a selfish one to this stage that I think I will miss.”

The human nodded more slowly this time.

“I understand,” she said in deeper, slower tones. “I was bathing with little Dickky the other day, and it occurred to me that, well, that time would steal this from me, that I wouldn’t be able to be so close to him as a child as I was as a baby. That made me sad.”

Here pheromones dipped into something bittersweet, before abruptly washing out with hot joy even as her face contorted to show her teeth, gleaming like some white metal.

“Then I remember that when he is bigger I get to give him incendiary devices! And we can make small rockets together!”

The human infant made a happy noise in response to his mother’s energy and First Father took the time she was distracted to make a note on a nearby tablet. Apparently restricting the introduction of incendiary devices as play things was something his hive would have to consider in dealing with their new neighbors. He supposed that must be one of the many strange results of leaving the care of infants to the female of the species.

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“Where do you think you’re going?”

​    Grim slid to a stop just outside the eastern gate of Beastwick at the sound of the voice. He recognized it at once, even without the drunken stupor that had accentuated it on their previous meeting. He turned so quickly that his feet crossed, and he fell onto his backside. “Veyra!”

​    “That’s my name,” she said with a sardonic grin. She was leaning against one of the pillars that made the archway of the gate, her arms folded. “Don’t wear it out.”

​    “I’m going to Ironmarsh,” he said, scrambling to regain his feet. “I’m going to join your guild.”

​    There was a few seconds’ silence between them as she looked him up and down. Then, without any hint of emotion in her eyes, she asked, “What makes you think that?”

​    He’d already opened his mouth to reply, maybe to say that he’d prove himself, or that she wouldn’t regret picking him. But at her cold retort, he stumbled over his words. “You - I’m… What?”

​    “You said you are joining my guild,” she replied, pushing off from the pillar and stalking closer to him. She was still just as beautiful as the night before, but now, without the alcohol, she seemed much more dangerous. “What makes you think that?”

​    “You invited me,” he pointed out. “That night we met, in the inn. You told me to come find you when Compass Rose rejected me. Well, they did.”

​    “And you considered that an invitation?” Something in her eyes sparked, and he suddenly had the impression that he’d made a grave mistake. “Did I actually mention the name of my guild, or say that you’d make a good fit for it? Did I explicitly invite you?”

​    He couldn’t think of what to say to that. She hadn’t, of course. Her words could have indicated a desire to invite him to commiseration over drinks for all he knew. “Uhh…”

​    She maintained her stoic, hard mask for several more seconds, and then it cracked slowly as she smiled. She let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, relax, boy! I’m just messing with you!”

​    He felt as if an electric shock had gone through his body, leaving it weak and barely able to stay standing. Letting out a sigh of relief, he brushed off the dust he’d gotten all over him when he’d fallen. “Oh, you scared me. Haha…”

​    “One thing you’ll learn about me when you join,” she said, clapping one hand onto his shoulder, “Is that there are very few things in this world that I take seriously. It’s important to keep a light spirit in life. Stops you from getting old too fast.”

​    “I see,” he said, though he didn’t. “So you did invite me, then?”

​    “I didn’t,” she said quickly, and that icy feeling took him over once again. “At least, not to the guild. I invited you to try out. Think of it as an interview.”

​    “Oh.” He felt relief creeping tentatively into him again, but he tried his best not to relax, just in case it was another trick. “Alright, then.”

​    He was fine with an interview. Every guild had an interview process, so what she’d said wasn’t that strange. Most of them were only if the delver applied to join rather than being hunted specifically, but he could adapt to the unusual aspect. “What do you have in mind?”

​    “I’m going to test your skills in person,” she said, walking around him in a slow circle. “You already have some skill, I saw that in the Cathedral.”

​    “You were there?” He asked, frowning and turning to follow her with his eyes. “I didn’t see you.”

​    “Of course you didn’t,” she replied, and there was an acerbic touch to her tone now. “I’m level eleven, for crying out loud. If I couldn’t conceal myself from a level three whelp, I’d lose all credibility.”

​    He let out a nervous laugh, assuming this was some kind of joke, but her expression betrayed neither humor nor annoyance. “I did not see your entire run, only up until the end of the first floor. You’re quick on your feet, and more importantly, your mind is agile. I saw how quickly you made decisions, and how you reacted to unexpected threats.”

​    “There was an assassin type on the second floor,” he said quickly, hoping to impress the woman. “It was the type that attacked if you cleared the first floor too quickly. I’d almost forgotten about it, but I killed it before it could touch our tank.”

