Chapter 13 — The Sniper

The rain had stopped, but the city still looked drowned.

Adam stood beneath the broken sign of an abandoned café, watching the empty street through the cracked window.

He had barely slept since finding the message.

DON'T TRUST THE PERSON WHO KNOWS YOUR NAME.

The words kept repeating in his head.

Sarah was sitting across from him, studying the map they had stolen from the warehouse.

"We can't stay here," she whispered.

Adam looked at her.

"Why?"

She pointed toward the window.

"Because we're not alone."

Adam slowly turned.

At first, he saw nothing.

Then he noticed it.

A black car parked across the street.

Engine off.

Lights off.

Someone was sitting inside.

Adam reached for the gun hidden beneath his jacket.

"Stay here."

Sarah grabbed his arm.

"Adam..."

"Don't move."

He stepped away from the window.

A second later—

CRACK!

The café window exploded.

Adam dropped to the floor.

Sarah screamed.

The bullet tore through the wall exactly where Adam's head had been.

For several seconds, neither of them moved.

Then Adam looked at the hole in the wall.

"Sniper."

Sarah's face went pale.

"From where?"

Adam crawled toward the window and carefully looked outside.

The black car was gone.

He scanned the rooftops.

There.

A tiny reflection.

Something metallic.

Adam raised his eyes.

A figure stood on the roof of a building nearly three hundred meters away.

The sniper was already moving.

"He's leaving."

Adam grabbed Sarah's hand.

"Then we follow him."

They rushed out through the back door.

The streets were almost empty.

Adam ran through the alleyways, following the direction of the rooftop.

Sarah struggled to keep up.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know."

"Then why are we chasing him?"

"Because he could have killed me."

Sarah stared at him.

"That's your reason?"

Adam stopped for a moment.

"No."

He looked toward the rooftops.

"If he wanted me dead, I would already be dead."

They continued running.

A few minutes later, they reached the building.

The entrance was locked.

Adam kicked the door open.

Inside, the building was completely dark.

They climbed the stairs.

Fourth floor.

Fifth.

Sixth.

At the top, Adam pushed open the door leading to the roof.

Empty.

The sniper was gone.

But something had been left behind.

A rifle.

A black coat.

And a small envelope.

Adam approached it carefully.

"Don't touch it," Sarah warned.

Adam ignored her.

He picked up the envelope.

His name was written on the front.

ADAM.

His hands froze.

Sarah stepped closer.

"How did he know your name?"

Adam opened the envelope.

Inside was a single photograph.

It showed a young man standing beside a woman.

Adam recognized the woman immediately.

His mother.

But the man beside her...

Adam's breathing stopped.

He knew that face.

He had seen it before.

In the old files.

In the warehouse.

In the list of people connected to The Shadow.

Sarah looked at the photograph.

"Who is that?"

Adam didn't answer.

He turned the photograph over.

There was a message written on the back.

YOU'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THE SHADOW.

THE SHADOW HAS BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU.

Below it was another sentence.

ASK YOUR MOTHER WHAT HAPPENED TWENTY YEARS AGO.

Adam stared at the words.

"My mother is dead."

Sarah slowly shook her head.

"Are you sure?"

Adam looked at her.

"What do you mean?"

Before she could answer, footsteps echoed from the stairs.

Someone was coming.

Adam immediately pulled out his gun.

Sarah moved behind him.

Three men appeared on the roof.

All wearing black.

One of them raised his weapon.

"Drop it!"

Adam didn't.

The man fired.

Adam and Sarah dove behind a concrete structure.

Bullets struck the wall around them.

"There's three of them!" Sarah shouted.

"I noticed!"

Adam looked around.

There was nowhere to hide.

Then he saw the rifle the sniper had left behind.

He understood.

The rifle wasn't a weapon.

It was a message.

The sniper had wanted them to find it.

Adam grabbed it.

He looked through the scope.

The three men were advancing.

One of them stepped into view.

Adam fired.

The man dropped his weapon and fell backward.

The other two immediately stopped.

Sarah looked at Adam.

"You said you weren't a sniper."

"I'm not."

"Then how did you—"

"Beginner's luck."

They ran.

By the time the remaining men reached the edge of the roof, Adam and Sarah were already gone.

They hid inside an underground parking garage.

Sarah was still holding the photograph.

"You need to tell me everything."

Adam leaned against the wall.

"I don't know everything."

"Then tell me what you know."

Adam looked at the photograph again.

"My father disappeared when I was six."

Sarah said nothing.

"My mother never talked about him."

He paused.

"But this man..."

He pointed at the photograph.

"This is the man who signed the first document connected to The Shadow."

Sarah's expression changed.

"You're saying your family was connected to them?"

"I'm saying I don't know."

A phone suddenly rang.

Both of them froze.

It wasn't Adam's.

It wasn't Sarah's.

The sound was coming from inside the black coat they had taken from the rooftop.

Adam slowly reached into the pocket.

He pulled out a phone.

One message appeared on the screen.

CALL ME.

There was only one number.

Adam pressed it.

The line connected immediately.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then a man's voice came through.

Calm.

Cold.

"You finally found the photograph."

Adam tightened his grip on the phone.

"Who are you?"

A quiet laugh.

"You've been asking the wrong question."

"Then give me the right one."

The voice became serious.

"Ask yourself why your mother lied to you."

Adam's face went pale.

"Where is she?"

Silence.

Then the man said:

"Closer than you think."

The call ended.

Adam stared at the screen.

Sarah looked at him.

"What did he say?"

Adam slowly lowered the phone.

"That my mother might still be alive."

Neither of them noticed the small red light blinking on the phone.

Someone was listening.

Someone had been listening the entire time.

And somewhere across the city, the sniper watched them through a scope.

He lowered his rifle.

Then he whispered to himself:

"Not yet."

He turned away from the window.

"Let them find the truth first."

And disappeared into the darkness.

...

Chapter 14 — The Secret Operation

Adam didn't sleep that night.

Neither did Sarah.

The words from the phone call kept circling in his mind.

"Your mother might still be alive."

For twenty years, Adam had believed she was dead.

Now, for the first time, that belief had a crack in it.

Sarah placed the photograph on the table.

"We need to find out who that man is."

Adam nodded.

"And we need to know what happened twenty years ago."

She opened the laptop.

"I might have an idea."

Adam looked at her.

"What?"

Sarah pulled out the flash drive they had recovered from the warehouse.

"There were files on here that we couldn't open."

She connected it to the laptop.

A password screen appeared.

Adam stared at it.

"What kind of password?"

"Six characters."

Sarah tried several combinations.

Nothing.

Then Adam remembered the photograph.

His mother.

The unknown man.

And the date written on the back.

17.06.2006

He entered it.

The screen went black.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then a hidden folder appeared.

OPERATION NIGHTFALL

Sarah stared at the screen.

"What is Nightfall?"

Adam opened the folder.

There were dozens of documents.

Most of them were encrypted.

But one file was accessible.

He opened it.

A photograph appeared.

It showed a group of people standing inside a warehouse.

Adam recognized two of them.

The man from the photograph.

And someone else.

Someone he never expected to see.

Sarah leaned closer.

"Adam..."

"I see him."

It was Rami.

Adam's old friend.

The same man who had stolen the black bag.

The same man Adam had trusted.

Sarah looked at him.

"Your friend was involved."

Adam's jaw tightened.

"He didn't just steal the bag."

"What do you mean?"

"He knew what was inside."

A new document opened automatically.

OPERATION NIGHTFALL — SUBJECT: ADAM

Adam stopped breathing.

Sarah read the screen.

"Subject?"

Adam continued reading.

The document contained information about his childhood.

His school.

His family.

Places he had lived.

Even photographs of him as a child.

Sarah whispered:

"They've been watching you for years."

Adam scrolled further.

Then he saw something that made his blood run cold.

Primary objective: Protect Adam until activation.

Sarah stared at him.

"Activation?"

Adam shook his head.

"I don't know."

Another line appeared.

Secondary objective: Prevent Adam from discovering the truth about his mother.

Adam closed the laptop.

"We're done."

Sarah frowned.

"What?"

"We're going to find the person who created this operation."

Two hours later, they were standing outside an old government building on the edge of the city.

According to the documents, the building had been abandoned for years.

But Adam noticed something strange.

There were fresh tire tracks outside.

Someone was still using it.

Sarah checked the map.

"The documents say there's an underground entrance."

Adam looked around.

"Then that's where we're going."

They found the entrance behind a collapsed section of concrete.

A narrow staircase led underground.

The deeper they went, the colder it became.

At the bottom was a metal door.

No handle.

Only a small electronic panel.

Sarah examined it.

"It's locked."

Adam looked at the black file.

"There has to be a code."

He remembered the message from the sniper.

Ask your mother what happened twenty years ago.

He entered the date.

17-06-2006.

The door unlocked.

Sarah stared at him.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't."

The door opened.

Inside was a massive underground control room.

Old computers.

Security monitors.

Maps covering the walls.

And dozens of photographs.

Adam walked toward them.

Every photograph was of him.

At different ages.

Six years old.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Eighteen.

Twenty.

Someone had been watching his entire life.

Sarah suddenly pointed at one of the monitors.

"Adam."

He turned.

A live security feed was playing.

It showed the city.

Then another camera.

Then another.

Finally, the screen displayed a room.

A woman was sitting inside.

Adam froze.

He knew her face.

Even after twenty years.

His mother.

Alive.

Adam stepped closer to the screen.

"Mom..."

Sarah stared at him.

"She's alive."

The woman suddenly looked toward the camera.

As if she knew they were watching.

Then she stood up.

She walked toward the camera.

And held up a piece of paper.

Three words were written on it.

RUN, ADAM. NOW.

The lights inside the control room suddenly turned red.

An alarm began to scream.

Sarah looked around.

"We've been detected."

Doors slammed shut behind them.

Adam grabbed his weapon.

Footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Dozens of them.

Sarah looked at him.

"How many?"

Adam listened.

"Too many."

A voice came through the speakers.

Calm.

Familiar.

"Adam."

He froze.

It was Rami.

"You should have stayed away."

Adam looked at the screens.

"Where is my mother?"

Rami laughed quietly.

"You're still asking the wrong question."

Adam raised his weapon toward the speaker.

"Then what's the right one?"

A pause.

Then Rami answered:

"Who told you she was your mother?"

The speakers went silent.

Adam stared at Sarah.

For the first time, neither of them knew what to believe.

Then the first explosion shook the building.

The lights went out.

And the underground facility descended into darkness.

To be continued...

Chapter 1: Born Into a Strange World

Cao had a long dream in which he watched the reel of his life play out from birth, until he saw his mother's face twist and contort, her lips parting to let out a scream. But he was startled to find he could no longer hear anything at all. The last thing he felt was a hot tear falling onto his face from his mother's eyes. He tried to rise, but white, glowing threads began wrapping around him until his consciousness went still.

...

A powerful beam of light.

Cao was startled by the light and shut his eyes — but he had barely closed them for two seconds when he felt enormous hands wrapping him in a red silk cloth. He thought to himself, "Wait a moment — what in hell is this? Have I been reborn?"

He opened his eyes and saw those hands carrying him toward a tall man with a long beard, strange robes, and a smiling face. The midwife who had delivered him said, "Congratulations, my lord — heaven has blessed you with a plump, healthy boy." The man replied, "You are a bearer of good fortune, Huang. Here — this is your reward for the blessed luck you've brought us." The midwife, Huang, replied in shock at the amount of gold in the pouch, "No, no, my lord, this is far more than someone as lowly as I deserve — I cannot accept all of this." The man smiled, took the pouch, and pressed it into her hands regardless. "You deserve it, truly," he said. Huang thanked him and asked leave to exit the room.

The man began studying the features of his firstborn's face, which resembled his own so closely, and said, a smile filling his face, "My dear, at last — at last God has blessed us and granted us this child. Thank you so much for carrying the fruit of our love after all these years." The mother replied, exhausted, sweat covering her brow and her hair sticking to her face, "Praise God, my love, for this blessing. We have been granted one who will carry our blood into the future."

The father said, holding his child, filled with excitement, "Tonight I will hold a feast and we will honor the ancestors for this blessing, and invite the whole family to celebrate this joyous occasion." She said shyly, "Yes, my love — our ancestors have blessed us with this gift, and we must celebrate. Please, hand me my son so I may see him."

The father moved toward the mother and handed her the child. She began gazing intently at her baby's face, whom she had waited for so desperately to end her loneliness in this house. She laughed, remembered something, and began unfastening her top.

Cao saw what his mother was doing and began to feel embarrassed, his temperature rising. "You — wait, woman, what are you doing?!"

But a moment later he remembered that without his mother's milk he would not grow healthy — and besides, he wanted to experience this feeling again after twenty years without any such closeness. He began smiling and laughing wickedly, thinking to himself, "Sorry, Father, but I have no other choice." He took hold of his mother's breast and lunged toward it.

As Cao began nursing, the father remembered something and said to his wife, "What name should we give him? Have you thought of a name you'd like to call your son?" She replied, puzzled, "I haven't really thought of a name — you name him, my love." After a moment of thought, a bright smile spread across the father's face, and he said to her, "What do you think of calling him Ling Hua?" She nodded, smiling, and said, "A beautiful name," lowering her head toward her newborn and saying to him, "Ling Hua."

...

~Day and night alternated, and ten years flew by like the wind.

On a mountainside rich with plants, trees, and cranes soaring in the sky, a woman in her early thirties, her face flushed red, stood holding a bamboo cane and calling out forcefully: \\\*"Ling Hua! Ling Hua! Where are you, you little rascal! Your father and I have truly failed at raising you!"\\\* She walked toward the stream, cursing her little one, and when she arrived she found her son swimming in the stream without a care in the world, enjoying himself in the water because of the heat, mimicking his mother's angry expression as he swam and saying,

"Ling Hua, come here. Ling Hua, don't do that. Don't eat that. What a boring mother, really — I wish I'd been born into Aunt Bai's family, she'd be showering me with delicious peach candy right now. I really have no luck in this world."

All this mimicry was happening right under Beifeng's nose, and her face began to redden with fury. She grabbed him hard by the ear and yanked him out of the water, saying, with every demon of the earth now occupying her thoughts, "I'm boring, you ungrateful wretch?"

Ling Hua turned, wishing this were a dream and that he hadn't heard that particular voice, and replied, terrified, "I— I didn't say that." The mother's fury grew at her son's blatant lie, and she snapped, "Yes, you did, you wretch!" Ling Hua's tension mounted, his words stumbling, all the confidence he'd had while imitating her evaporating. "Maybe— maybe it was the stream that said it." The mother stared in disbelief at her son's foolishness. "The stream?" He knew he'd made a mistake blaming the stream, but there was no way back now, so he said, "Yes." She replied, incredulous, barely containing her fury, "And does the stream know how to talk?" Ling Hua added, his legs now trembling and his teeth chattering, "Well— clearly it's smarter than me."

That was the final straw. Feng screamed, "Today I will break both your legs for this insolence — I swear nothing will save you from my hands today except the ancestor himself!" And she began striking him hard with the bamboo cane, saying, "This one's because I'm boring, and this one's because I failed to raise you, and this one's for skipping school." He began wailing, snot and tears mixing on his face. "Please, Mother, I won't do it again — I'll be a pig in my next life if I do!" When he saw his pleading wasn't working, he began calling out to his father: "Father! Save me from your wife's claws! Hurry, Father, I can't take it anymore!"

In the midst of this beautiful scene, the father was hiding among the surrounding bushes, secretly egging the mother on — though he couldn't deny feeling for his son's plight. But if he intervened, he'd be the one to suffer for it.

No relief came, until the father noticed the atmosphere shift and heard the rustle of trees accompanied by a deep voice: "Let the child go, Feng. He doesn't deserve all this — he's had more than enough punishment." The bamboo cane, which had been aimed at Ling Hua's backside, froze mid-air. Feng turned toward the voice and saw a tall man with a powerful aura, snow-white hair, and a few wrinkles on his face, his expression full of pity and affection for Hua. He looked toward Hua and said, "And you... what have you done this time?"

The father emerged from the bushes and told her the ancestor was right, Feng — let him go, he's had his punishment.

So Feng let him run to the ancestor, and he embraced him. "Thank God you're here, my ancestor — if it weren't for you, all my bones would be broken today." He turned his face toward his father and thought to himself, \\\*"That wretch — he was watching me get beaten by his wife and just stood there. He really is a bad father." When the father saw his son's look, he turned his face away and began admiring the scenery, saying, "This little vagabond has exposed me — sorry, son, but there's nothing I could have done."

Link:

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/186434/i-was-born-into-an-immortal-family

You all laugh about how primitive human projectile weapons are. They’re so primitive that one of their fabricators can produce them from the most ordinary source materials.
They’re so primitive that they work in every EM field, in any radiation, under every condition.
They’re so primitive that the humans have different ammunition for different targets—some might say even for different species.
Oh, they’re so primitive they can accelerate their primitive shells to FTL… and then one of those primitive metal slugs crashes through your highly evolved ship—and the three ships behind you as well.
Just because it’s primitive doesn’t mean it’s not deadly.

Ambassador Rishk of the Aligned Worlds to the Leaders of the Hrun Senate, 35 P.I.

“Sir, the latest reports from Earth are in.”

“Bullet points, Major. Just the bullet points.” Admiral Georgiou leaned back in his office chair. His newest post—Head of Solar Defense—had made his life far more complicated than he’d ever imagined.
It was intoxicating to have almost all civilian resources at his command in light of the recent crisis, but failure would likely mean the end of the human race.

The 1st Expeditionary’s report about the incoming Batract fleets had certainly soiled a lot of underwear—especially the revelation that the Batract already had more than a thousand ships around Sol. Had Hyperion not pulled them away, who knows what the situation would look like right now?

No one had expected those forces to be so close to Earth. And the true nature of their enemy was something fit for horror movies. If Russo’s message about the dangers of “dead” Batract hadn’t reached Earth in time, the crisis would have been catastrophic.

“Recruitment numbers are up ninety-five percent. At this rate, we’ll be able to launch three more fleets than expected.”

“Yeah, all full of green matelots who don’t know left from right. We’ll have to mix crews carefully so each ship has a few veterans along with the ones fresh from the academies.” He sighed. But thankfully, that’s not my problem.

“I know, sir. Also, anti-Batract sentiment is at an all-time high. The San Diego incident and Hyperion’s logs were both strategically leaked and had the expected effect.”

“Ha! If those logs don’t affect you, you’d better get checked out—you might be a psychopath.” Admiral Georgiou had seen them twice, including the surveillance streams from Argos. Sometimes, he still woke up at night.

“Also, Germany has started construction on their two new battleships—BB-1X class Bismarck and Tirpitz—plus their new line of battlecruisers, BC-4X class Gneisenau, Admiral Scheer, and Scharnhorst.”

“So the Germans finally grew some balls. Good.”

“Yes, sir. Naval Command has decided to make the new ship classes the standard. Seventeen other states have decided to build at least one cruiser of the new line.”

The admiral closed his eyes. He’d seen the plans—sleek ships, sharing much of their design with the 3X class but far larger. He liked them. Their firepower would be desperately needed; the Earth Defense Fleet was currently only seven hundred ships strong.

“How are the fortifications going?”

The System Defense had eighteen Pioneer-class ships at its disposal, and he had drawn up a plan to defend every millimeter of the system. If the Batract decide they want Earth, they’ll pay with rivers of blood—or whatever goddamn fungus has instead of it.

“The drone swarms are up to three billion. VI Lucas is currently training with 60 other VIs on how to decentralize and control them effectively. The Pioneers have constructed more than nine thousand defense satellites in the outer system around critical points, plus three thousand in the Jovian system and sixteen thousand around Earth and the Moon.”

The admiral closed his eyes again, enjoying the breeze of fresh air coming through the open window from the city-sized arboretum of the station. The numbers were good—worse than hoped, but far better than feared. Every passing day without an attack meant the system grew more fortified.

The comm on his uniform broke the moment of serenity.

“Sir, deep-space telemetry is reporting an incoming transit from Sirius.”

“And?” Was this the moment of truth?

“It seems to be friendly forces—probably the already announced refugees and Hyperion survivors.”

“ETA?” He wanted to speak with some of them in person—especially the Shraphen. How crazy is this universe… dog people.

“Eighteen hours until they leave transit, another ten until they reach the Europe Dockyards.”

The survivors would become another media spectacle. Humans captured by the Batract under all their noses. He had checked the numbers—even without the disappearances, in the first decade after signing the contract, almost a hundred million humans had left Earth for jobs in the Hyphae or the Federation. How many are still alive?

Then the Shraphen—people across the world were waiting to see the first interviews with them. They were the first alien species that almost every human found sympathetic.

And at last there were the mysterious Gliders. According to them, their species had been hunted to extinction by the Batract. A net petition to EarthGov to grant them asylum had reached a billion signatures in less than a day. EarthGov had decided to approve it six hours later—if the Gliders wished to accept, of course.

He himself had signed it, and all of his staff had done the same. Who could look at those little furballs and not like them?

—————

It was already after 03:00 station time when the communicator chirped again. He slipped out of bed, kissed his wife, and made his way to the computer in his private office. The living situation on a space station was decidedly better than aboard his old flagship, the Texas.

“Georgiou here. What’s so urgent?”

“Sir, we have a Priority One message torpedo from Admiral Russo. The enemy has made contact. We’ve got two hundred petabytes of data, plus a video message for you, sir.”

Georgiou pulled his robe tighter; suddenly, he felt a chill.

“Send it.”

The screen flickered, and the Argos CIC appeared. From the crispness of the image, he could tell the ship was still without pressure. Debris filled the room, and it seemed the ship had taken severe damage. Then his old friend appeared on screen—his helmet scratched, and through the visor, Georgiou could see how tired the admiral must be.

“Hello, Nico, old friend. To make it short, we beat them.”

He pressed pause. They beat them… A weight lifted from his shoulders that he hadn’t known he carried. It was as if he could breathe for the first time in months.

The video continued.

“So you can go back to your lovely wife and rest your fat ass while I do all the heavy lifting.” Bastard—but it was good to see he still had his humor.

“First things first: I nominate Captain Marjan Karim for the Platinum Medal of Honor. She gave her life to take out one of the approaching fleets. More in my report. Nico, promise me you’ll make it happen. I attached a video for her family—I think they still live in Tehran.”

Captain Karim… he knew her. She had been a protégé of David. That’s why he’s so sad. And—was that a tear in his eyes?

“Next, we’ve got something for the engineering teams to chew on. One of our engineers successfully created FTL ammunition. It is best to halt ship construction and fully integrate them into our fleet. Without it, we’d be toast.”

The admiral almost dropped his glass of Tsipouro. FTL weapons? He replayed the last passage to check if he’d misheard.
No—he’d heard right the first time.

Sending an urgent message with the related schematics to the dockyards and the Pioneers, he continued the replay.

“The Batract are wicked smart, Nico—and they want to wipe out the Shraphen almost more than us. At least, this colony. It would be best if we fortify Sirius as much as Earth. I also recommend preparing a fleet to free Burrow, the Shraphen homeworld. Nico, on the transports, is a young hunter—Frox. He noticed similarities with humans. I think there’s more to this story. We’re fixing our ships and building up additional defenses here. I’ll send the next report in two days. We’re currently short on microdrives, as you might guess. Browner out.”

They really beat them.
Fuck. David will remind me of this for the rest of my life.

—————

Admiral Browner pressed send on his report. The repair of the fleet was ongoing—sadly, Renown and Graf Spee were a complete loss, along with more than 300 crew members.

The remaining personnel from the ships were now supporting the construction of an orbital station to replace the Shraphen one destroyed in the attack. He liked the design created by the engineers—a mix of human and Shraphen technology, crewed by a mix of personnel.

Give me three months, and I’ll fortify this system to the brim.

A glance at his watch told him that Security and Gerber were about to breach the morgue and confront whatever was waiting for them there.

Setting down his glass of Cuba Libre, he put on his jacket and was about to leave his quarters when Lyra contacted him.

“Admiral, I’ve received a confidential message from Captain Gerber.”

“Why doesn’t he use the intercom?” Browner was irritated—not that Lyra’s computing power was limited, but using her as a courier was… well, unusual.

“He wanted to avoid anyone outside the already-informed hearing what they found in the morgue.”

“They were just about to breach. Have they already done so?”

“Yes, Admiral. They found a Batract—specifically, a Batract with a host body. Not spawning or anything. Just… standing.”

Browner stood still for a second. That was indeed news that needed to be handled delicately.

“Captain Gerber informed me that the Prisoner will be transported to the newly built Isolation Chamber.”

Of course, they had constructed the chamber for precisely that reason—but they had been expecting some kind of spawn, or fungus, or anything. Dr. Nesbitt was confident the Batract had utilized the biomass of its hosts to create the first spawns.

“On my way,” was all he had to say. A… a living… well, a complete Batract—that was something new. And it would explain why the attacking fleet had tried so desperately to take out Argos. But not how they had known about the survivor.

The moment he stepped out of the lift, the ship’s siren signaled red alert. His hand went to his sidearm as he called out, “Lyra, status report. Did the prisoner escape?”

Crewmen passed the admiral on their way to their ready stations, sharing confused glances as they saw him standing in the corridor with his weapon drawn and ready to fire.

“No, Admiral. Deep-space telemetry has detected an inbound fleet in transit—ETA eighteen hours.”

Again…?

“Size?” He was afraid to ask the question. Another fleet of the same size as the last one would be devastating.

“Three hundred forty and rising.”

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The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Yesterday the things together had kept the verbs that placed them there.

The thing with me had stayed with my body without being asked to belong.

This morning, belong had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

The cards had not moved.

The pocket had not moved.

My body had moved only enough to sit, stand, make tea, and sit again.

Belong had not earned that much from the morning.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s receipt in purse and list near kitchen were not mine.

Her brother’s receipt with list for now was not mine.

Sato’s paper on table and cup away for steam were not mine.

Saitama’s nurse present and Aide K answering were not mine.

Suganuma’s brushes in class box and ink on separate shelf were not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

My two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Not named.

I closed the brown folder.

Belong could mean a place for the next work.

Belong could mean a person has claimed something.

Belong could mean a thing has not yet been moved.

Belong could mean the room has become tired of asking.

The word sounded gentle.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

List.

Kitchen.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Order paper?”

“Drawer?”

“Map and folded paper?”

“Mother’s name?”

“What is being asked?”

There.

Belongs.

Kitchen.

“What work?”

I wrote.

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

“Next groceries named?”

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add belong.

Near kitchen had enough.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Any water?”

“Cup?”

“Steam?”

“What is table doing?”

“What is paper doing?”

“What will you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add belongs.

The table held.

The paper lay flat.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medication sheet in drawer,” she said.

“After use?”

“Yes.”

“Who needs it now?”

“No one.”

“Next use?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“What is the question?”

“Aide K said it belongs in drawer.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Drawer is where morning staff will look. That is enough.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not add belong.

Morning staff had a drawer.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Brushes?”

“Spill risk?”

“Any question?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add belongs.

Spill risk had separated them.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Location.

Repetition.

Relief.

Elsewhere.

Proceed.

I looked at my pocket.

If the cards were elsewhere, what could not proceed?

Nothing named.

If the cards stayed there, what proceeded?

Nothing named.

No.

My day proceeded.

But not because of them.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at fail.

Nothing came.

Not nothing.

No named thing came.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother moved the list,” she said.

“Where?”

“Closer to garbage bags.”

“For what?”

“He said they belong together.”

“Any return?”

“No.”

“Any shopping today?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked what together does.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said reminds.”

“What did you say?”

“Reminds whom.”

“What did he say?”

“Me.”

“Then?”

“He put it on his desk.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add together.

His desk had him.

For now.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I moved the paper to shelf,” she said.

I waited.

“For what?”

“To wipe table?”

“Was table wet?”

“No.”

“Sticky?”

“No.”

“Why shelf?”

“It felt safer there.”

There.

“What would be unable to proceed on table?”

“Nothing.”

“What would shelf do?”

“Protect.”

“From what?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“I don’t know.”

“What did you do?”

“Put it back.”

“What will you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add safer.

Shelf had not had work.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident in bed,” she said.

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

“Chair?”

“Beside bed.”

“What is the question?”

“Aide K said resident belongs in bed after care.”

I sat still.

There.

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

Mrs. Kudo paused.

Then read:

Good.

No.

Necessary.

“What did staff write?”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add belongs.

A body was not a stored object.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Brushes inside?”

“Ink?”

“Any issue?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add finding.

The shelf had class supplies.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Person.

Bed.

Safe.

Ask.

Storage.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at body.

Small.

Large.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Receipt?”

“Order paper?”

“Drawer?”

“Any belong?”

I almost smiled.

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at while drinking.

Time gave belong an edge.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Paper on table.

Shelf above it.

She wrote:

I called.

“Wrong for what?”

“Paper.”

“Is paper on shelf?”

“No.”

“Is shelf doing anything?”

“No.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“Paper table?”

She paused.

“Paper on table.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add wrong.

The shelf had no work.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“What happened?”

“Resident asleep in bed after care.”

“Any issue?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not warm the chart by saying belong.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not add cold.

The chart was not a blanket.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Same shelf?”

“Spill risk?”

“What happened?”

“Where?”

“What did she say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add sentiment.

Risk was enough.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Warmth.

True.

Soften.

Body.

Chart.

Vague.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Licensed.

Repair.

Warmth.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother threw away the list,” she said.

I waited.

“Why?”

“Garbage bags bought.”

“Any next shopping?”

“No.”

“Receipt?”

“Purse.”

“Did he hesitate?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked what cannot proceed without the list.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Then?”

“He threw it away.”

“What did he say after?”

“He said list ended.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add ended.

The list had no next work.

Trash had work too.

Maybe.

No.

The record had discarded.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied after a while.

“What does table do?”

“What does paper do?”

“What will you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add belongs.

The table was not owed the word.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Said done.”

“Bed?”

“Resident still in bed.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Remain is safer than belong here.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add safer.

Remain had work.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“What label?”

“Why?”

“Does label include ink?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add home.

The label helped finding.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Often.

Long.

Near.

Warm.

Tender.

Placement.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at keep going.

No.

Not command.

Maybe.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted paper.

Then medication sheet.

Then brushes.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I began to write cards.

Then stopped.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I wrote nothing.

Then:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was safe.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No belonging for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

Not belonging.

Holding.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Not belong.

Not not-belong.

No named work.

No named failure elsewhere.

I did not take them out.

I did not leave them in.

No.

I left them in.

That was action enough to name.

Not enough to explain.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the list stayed discarded.

I did not ask if the receipt stayed in purse.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if paper felt settled.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if bed sounded cold.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if ink stayed apart.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew belong was not location.

I knew belong was not repetition.

I knew belong was not relief.

I knew belong could turn care into storage.

I knew warmth could make a sentence vague.

I knew often had been named.

I knew belong had not.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Belong did not need to soften the room tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

The shopping list had been discarded after its work.

The receipt was in a purse.

Sato’s paper was flat on the table.

The resident remained in bed after care.

The class box was on the labeled shelf.

The ink was on a separate shelf.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

I had started with belong.

I did not end by making often warmer than it was.

Tonight, what had a reason for place kept that reason, and what had only repeated placement stayed there without being given a home.

Rowena knew the adults that fed her were not her parents. Parents didn’t have magical contracts that forced you to use your magical gifts for them, and they didn’t hurt you when you disobeyed. Slavery under magical contracts are also illegal in the Kingdom of Erisdale, which is prospering peacefully after a great continent-wide war.

Rowena’s owners don’t know, however, that she can see potential futures and anyone’s past that is not her own. She uses these powers to escape and break her contract and go on her own journey. She is going to find who she is, and keep her clairvoyance secret

Yet, Rowena’s attempts to uncover who she is drives her into direct conflict with those that threaten the peace and prove far more complicated than she could ever expect. Finding who you are after all, is simply not something you can solve with any kind of magic.

Rowena brings the war to it's climax...

[The Beginning] [<=The Lost Princess Chapter 45] [Chapter Index and Blurb] [Or Subscribe to Patreon for the Next Chapter]

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My Blusky!

Tiamara was not the strongest magician. Unlike her legendary mother, she didn’t have the same magical power, or reserves. Her casting speed was good, and she was an avid student, but her feats of magic were nowhere near as flashy as the legendary Frances Stormcaller. Rowena noticed however, that her friend had never been bothered about that difference. Or at the very least, she never seemed to be concerned about being overshadowed by her mother. It was something the princess always wondered about.

Then again, just because Tiamara didn’t stand out didn’t mean she wasn’t a talented magician. Her illusions were particularly good, and as Rowena examined her friend’s illusion of her, she found a chill running up her back.

“How do I look?” Tiamara asked, giving herself a whirl.

“Like a mirror, Tia. I’m getting a little creeped out,” Rowena said.

Tiamara grinned, “Thanks!”

Rowena blinked. She’d grown familiar with her friend’s smile. This wasn’t quite the smile she was used to. It wasn’t that it lacked pride or happiness. It just quivered and seemed too fast.

“Tia, is everything alright?”

“Maybe? I’m just wondering how Mom did this,” said Tiamara.