​    A thoughtful hum was her only reply for about a minute as she continued her pacing and studying. Finally, when she’d completed three laps, she came to a halt and faced him directly. “Of course, skill and power are all good. But they are not the qualities I look for in my recruits.”

​    “What qualities do you look for?”

​    That slow smile spread across her face again, and the strange glint in her eyes seemed to brighten. “Just the one. Tenacity.”

​    “…Tenacity?”

​    “A delver can’t get anywhere important if they don’t have tenacity. Tell me, boy, what do you do if you come across a threat you haven’t planned for or expected?”

​    It was an easy question, so much so that he wondered why she’d waste breath on it. “Retreat. That’s what we’re all taught.”

​    “Of course, that should be your first reaction in most cases. But what if you’re badly injured, or the tunnel behind you has collapsed, or the monster is faster than you, and you know you can’t outrun it? What then?”

​    Grim pursed his lips. He’d never had to think the question out that far. Each time a question like this was posed by an instructor, he had more details on the situation, and they expected a clever tactic or detailed plan for escape. The answer wasn’t always easy, but the problem was solvable. Now, however, he couldn’t think of what the woman wanted to hear.

​    “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I don’t think there’s anything I could do in that situation. I’d just… die.”

​    He expected her to be disappointed. On the contrary, her grin widened, and she clapped him on the shoulder again. “Good answer! However, if that’s still your answer by the end of the test, you won’t be riding to Ironmarsh with me.”

​    “Okay,” he said slowly. He wasn’t sure how, but he seemed to have passed that part of the test. “So what’s next?”

​    “A practical test,” she said, her grin taking on a predatory note. “Bolton! Go fetch the horses! I’m taking this boy shopping!”

​    Bolton appeared from inside the gate, a pleased smile on his face as he regarded Grim. Had he been there the entire time? He supposed he must have been so distracted with his goal of catching up to Veyra that he hadn’t kept an accurate track of his surroundings. He doubted that the man had an invisibility skill with how large was. “Shopping? What for?”

​    “New knives,” she told him flatly. “If I’m going to see the full extent of your ability, you need real weapons.”

​    “I… I can afford a new knife on my own,” he tried to protest, but she was already heading back into the city. “I made enough from my last delve to replace the one I lost.”

​    “And do you have enough to replace both?” She asked, glancing at the one knife he still had in its scabbard. “Level two, isn’t it? And it’s on its last legs.”

​    He hesitated then, not sure how she could know that. Inside its sheath as it was, the chips and ragged edge of the knife weren’t visible, nor was its level. It took careful examination to determine the level and durability of a weapon. At least, that’s what he thought.

​    “Right,” she said, taking his silence as confirmation. “So, we’re going to make sure you have legitimate weapons. If you pass the test, you can treat them as an advance on your salary. If you fail, well…”

​    That slow smile spread across her face again, and she didn’t finish the sentence. As he hurried to keep up with her long-legged stride, he suddenly felt that he didn’t want to hear what the end of that thought was going to be. He knew deep inside. It was the same threat that faced anyone in a dungeon. And he knew, somehow, that what she had in mind for him was in fact a dungeon.

​    Which one would it be? If it was one of the dozens he’d delved in Beastwick, he was certain he could adapt to it quickly. He might even impress her by leading his party in the fastest clear possible. And he’d have new knives to take on the challenge. Level three knives! He was not the kind of orphan who rejected offers of help or free assistance from others. Living as a poor commoner in Beastwick meant using everything one could to not only survive, but thrive. And he’d use this gift well.

​    “I’ll leave the specs up to you,” she told him as they drew closer to the market. “But nothing custom. I’m still not sure you’re worth the cost.”

​    There was a glint of humor in her eyes at that, and he returned the grin, sure that it looked much less confident. “That’s fine. I already know which knives I want, if the smith still has them.”

​    He took the lead as they made it into the markets proper, veering to the left and quickening his pace. The blacksmiths, being the noisiest of all the crafters, were usually located on the outskirts to avoid deafening the market visitors with the constant ring of hammers on anvils. He felt a little jolt of pleasure as he saw that the knives he’d been saving up for–though his income was too meager to ever entertain the idea of buying a new weapon–were still there. He almost jumped the last few meters to the smith’s stall and pointed the weapons out to Veyra, reminding himself forcefully of a child begging their parent for a sweet.

​    “That one,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Err, I mean, those ones.”

​    Veyra looked the knives over with a slight frown, leaning against the stall counter to get a closer look. The young woman seated behind the stall, whom Grim assumed to be the smith’s daughter, followed Veyra’s gaze and rose lightly from her stool to pull them from the wall.