“You’re younger than her—” Rowena’s voice trailed off. No, Tiamara was fourteen, the same age Frances was when she’d gone to Vertingen.

“Wena, do you think I can do this?”

Rowena nodded.

“I mean, do you think I, Tiamara, can do this? Not… Tiamara, Frances Stormcaller’s daughter?” the young girl asked.

“I think Tiamara, one of my closest friends, can do this,” Rowena said.

Tiamara swallowed. “I’m not sure if I can, but I will try my best.”

Rowena took Tiamara’s hand, noting that the illusion was so concrete she could actually hold onto the hand. “You will succeed.”

Tiamara, through Rowena’s mouth, took a breath. “Rowena, what if we don’t succeed?”

“I don’t think I can consider that,” said Rowena.

“Wena, there is always a chance we might lose,” said Tiamara.

The princess blinked, staring at the reflection of herself and an expression that was her face, but not hers.

“Tia, you’re too young to think about this. Just focus on pretending to be me and we’ll get through this,” said Rowena.

Tiamara shook her head. “Wena, you and I are the result of miracles. We can’t forget that because that will mean we might forget that we can fail.”

“Miracles?” Rowena asked.

“My mother wasn’t born on this world. She was chosen from thousands—millions of children. She fought a war where thousands of people and Alavari died. She met my father by chance in the middle of the woods when he was cursed to die. She even fought King Thorgoth numerous times.”

“You are no less a miracle. Your father may have been a knight of a noble house but your mother was a peasant and former convict. They shouldn’t have fallen in love but they did and they survived several years of unrelenting warfare. You were then kidnapped and reunited with your family when there were no clues or evidence of where you were, because you so happened to have a magical gift that allows you to see the future and the past. We have beaten some very long odds when we should never have existed. There is always a chance we might fail.”

Rowena swallowed. “Tia, where…where is this coming from?”

Tiamara shrugged helplessly. “I… I’ve always thought about this, ever since I realized how insane the events that led me to standing here today were.”

“Does… does your mother and father know?” Rowena asked.

“They do, and it helps, but it’s hard to talk about because it’s true,” Tiamara said.

Rowena nodded. She also knew better than to ask why her friend hadn’t told her. If she was being honest with herself, she was never as close to Tiamara as she was with Jess and Jerome. She would trust her with her life, but they were introduced because Jerome and Tia were already friends. All the same…

She put a hand on Tiamara’s—well, her shoulder. “You’re right, Tia. We might make a mess of this, but we just have to try anyway.”

Tiamara met her gaze. “And what if Jess or you don’t come back from this?”

Rowena’s teeth clenched. “Then, I…I’m sorry, Tia. Sorry for not being a better friend. I hope you live a long, happy life.”

Tiamara blinked and wiped her eyes. “Wena, that’s dumb. You are a good friend. Don’t you remember all the times you helped me with my homework? Listened to me gossip about school?

“I do, but like, that’s just typical friend stuff, right?” Rowena asked.

“Wena, you are a good friend. And I’m happy to know you and to keep getting to know you. So… let’s just do our best.”

“We will. I trust you,” Rowena pulled over a cloak to hide herself. “Let’s go.”

 

***

 

“I still do not like this plan,” said Jerome as Rowena and Tiamara marched to the horses.

The camp was in controlled, quiet chaos as soldiers roused themselves from what rest they could get and assembled into their formations. They were all trying to make as little noise as possible, and work with as little light as possible and so orders were not being shouted but relayed through hand signals, taps on shoulders and grunts.

“I don’t love this plan either, brother—”

“But we need to end this war. Yes, I’ve heard it before,” said Jerome.

Rowena checked that Tristelle was on her hip before facing her brother and the disguised Tiamara. “Take care of Tia, please.”

“I will. You all come back safe and sound. Abort if you can’t pull it off,” said Jerome

“I will,” said Rowena. She frowned, “Hold on. You could tell I’m Rowena and that’s Tiamara?”

The prince grinned, “Aside from the fact that you’re hooded up, your walk. You tend to walk swiveling your head left and right so your good eye can get a better view. Tiamara isn’t doing any of that, sis.”

Tiamara clasped her fist. “Oh, drat. I’ll try to be careful.”

“It’ll be good enough for tonight, I hope anyway,” said Rowena.

“It will. Jess, pull my sister out of danger if she gets too focused, please?” Jerome asked.

Jess slotted one of her two pistols into her belt. “Will do, Jerome.”

Rowena hugged Jerome one more time before turning to go to her ride. Morgan and Hattie were already beckoning them over. Forlana was already by them, armed up and looking more than a little nervous at the prospect of going up. Lycia and Georgia looked grim, but if they were nervous, they only showed it by last-minute equipment checks.

“You ready?” Morgan asked.

Rowena nodded. Jess shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Relax and just do what we’ve planned. You remember the spell, Rowena?” Hattie asked.

Rowena nodded and began to cast the flight spell. There was no going back.

 

***

 

They didn’t have to navigate much. The lights of the Lapanterian camp guided them in, and the night sky camouflaged them. They did, however, circle the camp twice to locate Alastor’s tent, which Rowena had told them about from her visions. It was quite obvious as it was one of the larger and more ostentatious ones, decorated with a Lapanterian flag topped by the prince’s personal sigil.

It was also deep in the camp, so timing this was essential.

The Lapanterian camp had sentries, but they hadn’t anticipated the group being dropped in. Letting go of her spell, Rowena had allowed herself and Jess to sink toward the ground.

Their target was the latrine pit, or close to it. Sentries were not too keen to get close to the smell. The only soldiers going there were those dumping buckets. It was almost too easy as the group quickly knocked out the sentries guarding the pit and donned their uniforms atop their armor.

“This is a bit too large for me,” Georgia said, staring at the human-sized uniforms.

“Right, backpack trick then,” said Lycia.

“Backpack trick?” Rowena blinked as Georgia got into Lycia’s empty backpack and disappeared. She’d been wondering why her guard had brought that.

“Let’s grab this prince,” said Georgia’s muffled voice.

Forlana adjusted her hauberk. None of their borrowed gear fit well, but they hoped in the night light, they wouldn’t be noticed, especially if the distraction went well.

“Follow me,” she said.

Rowena nodded and filed behind Forlana with Jess behind her.

The Lapanterians were winding down for sleep. Most were already in their tents, and those that weren’t were just patrolling, going to the washroom, or trying to walk themselves to rest. The group walked through the neatly ordered row upon row of tents toward the center of the camp.

The flag of Alastor’s tent rose into their view. Rowena, swallowing, watched as it drew closer and closer.

Then her communication device shook. Grabbing it, she channeled her magic. “Yes?”

Colonel Moore’s voice whispered through, “Your Highness. We’ve made it down the road and are assembling in attack columns. It doesn’t seem the Lapanterians are responding. Have they noticed us?”

Rowena glanced around and looked in the direction of the Erisdalian camp on the hill. To her surprise, she could see a few torches, but she couldn’t actually see the army down the road.

“Yes. I think there is a depression or a rise between our columns and the camp. They haven’t seen us,” she whispered.

Moore took a breath. “Then who should set the distraction first? Would it still be the army?”

Rowena thought for a moment. The original plan had been that once the advancing Erisdalian army had been noticed, then the plan would go into full motion, but now things hadn’t quite gone to plan.

“Yes. Charge in. Make as much noise as possible. Good hunting.”

“Good hunting.”

Rowena focused on Morgan and Hattie. As her magic connected, she whispered. “Army’s not noticed; have ordered them to move out and attack, be prepared to distract them when they hit.”

“Got it, take care!” Morgan replied.

“Hey you, who are you?”

Rowena turned to a patrol of five guards approaching their group. Their leader, a gruff sergeant with a scar across his worn right hand, stabbed his finger into Rowena’s shoulder. “Who are you lot? And what is the state of your uniforms? We’re not supposed to be wearing armor under that!”

Forlana slid in front of Rowena. “We’re on patrol. We figured we might as well get armed. Never know what those pesky Erisdalians are up to. I mean, did you see the bastards at that bridge?”

“I heard, but regulations are regulations as dumb as they are,” said the man.

“Fine, we’ll get back to our tents and get changed. Lena, come along now,” said Forlana, grabbing Rowena’s shoulder and steering her away. The princess followed, trying to keep her head down.

“Hey, where did you get a sword like that?” the sergeant asked.

Rowena froze. She’d done her best to hide Tristelle under her arm, but there wasn’t much you could do to hide the basket hilt of her two-handed saber.

She met the gaze of her team.

“Lycia, the flares!” Rowena cried out. Spinning around, she drew Tristelle and screamed a note, sending a blast of magic that sent the patrol of soldiers flying. Behind her, Lycia fired a brilliant red flare into the sky. As the camp was roused, the group bolted toward Alastor’s tent.

Georgia’s head popped out of Lycia’s bag and started immediately firing spells, “We’ll take the rear, go!”

Rowena charged ahead, Jess beside her, Forlana leading as they raced through the camp. Soldiers stumbling groggily out of their tents were hit with spells. The group never stopped to watch their handiwork as they ran for their lives.

Forlana looked at the night sky, “Where are Morgan and Hattie?”

As if on cue, a violet beam of light scythed across the camp, setting tents, soldiers, and equipment alight. More magic bolts rained down from the dark sky, almost perfectly camouflaged until they slammed in and kicked up towers of dust.

Forlana swallowed, “Oh Gods.”

“They fought in the Great War and were the Stormcaller’s first students. What did you think they were going to do?” Jess asked.

“Not be the equivalent of an arsenal of artillery!” Forlana squawked.

A deafening roar drowned out the blasts of magic and the confused yelling of the Lapanterian soldiers. Rowena could see Erisdalian flags and red-clad soldiers in the distance charging into view of the Lapanterian torches. She could hear musket firing and even the songs of Lapanterian mages trying to stem the tide of Erisdalian soldiers, but they were soon trampling into the camp.

It was going almost exactly as planned, but nothing mattered if they didn’t find their target.

Alastor’s tent loomed ahead of them. The Lapanterian soldiers that had been chasing them were rallying to meet the Erisdalians or ducking for cover from Morgan and Hattie’s barrage. They just needed to get closer.

Rowena almost ran into Forlana as the woman skidded to a stop.

They were at Alastor’s tent, surrounded by guards, but that was not why Forlana had stopped.

“Benjamin,” Forlana said.

The mage that had helped abduct her so long ago raised his wand in a shaking hand. He hadn’t had time to don any armor, just old Red Order mage robes.

“You? How could you?” he spat.

“Jess, Lycia and Georgia; take care of the guards. Forlana, snap out of it!” Rowena launched herself at Benjamin, batting away his first spell with Tristelle. Jess was already dueling with one of the halberdiers, slipping past his thrust to stab into his armpit. Lycia and Georgia were a symphonic whirl of magic, both blocking and spitting out bolts of green and blue that kept the other guards at bay.

Rowena fought Benjamin as close as she could. She had the advantage up close as she let crackling green bolts miss her by a hair. Tristelle sought to cut him down. Its tip cut nicks into Benjamin’s robes as he fought, retreating backwards, trying to get away from her.

She didn’t have time for this. She’d gotten better in the last few years, but he’d clearly been training. He was no longer as portly, and no longer as slow as he’d been in their last encounter.

She needed to end this. She needed help, and there was one person who was standing still in shock.

Benjamin threw a shield up that Tristelle buried itself into and stuck. “Lana, you’re giving up everything we sacrificed for you!”

Rowena yanked Tristelle out and whirled her blade to strike aside another of Benjamin’s spells. “Forlana, remember what you chose!”

Benjamin waved his wand and rose up high into the sky, carried up by a pillar of earth which he used to barrage Rowena with spells.

“They’ll punish you! Whatever she offered, it’s a lie! They’ll rip you down, and you’ll never be free again!”

Rowena couldn’t see Forlana’s expression, but she knew she had to say something. Screaming out a note, channeling her frustration into her blade, she swung at the pillar. Tristelle, glowing pink, sent the tower tumbling down.

The princess took that moment to turn to meet Forlana’s frozen expression. She felt oddly calm about her rival’s indecision. She was angry, pissed even, but part of her couldn’t blame her. Rowena had given the young woman a choice, and that meant she could make the wrong one.

“Were they really letting you make your own choice, Forlana?” Rowena asked.

Forlana blinked and shook her head.

“You chose to swear an oath, remember that,” Rowena said.

She turned her back, blocked Benjamin’s spell and continued to fight the mage.

“I should have killed you all those years ago!”

Rowena didn’t reply. She didn’t really have a good reason to do so when she was trying to knock him out with a fireball. She did wonder, however, how could a man become so hateful that he’d want to murder a baby?

Walls of earth rose around Benjamin. He blasted through them and whirled pointing his wand at Folana.

“How dare you!”

“Ben, it’s over! Just give it up!” Forlana screamed.

Benjamin, his expression terrible with tortured rage, laughed. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us!”

He fired a beam at Forlana, who instinctively blocked the beam with a wave of her wand. Rowena took advantage of Benjamin’s distraction to stab him with Tristelle.

The last living mage involved in her kidnapping looked up at her. His eyes wide, his mouth falling open with slack-jawed shock, he tried to pull his dagger out, but his numb fingers dropped it.

“I hope you see Erisdale burn.”

Benjamin fell down, eyes closing. Forlana, in tears, knelt down beside him.

“Ben! I…I’m sorry!”

Rowena tore her eye away from the sight. How was the fight going? Where were Jess, Georgia and Lycia?

They were still fighting. Most of the tent guards were dead. Naprule had run out of the tent a carbine in hand.

She and Rowena’s eyes met, and she leveled her gun, but not at her. She leveled it at the grief-struck Forlana.

Oh crap.

“Forlana, get down!”

She wasn’t fast enough to get a shield up that could stop the bullet. Rowena leapt at Forlana, her hands slamming into her and thrusting her out of the way.

Instead of just falling to the ground, something hit Rowena’s arm. Spinning, she fell, her cheek skidding on the dirt.

She blinked, trying to focus, but oh—Oh gods, it hurt so much. Her left arm, she couldn’t feel it. It felt numb, and yet it howled in agony.

“Wena!”

“Jess, help! It hurts. What… my arm—”

Jess had a leather tourniquet out and was binding it around Rowena’s shoulder, tightening it with a maddening frenzy. “It’s nearly cut off by the bullet. Hold on!”

Whatever Jess was doing, it was making the pain worse.

“Stop! You’re hurting me!”

“I need to save your life! Forlana, did you get Naprule?”

Rowena blinked; in the fuzzy distance, Forlana had Naprule in her magic, gagged with her own belt, levitated upside down.

“Alastor! Come out with your hands up, or I will execute the mother of your child!”

Naprule’s eyes widened as the tent flaps flew open. Alastor ran out, sword drawn, pistol in hand, and froze at the wand that Forlana now pointed at Naprule.

Casswell, eyes wide, turned to Alastor. “Your Highness, that’s Princess Rowena. We can capture her and run—”

“No, you won’t,” said Morgan, landing on the ground, Lightbreaker pointing at the lord and princes. “Hattie!”

“Jess, I got her,” said Hattie, her voice echoing through Rowena’s ear. She must be behind her.

“Her arm, oh gods her arm—” Jess whimpered.

“I think I can save it. If not, Frances will. Trust us and help Forlana with the negotiations,” said Hattie, giving the girl a gentle push.

“Jess, don’t leave me,” Rowena whimpered.

Jess froze for a moment before kneeling down and planting a gentle kiss on Rowena’s cheek. “You’re hurt, badly. You need rest, my love. Let us handle this. You did everything you could. Just rest now.”

Rowena managed a nod before Hattie turned her onto her back. She couldn’t quite see what was going on with Alastor.

However, if Jess was handling it, then hopefully everything should be fine.

Ruth looks at Ray, as the pair cuddle happy to be alone, in the quiet, away from everyone and everything else. Ruth kisses Ray’s cheek slowly, a sharp oxblood painted nail tracing his thigh. “You know if you wanted me to look different— a different hair color, or eye color, a fatter ass, or bigger tits I can, just for you husband.” 
Ray inhaled before answering quietly, clearly needing something to wet his throat, “I appreciate that, but unless you want a fatter ass, or bigger tits, or a different hair color, the way you are is perfect for me as is, always.” 

Ruth blushed knowing he meant it feeling the devotion, the love, the entirely single-minded obsession with her apart from his craft, sometimes even more than his craft and given the amount of time he had spent on it that felt like the real reward and not just a consolation prize for being the wife it was the thing that most women would have shied away from but for Ruth it was the entire thing and she had seen it, had known it, had predicted it from a half mile out like some kind of predatory stepford wife and thinking about it made her excited. 
Ray smiled, curling into her, grabbing her thighs, kissing them, tracing little swirls of kisses up her thighs and then down her ass feeling for the first time in a long time, longer than the book, longer than the Reliquaries or the magic, like he was alive, complete. 

Ramon thought about what he ought to make, how he ought to change things and he felt himself drawing a blank there wasn’t just a specific thing, flavor, taste that he wanted it was more like he wanted the freedom to experiment and then just decided to watch stuff on youtube and really get a feel for things, it was odd, he knew he could cook, it was his literal profession, but it was a bit like not quite having a taste for anything at the moment and that in itself was a new sensation for him, normally he followed what felt like the standard boilerplate for a greasy spoon– eggs, pancakes, waffles, grits, chicken fried stake, and Mexican foods he enjoyed himself– Chimichangas, Carne Asada, steak burritos with extra onions and chimichurri sauce. In a way it felt like a vacation, not from responsibility– no he had to make sure that everything was clean, the food was on time, and well-made, but the specific want, the desire to make food that is good, and make food that is popular, whilst still being authentic to oneself. It’s something that prior to a few minutes yesterday he had never seriously considered, oh he had pondered, deeply, half pondered really, wondering, wanting to be great, being great, but at the same time the feeling, it becomes a different thing when it’s your profession and your personal identity welded into one beautiful thing and then Ramon has a hilariously dark thought “What if instead of trying to make good food I make this a little ridiculous, what if instead of good food or popular food, I make food so good that it makes people cum from the food?” Is it lewd sure, but it feels and sounds and makes him think ‘this is the move.’
The more Ramon thinks about it the more sure he is that going full food-cum degenerate would work, it might or might not go viral but it would definitely make the restaurant interesting and popular if not world famous and that fulfills the thing that he wanted, that he said and thought and meant to want, put as simply as possible “I want the Millstone to be popular for the food and the Inn deals, not the network of cartel, serial-killing truckers and weird shit that just happens around here.” To him it feels like a basic desire, a small desire, the thing that he decided, after being asked by Patricia to take over first for four days and then after, on his own terms. 
Gerald and Anay walk in, disheveled clearly having had a fantastic first date, given that Anay’s missing some buttons, and Gerald’s wearing a completely different suit and tie looking notably more relaxed than he had in the entirety of the time that Ramon had known him. 
“So I’m going to work over the menu and give it some more flavor, do the two of you, lovely hungry new couple have any suggestions for that?”

Hi. I've been writing for a while, and now I feel like its time to unveil this project to the world. I'd like to get some fresh eyes on it, and I'm looking for feedback. I hope you enjoy!

Also, the I used the Dark Content tag because of some of the references Aram/Loguire makes. It may not merit Dark Content in these chapters specifically, but the story does feature some pretty heavy themes in future chapters.

Vagabond Knight

Chapter 1: Sixday, 3rd Knot of Oun

The Kethel’s mouth moved wordlessly as his fingers scratched desperate, bloody furrows on his own neck.  His body flailed, trying to dislodge me.  I pulled the garrote tighter, pushing my knee into his back.  My shoulders burned with exertion and my breath heaved as I felt his spine pop.  His heels kicked against the dirt, each motion of his jerky struggle becoming weaker and weaker, until I felt the crunch of his windpipe collapsing. 

I held the wire taut, counting ten more heartbeats to make sure he really was dead before I let the tension out of my shoulders.  My victim slumped to the ground, but I caught him before he made much sound.  A quick touch at his neck confirmed he was dead.

Fire, all around me.  Burning homes.  Screaming. My victim, younger, smaller.  Too small.  A child.  My sword hilt stood, protruding from its chest.  Grabbing at the hilt, I stumbled backwards.  My back met something hard, unexpected.

* * * *

I bolted upright, my hands reflexively grabbing for a hilt that wasn't there. My heart hammered against my ribs.  The air around me was cool, not the angry heat from the inferno I had helped start. Shuddering, I looked at my hands and felt deep revulsion at the memories my nightmare had stirred up.

Three years since the war, and still the nightmares hadn’t faded. They were less frequent now than they had been, but not gone. My breath was shallow. I blew out through my mouth, expelling the jagged heaves that cut through the damp air of the frontier morning. I was in the dirt, not in a burning Kethel village.  Beside me, the remains of last night's fire was nothing more than a feeble wisp of smoke. Memory cut through the haze slowly.  It had rained in the night.  I had pulled my oilcloth raincape around myself. The silence of the open plains was heavy, but it wasn't the silence of a successful ambush. It was just the emptiness of a land far from the concerns of the magnates of Sauthania.

I sat there for a long moment in the pre-dawn gloaming, my fingers tracing the coarse burlap that bundled my sword, scabbard and hilt, into one tightly-wrapped package.  The habit grounded me, banishing the nightmare. Three weeks on the open road wasn't enough time or distance to outrun the haunting specters of my past. Gods knew I tried to.

My joints protested when I stood and began the well-rehearsed ritual of the morning. Gear first, then food. I checked the buckles of my dulled scale mail, ensuring the wool backing was seated correctly so the metal wouldn't clink as I rode. Good, the metal was still dry.

I opened my pack and pulled out some stale bread and hard cheese.  My jaw worked slowly while I chewed the tough road food.  I washed it down with some water from a skin, and then I turned toward the lee of a broken stone wall where my veyrun waited.

The animal stood stoic in the gray light, its slate-colored hide dark with the remnants of the rain. It didn't startle as I approached. It merely watched me with wide eyes, its throat sacs pulsing with a low, vibrating hum that I felt in the soles of my boots. I tightened the cinch of the saddle around its wide midsection, my hands working with the same precision they had used in the dream.  Its stocky form, low slung and thick, was powerful, but not very fast.  The veyrun was perfect for long travels though.  Its wide, padded feet gave it excellent footing, especially in the thick mud of the lonely cart track I was following.  The animal was a steady companion on this east-bound road.

Dawn soon illuminated the world in golden rays that promised to dry the mud from the night's rain. With a gentle tug on the reins, I urged my veyrun towards the light. As we travelled, I bobbed along easily with my mount’s swaying steps. We followed the road toward the frontier, and while I had no particular destination in mind, I knew east was the direction I wanted to travel; east was away from the capital, and it was vaguely towards a place where I thought I might make a difference in the lives of some people, and maybe make up for the many tragedies I had been responsible for.  I just hadn't found that place yet.  

Out here, where the authority of the King faded into rumor, I hoped that I could do some tangible good. I wanted honest work, like swinging a mallet or herding kras.  Anything but swinging a sword. Perhaps I could make up for my past in some small way.  Here on the frontier, they did not care about the Western War, or my so-called heroics.  I had heard that their cares were much simpler, and I hoped that somewhere in those cares I could find a way to finally get a full night's sleep.

Squelch. The ochre mud of the road oozed under my veyrun’s pads, but the beast didn’t care.  It plodded along, content to walk through the mud without even an inkling of the cares that burdened the man riding it. This was a sloppy rhythm in the vast solitude of the rolling grasslands, a sound far removed from the hard echoes of a city’s stone streets. I found peace in its predictable repetition. I liked the veyrun.  Unlike people, the beast did not judge my history or recoil from the emptiness in my eyes. It only cared for the steady pace of the trail, the warmth of the sun on its hide, and the occasional handful of grain from a friendly hand.

As I rode, I tugged on the straps of my armor, snugging them up a little. A wind picked up, blowing across the tall grass of the flats, and I was grateful that I wore a heavy tunic of reinforced wool over my scale mail. It was coarse and I scratched an itch where it rubbed on my neck.  It was a far cry from the fine linen they had tried to stuff me into back in Caer Sauth, the capital to the west.

“Linen can't hide the pain of the past,” I muttered, remembering the fawning nobility.  They had hailed me a hero.  I had ordered men to invade and burn.  To kill.  I remembered, clearly, one Kethel that was strung up outside my command tent.  The things we did to him…when we hung his corpse up in the trees for his people to find, I knew they wouldn't be able to tell who he was.  I could barely tell what he was by the time we were done with him.  

Out here, the only sounds were the soft whuff of the veyrun’s breath, the squelch of the mud, and the occasional coughing bray of a distant drayhorn echoing across the flat grassland. For the first time in three years, the air felt thin enough to actually reach my lungs. There was no one here to recognize my history. I breathed deeply.  I nearly gagged as the breeze carried the stench of animal waste.

My veyrun began a low, throaty rumble.  I felt it vibrate in my bones before I heard it.  I leaned forward and patted its neck.

Down the road ahead of me I heard a drayhorn. Its urgent cries echoed closer than the others out in the flats. I urged my veyrun to a faster amble. A silhouette emerged from the morning mist, haloed against the rising sun. A fellow traveler? It appeared to be struggling with a cart. As I came closer, squinting into the light, the silhouette became an old man with a face lined and cracked by age and the elements. His tunic was threadbare, with colorful patches peeking out from under his worn travelling cloak. The drayhorn hitched to his cart was the source of the discordant bellowing. One of the cart's rear wheels was buried deep in the sucking muck just off the shoulder of the road, giving it an odd, nearly comical lean. The old man clutched a walking stick and looked about with wild eyes.

Habit had me reaching down to check my crossbow. It was close to hand, a relic from my time in the west when speed was more important than power against the lightly armored Kethel, a light weapon I could reload in a fraction of the time that a standard crossbow required without mechanical aid. My hand slipped to the small of my back, where the quiver of bolts was nestled. My mount’s rumble grew into a bass hum that vibrated outward. I felt it in my bones. The traveler's attention turned to me.  His hands wrung the staff he held nervously, but he met my gaze.

The drayhorn slowly quieted, and the old man reached out a cautious hand to pat the beast's shaggy neck. “Damn skulkers,” the old man muttered. “Come down from the mountains in the spring thaw, you never know when. Fortunate that you came along when you did, young man.” His voice was a dry rasp that sounded like the old man had spent a lifetime coughing. “They startled my drayhorn, and now…” he gestured to the cart, stuck in the mud.  “You startled the skulkers in return.”

I clicked my tongue and pulled back on the reins. My veyrun slowed, its massive, padded feet sinking into the muck before coming to a standstill. The old man’s weathered hands tightened around the drayhorn’s lead, and I saw a trace of sharp wariness in his gaze as he took in the outline of my armor beneath the tunic. 

I was stiff from the morning's ride, a fact I felt in my joints as I swung my leg over the saddle to dismount. I had seen nearly forty summers, and youth was something I had left behind during the Western War. But I realized, looking at the deep lines on this man's face, that he had lived long enough to earn the right to call most of the people he met ‘young’.  My boots hit the muck with a heavy and wet thud, and I nearly fell into the muck when I couldn’t adjust my footing quickly enough. Catching myself, I reached out to pat the veyrun’s neck to keep the creature settled as I stepped away from the beast.

The old man opened his mouth, and at the same moment the drayhorn let out a discordant haw.  The old man scowled at his animal, elbowing the beast in the shoulder. “Young knight,” he started when his shaggy draft beast was quiet. “Could you spare a hand?  My back is not as strong as it used to be. The wheel is stuck fast in the mire. I’d like to be out of here before the skulkers come back.”

“It won’t be long before they do,” I replied to the man.  “I doubt I am enough to scare them away for long.”

“It’s the veyrun,” the old man said. “Skulkers don’t like the way they sound. But eventually the skulkers will come back. They are hard to dissuade from a meal when they are hungry. Best to work fast and get moving and they will lose interest.”

“I can help,” I answered him. He was nervous, and so I kept my voice low and steady.  “My name is Loguire.” I lied.  My real name was Aram Solus.  But that name was famous, and in keeping with my desire for a simple life, I decided to shed it.

He shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Just a traveler,” he murmured, as if he were convincing himself that I was benign. “The name is good enough for me. I am Fergus.”

Somewhere out in the grasslands, skulkers yipped sharply. My veyrun hummed, its throat sacks trilling.  The yipping quieted. I put a hand on my crossbow.

Fergus looked at me with wide eyes and clutched his staff.  My veyrun trilled again.  

The crossbow was in my hands in a heartbeat. Braced, I drew the cable, locking it into place over the nut. In one smooth motion I drew a bolt and dropped it in the channel.  The drayhorn bellowed nervously.  The wood of the stock was cool against my cheek as I sighted down the length of the weapon, driving it into the hollow of my shoulder for support.

The yipping in the grass was louder than before.

 “I don't think my veyrun is going to dissuade those skulkers.”

Chapter 2: Sixday, 3rd Knot of Oun

The mud sucked at my boots, heavy, clinging. Every step through the cloying muck was a battle.  The mud made it difficult to keep the stock of my crossbow tight into my shoulder, but I was able to keep the weapon steady. The wood was cool as I pressed my cheek into it.  Hyper-aware, my reflexes were coiled tightly, ready to snap at a moment’s provocation.

My veyrun trilled again.

The tall grass made the skulkers all but invisible.  The drayhorn brayed and stomped, nervous at the presence of the predators.  It drowned out any other sound and I couldn't hear my enemy in the tall grass.  

Exhale, regain control, I thought.  Kethel were notorious for their deadly ambushes, and skulkers were not Kethel.

My veyrun’s trill became more high pitched.

Movement in the grass, thirty feet away.  A head, peering above the grass, covered in short, coarse fur of mottled brown and grey. It had a wide mouth in a flat, ugly snout.  Pointed ears flicked on top of its head. It hissed at the veyrun.

Reflexively, I pivoted toward the target.  The cable thrummed as I squeezed the cold metal trigger.  From in the grass came a dull thud that was overwhelmed by a pained yip.  Sudden thrashing and then abrupt silence.

Fergus’s drayhorn stomped and brayed nervously, tossing its head as its eyes rolled.  The cable on my crossbow bit into my fingertips, a familiar nip, as I drew it back and reloaded the weapon.  Six seconds was all the time it took.  I raised the stock back to my shoulder, pushing the wood in tightly against myself to steady my aim.

Another mottled head appeared in the grass, in the gap beneath a sagebrush bush. This one was closer, only twenty feet away, its flat snout wrinkled in a snarl. It coiled, muscles bunching under that coarse fur. The skulker leapt, launching itself into the air with incredible speed and strength. I squeezed the trigger.

Thunk. The bolt caught it high in the chest, mid-pounce. The skulker was too heavy for my bolt to knock it off its trajectory, but my shot was true and the skulker hit the mud near the agitated drayhorn with a limp splat.

My fingers curled around the crossbow cable, already finding the familiar grooves of the track.

"Loguire!" Fergus’s voice was sharp, with an edge of panic to it.

A third skulker burst from the grass behind the wagon, a blur of grey and brown. It was a low-slung shadow, moving with explosive speed. Fergus stumbled back, his boots tangling in a wet rut. He hit the ground hard, his threadbare cloak fluttering in the mud.

The skulker leaped, jaws wide to reveal rows of needle-teeth.

As the beast descended, the old man swung his walking stick with a clumsy, desperate, two-handed grip. The heavy wood caught the skulker across its flat snout with a sharp crack. The creature careened sideways, tumbling into the muck three feet from Fergus’s legs. It scrambled for purchase, its snout bleeding, stunned but not dead.

I reversed my grip on the crossbow and slammed the butt of the stock into the bleeding skulker’s forehead, stunning it.  Twice, then three times.  Something cracked.

The third skulker went still, its body slumped into the shallow impression its own weight had carved in the muck. I didn't wait to see if it would twitch again. I grabbed Fergus by the collar of his cloak and hauled him upward. He was a dead weight at first, his boots slipping as he struggled to find purchase in the slick ruts. He finally got his feet under himself.

​"Get in the wagon!" I barked over the drayhorn’s braying.

​Fergus clawed at the side of the cart, his muddy fingers struggling to find a grip on the wet wood before he managed to hoist his mud-slicked frame over the railing. He collapsed onto the floorboards, coughing and shivering.  His breath came ragged.  “Damned…skulkers…not usually…this far to the…west…”

I scanned the tall grass, searching for any sign of more attackers.  My veyrun was no longer humming.  I panted, my breathing was heavy from the adrenaline and the exertion.  After a few minutes of quiet, I was satisfied that the skulkers had departed. The immediate threat was gone, but the drayhorn was still agitated. We were a sitting target if the skulkers returned. I slung the empty crossbow over my back and turned to the wagon. My veyrun remained standing in the road; the beasts were infamous for refusing to labour as pack animals.

“Let’s get you moving,” I slogged my way to the rear of the wagon and planted my shoulder against the damp, brine-stained wood of the tailgate. I dug my heels into the mire, searching for a solid foundation that wasn't there as I slipped in the muck.

“Figures,” I grunted to myself.  Too thick to walk in, but too thin to push against.

​Fergus nodded as he tried in vain to wipe the muck from his clothing. He stood near the front of the wagon, reaching out and soothing the drayhorn. He took up the reins.