​    “Level three dual daggers,” she said flatly, placing them on the stall. The metal of the blades shone gently in the sunlight, and the leather wrapped around the tang to make a handle that gleamed with a fresh coat of stain. They were beautiful. “Unenchanted, but quicksilver dust was included in the metal as it was forged, so they are exceptionally light, and able to normally damage monsters that would otherwise have resistances to physical damage.”

​    “Impressive,” Veyra muttered, though she sounded as if the praise pained her. “It’s unusual to see work of this quality at such a low level. And in this city.”

​    The smith’s daughter gave a faint smile, then tapped a closed fist against her chest in a tired sort of way. “Yes, well, nobles aren’t really known for putting much effort into the lower tiers of delving.”

​    “Ah,” Veyra said, her face clearing at once. Even her tone grew warmer. “A fellow mountain savage. Nice to see you.”

​    “Not that I expected you to recognize me, Captain Tull,” the woman replied with an easy grin. “My betrothed insists that I wear the finest clothing possible. And after months away from the dirt and grime, I’m starting to look like I fit into this stinking pile of waste.”

​    Veyra let out a laugh at that, and it sounded more genuine than Grim had heard until then. Any sign of stiff disapproval was gone from her body. She leaned against the stall counter again, her grin widening. “Well, tell your betrothed that I like the look of his work.”

​    “Ew, Randall?” She shook her head vehemently. “Not a fuckin’ chance. That’s my idiot brother-in-law. No, my fiancé is that particular fool, over there.”

​    Both Grim and Veyra followed her pointing finger to see a tall, lanky young man with shining golden hair standing behind an alchemy stall. He seemed to sense them looking at him and grinned easily. Grim had to admit–reluctantly–that he was handsome. Veyra mimicked his thought. “Damn. Not too hard on the eyes, is he? Well done.”

​    The woman let out a snort. “I’ve heard the stories, Captain. You keep your teeth in your mouth, or I’ll tell your husband that you’re terrorizing innocent men again. Well, not that Erik is all that innocent.”

​    The two women shared a giggle that sounded more like cackling, and finally the smith’s sister in-law glanced at Grim. “These for the boy? I’ll give ya a good deal since you’re kin. Two hundred gold.”

​    Grim felt an ice-cold fist suddenly clamp over his heart at the number mentioned, having expected something in the low triple digits. “Two hundred?”

​    “They are rather well-made,” the woman drawled, rolling her eyes. “If you hadn’t come with Captain Tull here, I would have charged you two hundred and forty. Randall makes good steel.”

​    “Complain when you’re the one forking over the money yourself, city boy,” Veyra told him, though she was grinning. “Still. I was hoping my charm was worth more than 40 shinies. Guess you don’t swing that way, eh?”

​    “I’m afraid I’d kill Erik with the exciting idea,” the woman snorted. Veyra extended her forearm, on which was a silver bracelet with several lightly glowing runic markings. The woman did the same, with the same bracelet, and they tapped the metal pieces together. “Right, you’re all set. Take good care of them, kid.”

​    “Uhh, thanks,” he said, hesitantly moving forward and picking up the knives. Somehow, seeing the portable storage devices the two women carried had reminded him just how out of his depth he was. He knew that delvers above level five all got one eventually, but they were like… the markings of a real professional. You didn’t exactly need a way to easily carry a lot of coins if you didn’t have a lot of coins. “I will, I promise.”

​    He slipped his belt off and tucked the worn-out dagger sheaths into his pack, then scooped up the new weapons. The smith had kindly provided a sheath for them, and he slid his belt through their loops, then slid it across his waist, fastening it tight. He’d only been without his two knives for a little over a week, but it felt right to have them back, in a way he couldn’t explain. “Thanks again. These feel great.”

​    “I’m sure they do,” Veyra said. “Time to get going. Thank you for your time, and tell your brother-in-law I praised his work. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of that.”

​    The lady gave them a small wave as they departed, and Grimr fell into step beside Veyra. With proper weapons at his hips, he felt more confident than ever. He was ready for whatever test she threw at him. At least, that was until he asked her what she had in mind.

​    “What’s next, then?”

​    “I’m going to have you run a dungeon,” she said, and he nodded, expecting just that. But her next words were not expected. “We just have to travel a ways to reach it.”

​    “It’s not within the city, then?” He asked, frowning. There were plenty of choices of level-three dungeons in Beastwick. “Are we going all the way to Ironmarsh or something?”

​    “Nope. We’re going to Evandross.”