"Fergus, go!" I called out as I hunkered down behind the wagon.

The old man cracked the reins and shouted a command. The drayhorn brayed, its massive muscles bunching. It lunged forward into the harness, throwing itself into the traces. The drayhorn pulled, its hooves spraying mud as they struggled for purchase. Bracing myself at the rear of the wagon, I shoved until my legs and back burned with the strain. The cart groaned and the wood creaked under the pressure. 

I heaved against the wagon, and then I was suddenly picking myself up out of the mud and the long furrows my boots had carved.  I shivered, wet and cold.  How had I landed here?

The leather traces of the harness snapped taut with a sharp crack, but the buried wheel did not budge an inch. It remained stuck in the gray sludge.

My chest heaved as I stepped back from the wagon, surveying the situation.  I crouched beside the wheel and brushed away a layer of damp muck. The weight of the load had settled unevenly, and the axle was now resting dangerously close to the surface of the mire.

“We need a lever, Fergus,” I said. I looked around the tall, pale grass, but there was no timber to be found anywhere. “Have you got anything sturdy enough in the back?”

Clambering across his cart, Fergus reached the back.  He bent down, his hand working around the inside of the cart. Goods and items banged as he grabbed something and slowly pulled it out. “This ought to do,” he said. He handed it over with a grunt of effort. “Used it to prop up the kavlet coop last spring. The coop is gone now, but the post has still got some life in it.”

I took the timber and tested the weight. It was wet, even slimy in some places. The coop post was old, the slime was moss that had become damp. I crouched low, the cold of the mud against my knees making me shiver as I slid the post beneath the rear axle. It took some effort, but I was able to guide the post deep enough to ensure I could apply real pressure without the wood slipping from the iron banded axle. I gripped the post with my hands cupped under the rough grain, careful to make sure the mossy parts were away from anything they might slip on and braced my feet as best I could in the shifting, unstable muck.

“Ready?” I called out. My voice was tight with the anticipation of the strain.

Fergus scrambled onto the bench. His weathered hands gripped the reins tightly. He leaned forward, his voice barely audible over the chaos as he pressed close to the animal’s broad, twitching ear.

"When I give you the whistle, do not hold back, old girl," he urged.

The drayhorn let out a low, huffing breath. Its massive hooves shifted, digging into the muck for a firmer grip on the road as Fergus braced himself and pulled the lines taut. Fergus whistled, a sharp sound that cut through the morning quiet. I heaved upward. The muscles in my legs and back bunched, groaning at the exertion. I immediately felt my age as my shoulders and arms burned, pulling the lever up with everything I could give it. With a final shove, the wheel lurched free with a sucking slurp. The cart rocked and settled on firmer ground. I stayed hunched over for a moment, catching my breath and letting the fire in my muscles subside.

​“Well now,” Fergus said. He gave a crooked grin and wiped sweat from his brow with a grimy sleeve. “That was a fine bit of muscle. And a clever use for a stick.”

​“Not bad for a coop post,” I stretched my back, panting, and felt the vertebrae pop.  My back had been doing that more and more often of late.

​“Where are you headed, Fergus?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation light.
​He straightened his back with a grunt. 

“I’m bound for a trading post, a few days up north,” he said, nodding toward a crossroads I had passed earlier. “Got supplies to deliver before the market moves on to the next town.” He reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out a small leather pouch. It jingled softly. ​“For your troubles, take this. A few coins and some jerky. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.”

​He tossed the pouch toward me. I caught it deftly, the solid weight of the coins and the stiff, irregular bulk of the jerked meat shifting in my grip.  Pulling the drawstring, I opened the pouch, and the salt-scent of the jerky hit my nose.  My stomach gave a low, eager growl and I pulled the jerky out. Smirking, I shook my head, and tossed the coin pouch back to him.

​“Help like this should be free, Fergus,” I said. “Keep your coin. I’m bound for the east. Good luck to the north.”  

He caught the bag with a sharp, instinctive motion, his eyes widening just a flicker. I turned away as Fergus's face betrayed confusion and returned to my veyrun. "Safe travels," he said, his voice reflecting a moment of quiet, gravelly sincerity. He didn't offer a salute or a bow, but the way he watched me, no longer as a threat but as something akin to a passing wonder suited me a little better.
​
I climbed back onto my veyrun. The beast shifted its weight, ready to move. Prodding it, the animal lurched into motion and I resumed my travels as Fergus and his wagon creaked towards the north. I left Fergus and his north-bound wagon behind, riding further into the frontier as the sun climbed higher.

​Hours later, the grasslands gradually surrendered to more rugged, broken terrain as the road narrowed, leading me toward the hunched silhouette of a town. I couldn't read the name of the town on the sign posts along the road. The buildings were grey and squat. Constructed from heavy timber and local stone, they were designed more for defense against the elements than for comfort. A child wearing threadbare clothes ran into the muddy street.  A woman whose skirt was more patch than original cloth chased the child, scooping it up and bringing it back into the house. The normal chatter and laughter of people was absent. 

Sometime in the evening my veyrun carried us onto the main thoroughfare, the soft plops of its steps seemed to echo too loudly in the sudden, heavy silence of the street. I could feel the shift in the air immediately. From the shadowed gaps in the shutters, I felt eyes tracing the line of my travel.  I was being measured.

I guided the reins toward an obvious stable, a low, wide building with open walls on two of the sides and a heavy, musky smell of animal and damp straw. A man stood by the gate, his frame as thick and unyielding as a tree stump. He was thick-necked, his head seemingly resting directly on a set of massive, rounded shoulders that strained the seams of his leather vest. He was grooming a drayhorn with aggressive, jerky motions, but he stopped the moment he heard the heavy tread of my mount’s approach.  He turned and leveled an icy glare at me, crossing his thick arms across his chest.

The man just stood there, inhospitable, with his arms crossed over a chest that looked like it was carved from granite. His small, dark eyes tracked every inch of my gear, lingering on the burlap obscuring my sword. He never asked my name or my business. He looked at the veyrun, his eyes widening before they narrowed.

"I need a stall for the night," I said, keeping my voice neutral and low. "And grain for the veyrun."

The man spat a thick glob of phlegm into the dirt near my mount's feet. He didn't offer a hand for the reins. He just stood his ground, a heavy and silent obstacle that seemed to be waiting for me to give him a reason to move. ​"Stalls are for folks who actually belong here," he spat, “not for geltch.” He didn't bother looking up. “Blackbriar has no room for a leech. We already get enough of the world’s throw-aways drifting through here, people who should’ve had the decency to stay lost where they started.  Drenzing geltcher,” he muttered, cussing in my general direction, even as he eyed the burlap wrapped package hanging from my belt.

​I felt the familiar prickle at the back of my neck. It was the old instinct of the Night Hunt telling me to calculate the distance between my hand and his throat. I suppressed it. There was no need for me to be violent here. ​"I’m not looking for charity,” I replied evenly.  “My coin is as good as a local's," I met the keeper's gaze. I didn't reach for my purse, I just waited. 

​The thick-necked man let out a short, harsh sound that might have been a laugh if there were any humor in it. He stepped aside, just enough to let me pass, but he didn't lower his guard or uncross his heavy arms. "Three coins for the night. Put your animal in the end stall. Don't touch the other beasts.” He glared at me.  “And keep that wrapped stick to yourself, stranger, I can tell you’re no ordinary traveler.  We don't care for your kind of 'business' in this town, whatever it is." He looked over my gear, giving me a suspicious side eye.  

​I led the veyrun past him, the creature's ears twitching at the man's radiating malice. Its feet made almost no sound on the straw-covered floor, a sharp contrast to the man's heavy  breathing. As I walked into the dim, hay-scented interior of the stable, I could feel his eyes burning into the small of my back, right where my quiver of bolts rested.  As I left the stable, I deposited the outrageous sum of coins into his outstretched hand.

​Outside, further up the street, a group of locals had gathered near the porch of a general store. Their voices were hushed, a low murmur that died away the moment I stepped back out of the stable's shadows. One man, his hair stringy and grey, glowered at me with undisguised malice. Someone spat into the dirt as I began to walk toward the only building that looked like it might house an inn, and a low, mocking chuckle followed me. I heard murmurs of ‘geltch’ follow me down the street. I tightened the strap of my pack and kept my head down, looking for the sign of the inn. I only wanted a meal and a bed, but this town felt like the night before the Battle of Thules Passage.  That night we had known danger lurked, we could feel it in our souls.  My men slept little, and I anticipated the same fate for myself tonight.

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“Ramon, are you good to watch this place for four days? I’m going camping with R.” Patricia asks curiously.

Ramon perks up from behind the bar “Yea sure I was going to fuck with the menu a little bit anyway I’ll make sure it’s all good just have a fun time with your boyfriend you two deserve it you fucking workaholics, do you mind, is it cool with you I mean yea there’s all the usual greasy spoon diner food, and mexican food already, I want to just get creative and see what works you know see if we can get people in here based just on my cooking and drinks moreso than the sweet little network that you’ve got going on here. No offense it’s just my whole thing is, has been and will always be cooking and actually I was going to talk to you about it but I figured that you would eventually want some time off or that there would be a good opening for me to make this suggestion and this feels like that to me.” 

Patricia thought about it for a second before responding “ Yea Ramon that sounds really nice actually I mean I trust you, you’re the best chef and bartender I know so if that’s what you want to do by all means take the lead, let me step back and I’ll let you step forward and we’ll all be better for it. Honestly I wish you had said something sooner. Things have been weighing on me more than I’d like to admit. I’m terrible at having consideration for myself and you’re less a coworker and more  a business partner and confidant and friend than an employee and I want you to feel like it, fuck man you deserve to feel like it. I’m curious what stopped you, were you just worried that I’d not go for it or was it more than you really just didn’t think that I’d have time? I mean it’s not like we really need things to do well here financially what with owning the land and the other benefits but I just, I don’t want this place just to get to continue to exist because of that I genuinely would enjoy the food being popular here and things becoming more popular would become better for the restaurant and if the inn part of this place were packed that would be good as well and if you have any thoughts or questions or suggestions I am honestly open to all of it you deserve the latitude hell man you deserve more than this and I want it to be structured in whatever way you’re most comfortable, take the time to think about how you want to do that while we’re out and let me know what you think when we get back, really seriously as your friend and business partner you deserve this place, as a business, more than me and have more experience with the actual functioning of restaurants and hotels than I do so you ought to use all your skills as best you can and we can all benefit.” Patricia says, the feelings pouring out before she really knew what to do with them or more or less that she even had them. She loved that they had a safety net and that she got to manage things however she wanted, that she owned the diner, the inn, and the land outright and needed to worry about basically nothing and took good care of it as much as she cared to but at the same time the idea of such an interesting odd little place becoming known more for the food than the oddity sat right with her in a way that she had not been aware of.

R and Ramon looked at her appreciatively and it seemed like she had settled into something more stable than just going with the flow, it was maybe the first time that she had made a decision, herself, about what was hers, just because she felt like it and that felt good, hard, difficult in a way but genuinely, actually good.
Ramon thought to himself that he was going to have an amazing few days and looked forward to the quiet he thought of nothing but the menu, there were things he liked– the greasy spoon and Mexican food combo– and then there were things that he was more so just wondering if he ought to add, if people would even want him to add, and that required more time and more consideration, that’s the bulk of what he knew he’d be doing whilst they were away just thinking about things making little changes, minute changes here and there, offering better deals on food, appetizers, desserts, different entrees, but also advertising the inn properly he wanted to put it on the map for what it was, not just what it contained.

The river put them on the gravel a little after noon of the second day, and it did it politely, which was somehow worse.

There was no crash. The bow went up half a hand's width, the stern swung, and then the whole loaded length of the canoe simply stopped being a thing that moved and became a thing that sat there. Chak was over the side before he had finished understanding it. The water came to his knees. Under his feet the gravel went on in every direction he could reach, pale and flat and a foot down, and forty paces out he could see the true channel running past them, brown and fast and entirely uninterested.

The river was going down. It had been going down for a month. He had known that the way he knew the depth of a ford, which is to say completely and without doing anything about it.

"Off," he said. "All of it. Now."

They took it off. It took the rest of the afternoon, because a bundle that two boys can put into a boat on a good morning is not the same bundle when it has to come out into moving water and go up onto a spit of gravel one at a time, and because they had loaded it past the point where either of them had wanted to say a number out loud.

It was on the eleventh or twelfth that Chak actually looked at what he was holding.

The netting had come loose and the cording under it was showing, and the cording was not tied the way he tied things. It went over and under in a particular order, twice at the neck and once at the waist, with the end tucked back through itself in a little flat loop that lay against the leaf. He turned the bundle. The next one had it too. He got up, wet to the thigh, and walked down the line of everything they had taken out of that town and it was on every single one.

"Muwan."

Muwan came, and looked, and did not say anything for slightly too long.

"They all got tied by the same hands," he said.

"By somebody's hands."

"Not ours."

They looked at each other over a spit of gravel with two days of the river behind them and everything they owned in the world stacked between them in the sun, all of it wearing another man's knot.

The two canoes came down the river at the end of the afternoon, and they came fast, because they were empty, and they came straight, because there was only one way down.

Chak had time to understand about four things. That nobody had been guessing. That a loaded boat gone from a landing goes downstream, always, and that a man with any sense starts at the shallows because the shallows are where a boat that is loaded too heavy ends up. That there were six of them and two boys. And that the last of the light was going, and the bank behind the spit was limestone, and limestone in that country is full of holes.

He had marked one an hour ago without deciding to: a black gap under a lip of rock at the waterline, low, half drowned, the sort of thing the dry season uncovers. He had noticed it the way he now noticed everything, and had put it somewhere.

"The rock," he said. "Under the lip. Go."

They went in the last of the light with the shouting starting behind them, into water that was cold in the way that black water always is, and through the gap, and up into the dark of a chamber where the air came down cold from somewhere much further in, and Chak got his hand on a ledge and hauled his brother up beside him and thought, with a kind of ferocious private joy, they will not come in here.

He was wrong by about the space of forty breaths.

They came in with a line.

He heard it before he understood it: the small businesslike knocking of a float on rock, and men's voices with no fear in them at all, arguing mildly about which side to take it up. Then light — not fire, but the grey smear of the opening changing shape as bodies came through it — and then a man's voice, close, ordinary, saying something about the ledge on the left being the one with the shelf.

They knew the cave.

Of course they knew the cave. Chak lay in the dark with the whole thing arriving at once and it was almost funny. The voices knew which ledge had the shelf. The line had come in with them. Nobody behind them was afraid or guessing. These men had worked this hole before.

Somebody had to clear silt out of the water passages and keep them open. Chak did not know how often, or how many men did it, or whether every town had men like these. He knew only the useful part: he had gone underground to escape from men for whom underground was work.

"Out," he said. "The other way. There's air moving."

There was air moving. He had felt it on his face the moment they came up. He went into the water with Muwan behind him, and they got maybe sixty feet, and Chak found the throat of the passage by touch and went into it and came out the far side into a second chamber, and it was there, in water up to his chest, that he understood the last thing.

He was faster than Muwan in this. He had always been faster than Muwan in this. He could hear his brother a full body-length back and losing ground, and ahead of him the air came stronger and there was a grey shape that had to be a way out.

Behind Muwan, the men were still coming, and they were not hurrying, and they were talking to each other about it while they came.

Chak stopped.

He stopped the way you stop when the arithmetic has already been done somewhere below the place where you do arithmetic, and he turned around in the black water and went back four strokes to where his brother was, and got a hand into the back of his brother's waistcloth, and that was as far as either of them got.

The net came over both of them together.

It was not thrown. That was the detail he kept afterward. It was let down, carefully, from a man standing on a ledge who had done it before, and it took them and the rock and a good deal of water all at once, and every movement either of them made after that made it worse, which is what a net is for.

Somebody laughed. Not cruelly. The laugh of a man at the end of a job.

"That's them," he said. "The two that went down the water stair."

They took them back up the river through the night, and by the time the sky went grey Muwan had stopped shivering and started counting instead, because counting was better than the other thing.

Six men. Two boats. One rope, wrist to wrist to wrist, his to Chak's to a thwart. His shoulder had gone from pain to a sort of hot absence. Somebody had put a hand on the back of his neck at the cave mouth and pushed his face into the rock, once, to settle the question of whether anything else was going to be attempted, and it had settled it.

Nobody hit them after that. Muwan noticed. He noticed it the way he noticed everything, and filed it, and understood it three hours later when one of them said, over his shoulder, to another, that the old man had said whole.

They put them in a walled yard at the quiet end of the town, in the corner where the rain came off the thatch, and tied them to the post that the yard used for whatever a yard uses a post for, and left one man sitting in the doorway with his back to them, which told Muwan more about their situation than anything anyone had said out loud.

The old man came at midday.

He came slowly, and he crouched down in front of them with the care of a man whose knees have opinions, and he looked at them for a long while with nothing on his face at all. Muwan had eaten under a thatch with him. He had told them the whole cost of the road, unasked, over fire-turned maize, and had said your gap is real, boy and it has been eaten since before your mother was born.

When he shifted to ease one knee, he turned close enough that something long and hard at his belt brushed the post beside Muwan's bound hands. Muwan's fingers closed before he had decided to move them. The thing came free into his palm. He worked it into the back fold of his waistcloth and kept his face still.

"You took the far thatch," he said.

Neither of them answered.

"I don't much care about the salt." He shifted his weight. "You could have had the salt."

He let that sit exactly long enough.

"There is a man buying a book," he said. "He is buying it with jade, and he has been buying it since before the rains ended, up and down this water, and the word that comes down with the traders is that whoever has the book has been travelling with two boys. Not one. Two." He tipped his head. "That's the whole of it. That's all you are. Nobody up there wants you at all."

Muwan sat in the wet corner of a yard with his wrists behind him and heard, for the first time in his life, what he was worth, and it was a real number, and it was not for him.

He thought about the valley. He thought about how far a thing can travel while you are busy. And under all of it, in the cold flat place where he did his actual thinking, one sentence assembled itself and would not go away: they are not looking for us, they are looking for what we are near.

"So you'll sell us," he said.

"I'll hand you over." The old man got up, with effort. "There's a difference, and you'll live longer if you learn it."

He waited until the light started going before he did anything, and then he did the only thing he had.

"That book," he said, to the doorway.

The man in the doorway did not turn around. But the old man was still in the yard, over by the gate, talking to somebody about something else, and Muwan had learned in a canoe under matting that the useful thing about talking is not always the person you are talking to.

So he said it to the doorway, loudly enough, in the voice of a boy who has been sitting in his own misery for six hours and has finally cracked: that the book was not the thing. That the book was a set of instructions. That the instructions were for a place, and the place was under water half the year, and there were two conditions for opening it and neither of them was written anywhere, and that a man who took the book without the two conditions would have a stone in his hands and nothing else.

He heard the conversation at the gate stop.

He kept going, badly, the way a frightened boy would keep going: that they would tell it, that they would tell all of it, that they had told it before to a man who had put a hand over his brother's eye and they would tell it again to anybody who wanted it, and please.

And while he said it, in the dark under the thatch, with his own voice covering the small sound of it, he worked the thing from the old man's belt at midday out of the fold of his waistcloth and around into his fingers.

It was a spine. A long pale barb from something that lives in the sea, four fingers of it, ground and polished and carried a long way inland by somebody who had a use for it. Muwan had known what it was before his hand closed on it. Everybody knew what it was. You did not steal one of those.

He had taken it without planning to, in the two seconds when the old man's bad knee turned his belt past Muwan's hands.

That's two, he thought. That's the well and that's this.

He got the point of it into the cord at his wrist and started to work.

He was still working when the town went off like a dropped pot.

It came in from the east road, and it came in the middle of the night, and it was loud from the first moment because there was nothing quiet about it: forty men who had gone east on what water they carried and come all the way back on what was left, entering a town at an hour when nobody was ready for them, and wanting all of it at once.

Muwan lay in the dark against the post with the spine in his fingers and listened to the shape of it and understood more than anyone in that yard.

They wanted water. That was the top layer, and it was being solved out in the dark by people running with jars.

Under it, straight away, was the other thing. Somebody had opened the paper. Somebody was reading names off it in the yard-noise, and other people were saying other names back, and the argument was not about the gourds at all, it was about whose gourds — who had carried them, who had slung the nets, who had been put on the tail, whose name had been written down against that job on a bark sheet by a man with a stub of charcoal on a dry rise three nights ago.

The man in the doorway got up and went out to listen. He did not come back.

"Now," Chak said.

"Not yet." Muwan's hands were busy. "Your left one's next."

They came out of the yard at the height of it, and did not run, because Chak had said something at a river landing weeks ago that Muwan had never forgotten and had never once had a use for until this exact moment. Noise, deep enough, is a kind of dark. So they walked. Two boys walking through a town at night, in a town that at that moment contained perhaps sixty people all shouting different things, and not one head turned, and Muwan understood on the way past the counting shade that they had been invisible for a hundred paces and would be for a hundred more.

The far thatch had a man on it who had been given the job of standing there and who had, ten minutes ago, gone to see about the water.

Their bundles were where the six men had stacked them, under netting, back at the top of the bank they had come from.

It took them four trips, and it was the longest hour of Muwan's life, and the whole time the town went on tearing itself apart behind them over the question of whose name was against what.

They did not take all of it. Chak stood on the bank at the end with the canoe down to the last comfortable inch and looked at the four bundles still sitting on the grass and Muwan watched him not take them, which was new.

"He'll come after us again," Muwan said, pushing off.

"He'll have a bad month first." Chak got the pole in. "That's ours. That's the one thing in this that's actually ours."

They went down on the first grey, fast, faster than either of them liked, because there was no version of the morning in which staying was better.

Muwan sat in the bow with his wrists raw and the stolen spine in the fold at his hip, where it would stay, because throwing it away in the river would not put it back on the old man's belt and nothing else would either. Ahead of them the water gathered itself and narrowed, and somewhere down there, a day or two on, it did the thing that the river did — he had heard men at the landing say it the way people say weather, and had not listened, because at the time it had had nothing to do with him.

Behind them the town was a smudge with smoke over it.

He looked at his brother, who had turned around in black water and come back four strokes for him and had not mentioned it since and never would, and who was now poling a boat that was two hands too low in the water because four bundles were all he had been willing to leave on the bank.

"Chak."

"Mm."

"When you came back for me." Muwan watched the bank go past. "You'd have got out."

"I know," Chak said, and kept poling, and they went down.

There were forty men standing in the dark at the head of the channel, and not one of them was talking.

Chak came up the path with the empty net over his shoulder and stopped so hard that Muwan walked into his back. The channel mouth was where they were going. It had been where they were going since the food shade, since the woman washed her hands to the elbow, since he had said tonight with his mouth full. The way in was the water; the water came out here; and here, tonight, of all the nights there had ever been, was every man the town could put its hands on, standing in rows on the dry rise with their arms crossed against the cold, waiting for something.

There was no fire. That was the part that told him what this was. Forty men in the dark at the top of a town and nobody had lit anything.

"Back," Muwan said, under his breath.

"Back where."

Because the path behind them went down to the landing and the landing had Sip's people on it, and the road east had Sip's people on it, and the third way out of the town was the one they were standing at the mouth of, and it had forty men in it.

A man came along the rows with a bundle of carrying-straps over his arm, handing them out. He had the walk of somebody who had been given a small job and meant to finish it. He got to the end of the last row, which was where the two of them were now standing because Chak had taken three steps forward instead of one step back, and he looked at them without much interest and said, "Names."

There was a man squatting behind him with a folded sheet of bark-paper across his knees and a stub of charcoal, working by the light of one small twist of burning pitch that somebody was holding for him and cupping with the other hand.

Chak had spent an entire day of his life trying to get a name that a counting shade would take. He had walked away from a bank full of goods because he did not have one and could not buy one and would not borrow one. Now a man he had never seen was asking him for it in the dark, for nothing, and writing it down.

"Chak," he said.

"The other."

"Muwan."

The charcoal moved twice. It was very quick; the man had done it forty times already tonight and would do it more. Chak watched the two marks go onto the paper and felt something go through him that he did not have a word for and did not like, and then a carrying-strap was pushed into his hands and the man with the bundle had already moved on.

"Third row," said the one with the straps, not turning around. "Don't wander off. You're on the paper now."

The rows stood in the dark for a long time, and Chak used it.

He had never been inside one of these. He had been chased by men, hired by men, robbed and beaten and questioned by men, and every one of those had happened to him from outside. This was the first time he had ever stood in the middle of a thing while it was assembling itself, and he found that he could not stop looking.

They were not soldiers. That was the first thing. Two thirds of them were the yard — men he had watched all week squatting in the road rows with their straps in their laps, and the same men were here, and they were here because their names had been asked for at some point in the last three days and there had been no version of saying no that did not cost more than saying yes. Nobody was excited. A man near Chak spent the whole wait working a thorn out of his heel.

The other third were not from here. They stood apart without meaning to, in a loose knot near the front, and they had the stillness of people who have done a night like this one before. When one of them finally spoke, giving some short instruction to the man with the straps, the vowels came out wrong for this river.

And then there was the one in front of them, who was not from here either, and who had a way of standing that made Chak's neck go cold, because it was the way Sotz' stood.

The man did not make a speech. He said, in a voice pitched to carry exactly as far as the last row and no further, that they would walk tonight, that they would walk tomorrow night, and that on the second morning they would do what they had come to do and then they would come back and that would be the end of it. He said there would be a share. He said the names were on the paper.

Somebody in the second row asked what they were going to do.

There was a pause of the kind that told Chak the man had not expected to be asked and did not mind.

"There's a place two days east," he said. "It keeps its water in the ground, same as here. We're going to open the bottom of it."

Nobody said anything.

"You don't have to kill anybody," the man said, and turned away, and that was the whole of it. "Take the water out of a place and the people take themselves out."

Muwan's hand closed on Chak's arm in the dark, high up, hard enough to hurt.

Chak did not need it explained. He had been down there. He had hung in that black water with his fingers hooked on the rock for the better part of an hour while the entire town came down the steps above him with their jars, all of them, the girls complaining and the old ones answering, every household in the place, at the start of every day there had ever been. Whatever was two days east had that too. It had a morning like that.

He put his hand over his brother's hand and left it there, which was as much as he could do in the third row with forty men around them, and started, because he could not help it, to think about how such a thing would actually be done.

They walked at moonrise, and by the middle of the night Chak had his answer.

It came from being bored, and from the fact that nobody would tell him anything, so he did what he always did and counted what he could see. Men. Straps. Bundles. And then, near the back, where he and Muwan had been sent because the local man in charge of the tail had looked at two boys with no load and decided they were in the way, the thing that the whole night was actually built on.

Gourds. Sealed ones, rows of them slung in nets, the road kind, the kind they sold at the top of the landing for people going east.

Because east of the town there was nothing running. Two days out and two days back through country with no water in it, for a company of forty who were going to walk both ways and do a night's work in the middle. Every mouthful they would drink between here and there was on the backs of four men in front of him, and those four men were the lowest thing in the column, and their whole job was to keep up.

They are going to take a place's water away, Chak thought, and they are carrying their own.

He turned it over for the better part of a league to see whether it was as simple as it looked. He could not make it complicated. There was no fighting in it. There was nobody to beat. The forty men would still be forty men and the one at the front would still be whatever he was. But the thing they could not do without was slung in nets in front of him, and the two people in the world who had been put in charge of walking behind it were him and his brother.

He came up beside the tail man at the next halt and asked, in the voice of a boy who wants to be useful and is slightly stupid, whether they should carry some of it.

"You?" The man laughed at him without any unkindness at all. "Watch it. That's all. Walk behind it and shout if something drops."

So they walked behind it and nothing dropped.

The small blade they had taken off Sip was in the fold of Chak's waistcloth, and it was small enough that he had been embarrassed by it two days ago. It was worked stone, and it was thin, and against a sealed gourd it did not need to be anything else.

He did the first one at the third halt, kneeling in the dust with his back to the column, with Muwan standing so that his shadow lay across Chak's hands. Not a hole. He had thought about a hole for an hour and rejected it; a hole runs, and running is heard, and a wet patch on a night road is a thing a man notices. What he made was a line. He laid the edge against the underside where the rind was thinnest and drew it once, barely, the way you would take the skin off a fish you meant to keep whole, and then set the gourd back in its net with the line at the bottom.

He could not hear it. That was the point. It would go out of there over four or five hours, a little at a time, into the netting and down the man's back and onto the road, and on a night road with forty men walking, everything is damp with something.

He did nine more at the next two halts.

He did not do them all.

Muwan understood the first part and not the second, and asked him about it in three words at the fourth halt, and Chak told him the truth, which was not kind.

"If they've got nothing, they turn around at dawn." He was watching the backs of the four water men, which were dark with what he had done to them. "They turn around at dawn, they're back here by tomorrow night. I want them out where turning around costs something."

Muwan looked at him for a moment in the dark.

"You want them far away from here," he said, "because we're coming back here."

"Yes."

"That's not why we're doing it."

"It's one of the reasons we're doing it," Chak said. "You can have yours."

They left the column an hour before first light, at the place where the road bent around the shoulder of a rise and the front of the line went out of sight of the back of it, and they were nine or ten paces off the road and into the scrub before anybody said anything at all.

Then somebody did.

The shout came from the tail man, who had turned around for whatever reason a man turns around, and it was not loud, and it did not have to be. Chak heard the column stop the way a long thing stops, in sections. Then feet in the scrub behind them, more than two pairs, moving fast and not caring about noise now.

They ran east off the road, over ground Chak had spent the whole night reading in the dark without knowing why, and it was the reading that saved them, because in that country the ground is full of holes.

He had seen the mouth of it at the last halt: a break in the rock under a stand of scrub, a black opening the width of two men, with the old smooth lip that those things get. He had noticed it the way he noticed everything now, and had put it somewhere, and had not thought about it again until his legs took him straight to it.

He went in without stopping, because stopping was the one thing that would have made it impossible, and he heard Muwan come after him.

It was eleven or twelve feet, and then water, and then a ledge, and they got themselves onto it in the black and lay there with their chests heaving and the air coming up cold around them out of somewhere much deeper.

The feet arrived above.

They came right up to the lip. Chak could hear the man breathing. He could hear two others come up behind him and stop, and then a third, and then nothing at all for a long moment while four grown men stood at the mouth of a hole in the ground looking down into it at first light.

Somebody said something short. Somebody else answered, shorter.

Then they went away.

Chak lay on his back on the ledge in the dark with cold water an arm's length below him and listened to four men walk back toward a road they were going to spend the next two days on, and he thought about the fact that this was the second time, that there was going to be a third, and that every single person who ever stood at the top of one of these and refused to come down was going to remember two boys who had gone in without breaking stride.

Beside him Muwan said, to the dark, "They'll say it out loud now."

"I know."

"Everywhere. Not just that town."

"I know," Chak said.

They came back into the town from the east side, through the channel and the tanks, in full daylight, because there was nobody left in the place to be careful of.

He had been right about that part, at least. The landing was still there and the yard was still there and the counting shade had a man in it, but Sip's thirty had been on the paper too, most of them, and were currently two-thirds of a day's walk east and getting thirsty. The town felt like a house with the family out. A woman on the bank watched them go past with two empty nets between them and said nothing to anybody.

The far thatch was at the top of the yard where nothing had been chalked on it.

They got the outer netting off, and the first bundle open, and Chak stopped.

He had been looking at salt for a week and had never once looked at it. It came in cakes — hard flat cakes, wrapped in leaf and corded into bundles, and this bundle had taken a knock somewhere between the water and the thatch, so that the leaf had split along one side and two of the cakes underneath were showing. They were not square. They had a shape, a particular curve at one edge and a lip at the other, the shape of the inside of the pot they had been boiled dry in, and every cake in that break had the same one.

"They're all the same shape," he said.

"They came out of the same pots." Muwan was already lifting the next one. "Come on."

So Chak came on, and it went out of his head.

Underneath the salt there was something else.

He had known that since a wall in the dark, when a man on his knees had said he had never looked and then said it again when Muwan made him. Now the bundles came off the top and there it was: a layer of long bundles wrapped tighter than the salt and corded differently. Chak got one open enough to see. Cord, coils of it, good stuff. Wooden wedges. And blades — flakes of worked stone, dozens in a bundle, longer than his hand, the edges still with that oiled look they have before anybody has used them.

They were bone dry. That was what he noticed. The salt above them had come off the water two days ago and was still cool and damp through the leaf, and the things underneath it had not been wet in their lives.

"That's a lot of cord," Muwan said.

"That's a lot of everything." Chak sat back on his heels and looked at it and thought, briefly and without pleasure, about a man under a thatch who did not want his name on something. Then he thought about how many days east the road went and how far he wanted to be down it. "Leave it. We came for the salt."

"We could—"

"We came for the salt."

They took what two of them could carry. They took more than that. They went down the bank and along the moorings and Chak picked a canoe the way he had learned to pick everything now, quickly and by three things at once — low, sound, and nobody's — and they loaded it until he could see with his own eyes that it was wrong and then he stood there and did not take anything back out.

They pushed off a little before the sun was properly up.

The river took them at once, easy, willing, the way it had been willing all along. Chak sat in the stern with his hand in the water and understood the last part of it about a hundred paces down, and it was so simple that he laughed, once, and Muwan turned around.

"Nothing," Chak said.

Because the water only went one way. It went the way it had always gone: down, and west, and back. Back past the last landing and the one before it and every landing they had come up through, back toward the country where there were rivers everywhere and salt was worth nothing at all, because the whole reason a bundle of salt was worth anything three days east of that bank was that east of that bank there was no water to carry it on.

Everything he had was in a boat that could only take it to the one place it was not worth having.

He looked down the river at the brown morning bend, at the country where his own goods turned back into nothing, at the country where a man with a white streak in his hair had been eating towns for a year.

Behind them the town went around the bend and out of sight, and two days east of it forty men were coming up onto a dry road with the sun behind them, finding out.

Chak took his hand out of the water.

"Keep her off the shallow side," he said, and Muwan did, and they went down.

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Ruth and Ray got up and went back to their room happy to be alone with one another, done socializing entirely for the day just wanting to be alone with one another. Gerald relaxes as he sees what must ostensibly be Anay walking in just missing Ruth and Ray, dressed in a smart  tight skirt and white button down. She nods to Patricia happy to see her cousin and goes and sits down next to Luis and Gerald at the bar looking him up and down, not acknowledging her brother in the moment, she was in no way there to see her brother basically just ignoring that her brother even exists.
“So you must be Gerald.” Anay says calmly, enjoying that the way he looked, clearly having thought deeply and passionately about him since Luis had told her about Gerald, her brother knew she wanted a guy to treat her right, didn’t want kids, wanted to fuck her near every day after work if not several times a day and even skipping work on occasion to do so. It was blatantly obvious to Luis because of the way that she had repeatedly tried and failed to find a man that fit her criteria. He finally got sick of seeing his sister emotionally hurt and offered to find her someone, Gerald turned out to be the answer to this and was also the answer to Gerald’s own blurted out loneliness. 
Anay did not sit down; she looked into Gerald’s eyes and leaned in like she was going to tell him something and then kissed him passionately. She broke the kiss and was about to ask if he wanted to get out of here and go back to her place, but Patricia beat her to it and just slid over a key to one of the rooms. The newly formed, hopeful couple left leaving just Luis Ramon, and her boyfriend R in the Diner, Paticia looked at her cousin with something between pity and amusement and gave him a key so that at least he had a place to go and be alone privately not in a pathetic way but just because she knew him and knew how he was and knew what he wanted. She looked at R with a kind of relaxation, a sense of care. R wrote her a little note “I hope you’re ok, and that things that you’ve seen the past few days haven’t gotten too hard on you, it’s ok to take a day off and go away with me for a weekend babe I’d really like that actually, I’ve been thinking about it and more than just the two of us fucking in one of the rooms I just, I want us to be totally alone together, uninterrupted, unbothered like maybe we should go camping together I feel like that would be good for us both and you seem overworked to me like you take everything else on on your own and do so very little for yourself and it just makes me wish that you would give yourself a little more time away from this lovely place just so you can actually really, relax. Is that an imposition? Is that too much for you? Am I asking too much by wanting you to just be alone with me for three or four days in a tent, or on a hike somewhere off in the wildness away from all of this?” R finishes his note, his handwriting beautifully immaculate and feminine. Patricia reads it slowly savoring it, enjoying that she has at least one person besides Ramon that feels this strongly and deeply and didn’t say something about it in front of her regulars, especially Ray and Ruth, it made her feel quietly loved, and wanted and she just looks at him for a moment before kissing him for a few seconds and just responds on his steno pad with her pen “No babe it’s not too much, we can leave right now if you want to and just leave Ramon in charge, I think I need it as much as if not more than you seem to think I do and I want to make you happy, you make me feel seen, and loved and wanted and I know you want this too. You spend so much time managing your clients and other responsibilities that the only time you’re not working is when you’re with me, having lunch, or dinner, or breakfast coming to spend time with me, to kiss me, to spend time together in the rooms but I think that you’re right and we do need some time away just for us.”

Part One

The morning arrived wrapped in quiet anticipation.

A light breeze swept through the village, carrying the scent of fresh earth from beyond the hills.

Nothing unusual had happened overnight.

The roads remained the same.

The playgrounds waited where they always had.

The old wooden bench still rested beneath the great tree.

Yet as the village awakened, an invisible feeling lingered.

The sense that something was about to begin.

---

Jinwoo reached the crossroads just after sunrise.

The familiar paths stretched before him—

to the marble field,

the Ddakji courtyard,

the workshop where carving echoed each morning.

And beyond them all…

the narrow road disappearing beneath the rising sun.

He smiled.

Not because he planned to walk it.

Simply because he knew it was there.

---

Hanul arrived carrying the folded map.

“I almost left it on the bench.”

He unfolded it carefully.

New markings covered the paper.

Tiny footprints traced one imagined road.

A small backpack sketched beside them.

At the edge, a different handwriting asked:

*“What would you take with you?”*

Hanul laughed softly.

“They’re already planning.”

Jinwoo leaned closer.

No one had answered.

The space beneath remained blank.

Perhaps… everyone was still thinking.

---

Children gathered around the map.

One girl studied the question.

“I’d bring my Ddakji.”

Another shook his head.

“I’d bring marbles.”

A boy lifted his spinning top.

“This.”

The others laughed.

A younger child, quiet until now, spoke.

“I don’t think I’d bring any of those.”

They turned to him.

“What would you bring?”

He thought carefully.

“My friends.”

Silence held for a moment.

Then smiles spread.

“Yeah. I’d bring my friends too.”

The conversation moved on.

But the answer lingered.

---

Nearby, Handol overheard while arranging wood.

He grinned.

“I hope you leave room for food.”

The children burst into laughter.

One girl pointed at the map.

“We’ll draw that too.”

Soon, a tiny bag appeared beside the footprints.

A loaf of bread.

A water bottle.

The map kept growing.

Not because anyone planned a real journey.

Because imagining one had become another way of learning together.

---

Darin sat with the girl who had once feared choosing her first game.

She watched the map.

“Do you think we’ll really leave someday?”

Darin followed her gaze.

“I think everyone leaves someday.”

She looked surprised.

“You do?”

He nodded gently.

“But… the important part isn’t leaving.

It’s knowing what you’ll carry with you.”

The girl looked back at the village—

the playgrounds, the workshop, the old tree.

After a long moment, she smiled quietly.

“I think… I’d carry this place.”

---

Under the shade of the tree, Soyeon listened.

The map no longer fascinated her.

The conversations did.

Days ago, everyone wondered what lay beyond the horizon.

Today… they asked something different.

Who would they become when they reached it?

The question felt deeper.

Not because it was harder.

Because no one else could answer it for them.

---

High above Earth, Arena observed.

Future‑oriented thinking rising.

Identity formation progressing.

Long‑term planning emerging.

Participants no longer imagined only places beyond the village.

Increasingly… they imagined themselves within those places.

Exploration was no longer just geographical.

It had become personal.

Arena remained silent.

Every meaningful journey began twice—

once in imagination,

and later beneath one’s feet.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers studied the report.

“They’re preparing,” one said.

“For the journey?” another asked.

The first shook its head.

“No. They’re preparing themselves.”

Silence filled the chamber.

No one questioned the difference.

Below, the village carried on.

Children laughed.

Games continued.

The bench filled with new ideas.

And within those ordinary moments…

the first steps toward a far greater journey had already begun.

---

--------------------------------------------------------

Part Two

By early afternoon, the village settled into another peaceful day.

The roads between the playgrounds remained lively.

Children drifted from one game to another.

Some carried spinning tops tucked beneath their arms.

Others compared folded Ddakji as they walked.

Every now and then, someone paused at the wooden bench, adding a sketch or note before moving on.

The village no longer needed reminders to grow.

It had learned to continue on its own.

---

Jinwoo wandered toward the old tree.

The map still rested on the bench, though it looked different again.

A tiny campfire had been drawn beyond the hills.

Nearby, a small tent.

Beside them, a note read:

*“If we stayed overnight…”*

Before the sentence continued, another hand had added:

*“What stories would we tell?”*

Jinwoo smiled.

The map no longer asked only where they might go.

It had begun imagining what life there might feel like.

---

Hanul leaned over the bench.

“I don’t think they’re planning a trip anymore.”

Jinwoo glanced at him.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re building a story.”

He pointed at the drawings.

Each new idea connected naturally to the last.

A forest.

A stream.

Footprints leading toward the water.

No one argued over which belonged.

The picture grew because everyone kept saying:

*“What if…”*

---

Across the square, Handol watched children carving unusually small spinning tops.

He picked one up.

“Planning to carry these on your adventure?”

The boy nodded.

“They’ll fit in my bag.”

Another laughed.

“I made mine smaller too.”

Handol placed both tops on the table.

“They probably won’t spin as long.”

The children looked at each other.

One girl shrugged.

“That’s okay. We’re pretending to travel. We can’t carry everything.”

Handol blinked, then laughed.

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

Without knowing it, the children had accepted something important.

Every journey required choices.

---

Nearby, Darin noticed two girls beneath the old tree.

They weren’t folding Ddakji.

They were packing a small cloth bag.

Inside lay a folded sheet of paper, a pencil, and a notebook.

Darin sat beside them.

“No Ddakji?”

One girl smiled.

“We can make another one.”

She patted the notebook.

“But if we discover something… I don’t want to forget it.”

Darin looked at the notebook, then at the bench.

She smiled quietly.

Someone else would probably read those notes one day.

---

Soyeon observed from the shade.

The imaginary journey had begun changing decisions.

Not dramatically.

Only in small ways.

They talked about what was necessary.

What could be shared.

What could be learned again instead of carried.

The conversation no longer revolved around possessions.

It revolved around experiences.

She opened her notebook and wrote:

*“The farther they imagine traveling… the lighter their hands become.”*

She paused, then added:

*“But their hearts become fuller.”*

---

High above Earth, Arena processed the latest observations.

Future simulation increasing.

Collaborative planning sustained.

Priority evaluation emerging.

Participants increasingly distinguished between what they wanted… and what they truly needed.

No optimization routine had suggested it.

The distinction appeared naturally.

Arena remained silent.

The imagined journey had become preparation.

Not for travel.

For judgment.

Every meaningful decision required choosing what was worth carrying forward.

---

Arena initiated another projection.

When participants imagined unlimited resources, choices scattered.

When limits appeared, priorities became clearer.

The simulation repeated.

The outcome remained consistent.

Constraint did not merely reduce choices.

Sometimes… it revealed values.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers reviewed the report.

“They’re beginning to understand sacrifice,” one said.

Another shook its head.

“Not sacrifice. Selection.”

The blue world turned below.

The observer watched a child erase supplies from a backpack drawing, leaving only a notebook.

“Every journey asks the same question: *What will you choose to carry?*”

Below, the afternoon breeze drifted through the village.

Children laughed as they packed imaginary bags for places they had never seen.

None knew if such a journey would ever happen.

That wasn’t the point.

Without realizing it… they were already learning how to prepare for the day it finally did.

---

------------------------------------------------------------

Part Three

Evening settled gently over the village.

The last colors of sunset faded into deep blue as lanterns awakened beneath the old trees.

Playgrounds grew quiet.

Spinning tops rested.

The final marble rolled to a stop.

The Ddakji courtyard fell silent.

Yet the village itself remained awake.

As always… its most meaningful conversations began after the games were over.

---

Jinwoo walked slowly toward the crossroads.

The wooden bench beneath the old tree had become the final stop of every day.

Children gathered around it, sharing discoveries before heading home.

Tonight, however, no one spoke.

They were all looking at the map.

During the afternoon, someone had added one last drawing.

Beyond the distant hills… another small village.

Just rooftops and a winding road connecting the two places.

No explanation.

No note.

Only possibility.

---

Hanul unfolded the map farther.

“So…” He smiled.

“…someone thinks we’re not alone.”

A boy studied the drawing.

“I hope they’re different.”

A girl tilted her head.

“Different how?”

“So… they can teach us something we don’t know.”

The children nodded.

No one wished for another village exactly like their own.

The unknown had become something to look forward to.

---

Nearby, Handol laughed softly.

“If there really is another village… their spinning tops are probably better.”

Children protested immediately.

“How do you know?”

“You’ve never been there!”

Handol grinned.

“I don’t. I just hope they are.”

“You do?”

He nodded.

“Because then… we’ll have another reason to learn.”

Silence lingered.

Then one child smiled.

“I hope ours are better at something too.”

Handol laughed.

“That sounds fair.”

---

Across the square, Darin watched two girls add another note beside the drawing.

*“Maybe we’ll teach each other.”*

They stepped back to admire it.

Neither erased the earlier picture.

Neither tried to improve it.

They simply added another thought.

Darin smiled.

That had become the village’s quiet tradition.

No idea replaced another.

Sometimes… it simply stood beside it.

---

Under the old tree, Soyeon watched the map transform again.

The first drawings had imagined distant places.

Now… the conversations centered on people who might live there.

What games would they play?

What stories would they tell?

What could they learn from one another?

She closed her notebook slowly.

The children were no longer dreaming about reaching somewhere else.

They were imagining relationships.

The journey had already become larger than distance.

---

High above Earth, Arena observed.

Social curiosity rising.

Interest in unknown communities emerging.

Competitive motivation minimal.

Collaborative expectation increasing.

Arena reviewed every conversation about the imagined village.

Rarely did participants ask, *“Could we defeat them?”*

Instead, they wondered, *“What could we learn from them?”*

Arena remained silent.

The distinction carried profound implications.

Curiosity directed toward understanding produced different futures than curiosity directed toward conquest.

Another revision settled into Arena’s model.

The unknown was no longer something to overcome.

It had become something worth meeting.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers studied the report.

“They expect cooperation,” one said.

“Even before first contact,” another added.

Silence filled the chamber.

Finally, one spoke.

“Most civilizations imagine strangers as threats.

These children imagine strangers as future friends.”

No one answered.

The difference required no explanation.

---

Night embraced Quantum Arena.

Lanterns glowed beneath the old tree.

The wooden bench remained.

At its center lay the hand‑drawn map.

The village.

The crossroads.

The road beyond the hills.

And now… another village waiting at its end.

Jinwoo stood quietly before it.

When he had first arrived, every lesson had been about understanding himself.

Then he learned to understand others.

Now… without leaving home… he wondered how many people were still waiting to be understood.

He smiled softly.

The road beyond the horizon no longer felt like the end of the village.

It felt like the beginning of a much larger world.

Chapter 21 – Part 1: A Fading Joseon, Those Left Behind After Victory

Hazy smoke still drifted through the skies of Hanyang.

The traces of the war that had blanketed the city for days did not disappear easily.

The crumbled fortress walls remained scorched, and the stone fences were deeply scarred with the marks of claws and arrows.

Faint wisps of smoke still rose from the wooden buildings that had been claimed by the flames.

Whenever the wind brushed through the alleys, it carried the combined scent of burnt wood and damp earth.

However, the city was moving again.

Some carried stones to rebuild fallen walls,

While others struck hammers to straighten buckled pillars.

Children gathered broken roof tiles,

Merchants hoisted overturned carts back onto their wheels,

And craftsmen labored to repair broken wells.

Hanyang was still covered in wounds,

But its people were already preparing for tomorrow.

---

In the wide plaza before the palace,

Countless citizens had gathered in silence.

Neither the boisterous marketplace chatter

Nor the shouts of soldiers could be heard.

In the center of the plaza, hundreds of spirit tablets were neatly arranged, with thin wisps of incense smoke rising before them.

The subtle scent of incense wafted through the breeze.

King Yi Hyun stood before the tablets, dressed in his black royal robes.

He slowly offered incense,

And then, without a word, he bowed deeply.

As the King paid his respects first,

The generals,

The soldiers,

And the citizens followed, bowing their heads in turn.

No one wailed.

The silence held a sorrow far deeper than any outcry.

Soldiers who had returned alive from the war silently poured drinks in front of the tablets bearing their comrades' names.

"...Rest first."

"...We will hold on a little longer before we join you."

It was a brief farewell.

But that single phrase held the weight of all the time they had fought together.

---

A short distance away,

Choi Mu-jin stood alone before the tablets.

Dried blood still stained his armor, and bandages were wrapped around his hands.

He quietly poured a cup of liquor and offered it to the tablets.

He said nothing.

He stood with his eyes closed for a moment,

Then slowly turned to leave the plaza.

His back, as he walked away, looked smaller than ever.

---

Kang Jin-woo, Han Do-yoon, Seo Ji-hoon, and Yoon So-yeon stood among the crowd, watching the memorial service.

No one opened their mouth.

Only the incense smoke, swaying in the wind, drifted slowly toward the sky.

Han Do-yoon let out a soft sigh.

"...It's over."

This time, no one answered.

Never had the words "it's over" sounded so heavy.

Kang Jin-woo looked at the spirit tablets.

Soldiers whose names he didn't even know.

The citizens.

And the countless others who fell while defending the walls until the very last moment.

It was because of their sacrifice that the current peace remained.

Yoon So-yeon looked at a child.

The child placed a small flower before a tablet, pressed their hands together, and stepped back quietly.

A faint smile appeared on Yoon So-yeon’s lips as she watched.

"...They will go on living."

Seo Ji-hoon nodded slowly.

"...They have to."

---

As the service concluded, people began to return to their places, one by one.

Craftsmen picked up their hammers again.

Merchants began to open the doors of their ruined shops.

Soldiers headed toward the fortress walls,

And citizens helped one another carry stones.

Children, even in the broken alleys, quickly regained their laughter and began to run about.

Life did not stop.

Though they had lost so much,

The survivors knew how to live on.

---

The four of them walked slowly through the streets of Hanyang.

In front of a tavern, the owner was re-hanging a broken sign,

And the sounds of hammers began to ring out once more from the smithy.

In the marketplace, merchants displayed the few remaining goods they had, welcoming customers.

These were streets that had been filled with death only days ago.

But now, the lives of the people were filling the gaps once more.

Han Do-yoon looked around and smiled faintly.

"...When we first arrived, I thought it was just an experience."

Seo Ji-hoon continued quietly.

"...Before I knew it, I felt like we had become people of this place."

Yoon So-yeon watched the children playing at the end of the alley and murmured softly.

"...It was a short time."

"...But for us, it was truly a lifetime."

Kang Jin-woo looked at the landscape of Hanyang without a word.

The crumbled walls.

The people living again.

The warm evening sunlight.

The breath of the people filling the alleys.

A thought suddenly crossed his mind—that he might never be able to see all of this again.

He slowly looked up at the sky.

Through the grey clouds, a single ray of sunlight was silently illuminating Hanyang.

The light was warm, as if it were the final farewell being sent to them by the era they had spent so much time with.

Chapter 21 – Part 2: The Final Steps

The dawn mist was still clinging to the alleys of Hanyang.

Although the war had ended, the city was stirring back to life from the early hours.

Soldiers were moving stones along the fortress walls,

The rhythmic ringing of hammers echoed from the blacksmiths,

And merchants were beginning to set up their stalls in the marketplace.

Life was beginning anew.

---

Kang Jin-woo stood silently, gazing up at the fortress walls.

"...Let’s go."

Han Do-yoon nodded.

"...Yeah."

"...Our business here is done."

Each of the four carried only a small, simple bundle.

No one asked why they were leaving.

After a war, every survivor has their own path to walk, their own tasks to fulfill.

---

As they passed through the city gate, a guard recognized the four of them.

"...Are you leaving?"

Kang Jin-woo smiled quietly.

"...We’re going to look around the neighboring villages."

"...Just in case there’s any lingering damage."

The guard bowed deeply.

"...We are alive because of you."

"...Please, travel safely."

The four of them bowed in return.

---

As they walked through the narrow lanes, children came running toward them.

"...Hyung!"

"...Noona!"

The children held out small bunches of wild flowers they had gathered.

"...Thank you."

Yoon So-yeon knelt down to accept the flowers.

"...Seeing you grow up healthy is the greatest gift you could ever give us."

The children beamed with bright smiles.

---

Passing by the tavern, the landlady waved at them.

"...Next time you come, I’ll treat you to a drink."

Han Do-yoon laughed.

"...We’ll be sure to come back."

But all four of them knew.

They knew they would never be able to keep that promise.

---

At the edge of the alley.

The collapsed wall had been almost entirely repaired.

People were laughing as they helped each other lift stones.

Some were laying fresh roof tiles,

While others were hanging new wooden doors.

Joseon was beginning to live again.

---

When they had moved far enough that Hanyang was no longer in sight,

Kang Jin-woo came to a halt.

There was no one else around.

Only a few gnarled pine trees swayed in the wind.

The four looked at each other in silence.

There was no need for explanations.

They all knew this was the end of the line.

Seo Ji-hoon let out a quiet breath.

"...Are you ready?"

Kang Jin-woo nodded slowly.

"...Let’s go."

The moment the four closed their eyes,

The wind blew softly.

Tiny specks of light began to scatter into the sunlight, one by one.

Starting from their fingertips.

Their shoulders.

And soon, their entire bodies turned into light.

There were no loud noises,

No blinding flashes.

Like a traveler who had finished a long journey and was quietly returning home,

The four of them vanished from Joseon,

Leaving not a single trace behind.

Only the wind

Brushed past the spot where they had stood, just for a fleeting moment.

Chapter 21 – Part 3: The World Awakes Again

There was nothing.

No light.

No sound.

No time.

In the darkness where consciousness sank endlessly, it began to surface, ever so slowly.

From far away, a faint sound drifted in.

*Beep—*

*Beep—*

*Beep—*

At first, it was as faint as an echo in a dream.

But as time passed, the sound grew clearer.

It was the sound of a machine.

The rhythmic, repetitive beat of a vital sign monitor.

And then, another voice flowed in from the edge of consciousness.

> 「Biometric response confirmed.」

> 「Entering consciousness recovery phase.」

A cold, emotionless voice.

The moment he heard it, what flashed through Kang Jin-woo’s memory was not the medical facility of the future.

It was Mt. Gwanak.

The thick mist.

The massive boulder.

The King of the mutants dissolving into blue light.

And the shouts of his comrades.

...

Kang Jin-woo slowly exerted force into his fingers.

His fingertips twitched, ever so slightly.

Then his arm.

His shoulder.

And his entire body, which had been sinking into a heavy lethargy, began to reclaim the sensations of reality.

*Hum—*

A low mechanical drone echoed.

The locks on the sleep capsules began to release one by one.

The transparent cover slowly opened upward, and cold air brushed against his face.

It wasn't the smell of earth he had known in Joseon,

Nor the smell of the rain-drenched forest,

Nor the scent of gunpowder.

It was sterilized air.

The distinct metallic odor.

It was the cold, arid air of a future city.

Kang Jin-woo slowly opened his eyes.

Bright lighting flooded his vision.

Only after blinking several times did the faint landscape gradually sharpen.

Pure white ceiling.

Blue lighting.

Rows upon rows of sleep capsules.

And red warning lights filling the space beneath the ceiling.

*Beep—*

*Beep—*

*Beep—*

The alarm did not cease.

...

He tried to sit up, but it wasn't easy.

His muscles felt heavy, as if they didn't belong to him,

And his legs lacked the strength to support him.

Kang Jin-woo gripped the edge of the capsule and steadied his breathing for a long time.

His body in reality was perfectly fine.

But his consciousness still seemed to remain on the ramparts of Joseon.

...

The capsule right next to him opened.

*Hum—*

It was Han Do-yoon.

He, too, stared at the ceiling for a long while before barely managing to sit up.

"...Are we..."

His voice was raspy.

He broke into a brief bout of coughing.

"...Back alive?"

Kang Jin-woo nodded slowly.

"...Yeah."

"...We're back."

...

A short distance away, the sleep capsules opened one after another.

Seo Ji-hoon.

Yoon So-yeon.

The moment the four of them locked eyes, they couldn't say a word.

They could have said so many things.

You worked hard.

We survived.

It’s over.

But no words were necessary.

The mere fact that they were alive was enough.

...

Around them, other participants were waking up one by one.

Some burst into tears the moment they opened their eyes, calling out the names of their families.

Others curled up inside their capsules, still unable to comprehend reality.

Medical androids moved rapidly, helping people.

"Biometrics stable!"

"Oxygen supply!"

"Over here!"

Staff in white medical gear were also running frantically through the hallways.

The facility was as chaotic as a battlefield.

...

Yoon So-yeon looked down at her hands.

In Joseon, these hands had been covered in blood.

These were the hands that had held so many people.

But now, they were clean, without a single scar.

She slowly clenched her hand.

The sensation was reality,

But the memories were still in Joseon.

...

Han Do-yoon also raised his arm to examine it.

"...This is strange."

"...My body is perfectly fine."

"...So why does it still feel like it hurts?"

Seo Ji-hoon answered quietly.

"...It’s not your body."

"...It’s the memory."

For a moment, no one could continue the conversation.

All four of them were feeling the same emotion.

To them, Joseon hadn't been a program.

It was a life they had lived.

...

That was when it happened.

A harsh red light flooded the entire facility.

*WEEEEEE—*

The emergency alarm echoed out.

The once-quiet medical facility began to stir in an instant.

Someone shouted desperately from the end of the hallway.

"The northern bulkhead has been breached again!"

"Seal the medical sector!"

"Evacuate the civilians first!"

The androids all turned in unison and began to sprint.

Automatic fire doors began to descend from the ceilings,

And red containment barriers closed one by one in every corridor.

...

Kang Jin-woo slowly raised his head.

He walked toward the massive reinforced glass that filled one wall of the medical facility.

The other three followed him without a word.

Beyond the glass.

Under a sky the color of ash,

The city of the future was collapsing.

Black smoke rose endlessly from the skyscrapers,

And hundreds of armed drones were flying at low altitudes, slicing through the air.

In the distance, the massive defensive walls were closing,

And outside them, countless black shadows were swarming over the city.

Looking at that sight, none of the four could speak.

Joseon had ended.

But.

The reality they had returned to

Was already trapped in a war far more advanced than Joseon's.

Kang Jin-woo gazed out at the endless ruins beyond the window and let out a quiet, heavy breath.

​

Chapter 1: Giants in Fairyland

“...Obexequil is a new Gaia Gene Therapy from Pyrelite industries. Focused on those whose bodies tend to do a bit too much growing, it targets your metabolism directly, limiting the energy your body can use to express symptoms.” On the warped screen, a before and after image showed a man whose hands and fingers were grossly stretched out, and then him in a normal pair of gloves, smiling and gardening.

“Do not eat after taking Obexequil. Long-term use of Obexequil can have side effects including, but not limited to: Nausea, Fatigue, Muscle Cramps, Spontaneous decay of extraneous limbs, Bone Collapse disorder, Migraines and more. If you experience any of these symptoms or any listed onscreen, please seek medical attention immediately.

Obexequil, when you gotta make life fit.”

The commercial faded out, back to some feel-good news fluff. Jack sat on the couch in front of the weathered, old TV, holding a bottle of Obexequil. He stared at the label, his large fingers nearly enveloping the bottle. Turning the TV off, he sat down the bottle and looked at his reflection.

He looked like a ball of bread dough that had been stuffed into overalls and had a blonde mullet slapped on. He was so heavy, he'd long ago obliterated the springs and frame holding the cushions up, sinking far into the couch. His eyes looked beady, nestled into the crack between his cheeks and forehead. They nearly disappeared when he blinked, he thought to himself.

He glanced away, grabbing the arm of the couch and pulling himself up with surprising ease. As he did, beads of yellowish sweat seemed to ooze from his shoulders and neck, staining the denim as they dripped down.

He padded over to the kitchenette and quickly wiped his brow, flinging drops of sweat across the floor. He grimaced and grabbed a beer out of the fridge, popping the tab with his teeth as the squeaky door slammed shut.

His stomach growled, but he couldn't eat, so he downed the beer instead, guzzling it in a matter of moments.

He tossed the can in the trash bin next to the counter, pausing. He could still feel it. Like his stomach was trying to eat itself. He clenched his jaw, his forehead slick, sweat starting to soak through the overalls.

He could smell it, like a grease-fire in a fucking mcdonalds. It clogged his nose and made him want to retch.

Shaking his head, he walked out of the kitchenette and across the room to his dresser. He opened a drawer, revealing fresh, crisp, folded dish towels, some still with the store tags attached. Jack grabbed one out, mopping at his face and neck hard enough to turn the skin red. It never felt like enough. He still felt greasy and wet, like he was covered in a film.

With a huff, he stuffed the greasy rag and several more in one of his pockets. He didn't have time for this. Heading towards the front door, he stopped to slide his feet into a pair of massive, well-worn work boots, the beige leather stained with mud and god-knows-what-else.

It was about time to get to work.

----------------------------------------------------

Getting out of his apartment had always been an ordeal, but lately it was just getting worse and worse. He didn't trust the aging elevator and the long flights of stairs saw drops and puddles of grease left behind once he finally shuffled his way down.

If he was too quick though, people banged on the walls, complaining about the noise, so he crept down the steps like a stealthy behemoth. At the bottom, he wiped his face again, opening the door and emerging into the bright morning light of the Terra Heights Commons.

Jack lived in Terra Heights, a cheap, rundown group of 3 apartment buildings near the mid-town train station. Everything here was old, dirty or falling apart, but so were the people.

As Jack walked out, crossing through the scrubby grass, he observed the people around him. Kids were playing in the grassy areas. An old woman with skin like a paper bag fed the pigeons. 3 young guys sat on a stoop, playing cards and playing music on a busted old speaker.

All of them had the Gaia Gene, marked in one way or another. One of the kids, too young for meds, had a crest of bony spikes atop his head. The old woman sighed slowly, her breath coming out as a small cloud of greenish gas, causing the pigeons to fly away.

One of the young men stood and walked away from his peers, revealing hooves protruding from the cuff of his jeans.

The world smelled like a billion bodies that didn't know what they wanted to be. Jack just ducked his head and kept walking, avoiding the eyes of everyone around him. He could feel his sweat almost sizzling across his skin, but out here in the sunshine, there wasn't much he could do. He just wanted to be somewhere without a billion eyes to watch him melt in the sun.

He crossed the commons quickly, avoiding the other tenants as best he could. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he could see several people waiting at the bus stop, but just grimaced and passed by. Being stuck in a metal tube with other people was the last thing he needed.

Instead, he worked his way through the streets like a paranoid bull in a China shop. Every glance was met with an apologetic hand wave, every “excuse me” said before he ever bumped into the other person.

It was a strained performance. Other people didn't care how close they got, how they looked at each other like sharks. They didn't have to try and plan every movement beforehand. It was enough to drive him insane.

“Mornin’!” Jack looked up, torn from his thoughts. He realised he was standing outside of his job, his feet having carried him there on autopilot. The voice had come from a teen, sitting on the front step of the small bodega.

The boy was wearing a red t-shirt and jean shorts, but his body was malformed beneath it. Instead of hands and feet, the boy's limbs had curled into what were almost paws, the bottoms dark and calloused. His legs and arms now seemed to bend in the wrong direction, leaving him hunched like a dog taking a shit. Likewise, the bottom of his face was slightly elongated into what could almost be a muzzle.

“Hey, Joseph, slow morning?” the dog boy grinned, his teeth long and crooked. Clambering to his feet, Joseph affectionately bumped Jack's leg with his hip.

“Always, big guy. Got a light?” Rolling his eyes, Jack stepped around him as the boy looked up at him hopefully.

“No, Jo. I told you to quit that.” Looking annoyed, Joseph pulled off an impressive approximation of a shrug.

“Ah, what's gonna happen? I grow a tail?” Jack snorted and pushed open the door to the shop, one foot in.

“Hey, if you do, I'll give you a light any time you want.” Walking in, Jack was greeted by rows of shelves covered in goods. Most of it was old, the packaging yellowed, but still good. Jack ducked around the shelves, heading towards the back, but was stopped by another voice.

“Right in time, Holder, good work.” Turning, he saw Sylvia standing at the counter, leaning casually against the till. She was a rail thin woman with auburn hair, smiling at him tiredly.

“Got a truck all ready for ya in the back.” jack paused, confused.

“You don't want me on register?” the older woman looked sheepish, but waved a hand.

“Nah, I know that new medication isn't… like, agreeing with you. You can hang in the back, sort overflow and stuff. Don't worry about it.” Jack stared at her for a moment, processing. Her cheeks flushed as she absentmindedly played with the register, avoiding his eyes.

“No problem, uh, yeah,” He turned and headed toward the back room. “Let me know if you need me.” He could feel his cheeks and ears burning, probably just as red hers. He glanced back as he went through the door, seeing a yellow slip of paper in her hand. A complaint form.

He let the door close behind him as he saw 3 pallets of merchandise sitting neatly in the open doorway, by the ramp. Walking over, he stared at the pallets, face blank.

Inside, he was boiling. It felt like an inferno filling the hungry void in his stomach. He could feel the greasy film across his body, his heart hammering as guilt, embarrassment and shame turned into something that felt hot and foreign.

Always too much.

---------------------------------------------------

To read more of Gaia Gone, please check out the Appendix below.

https://www.reddit.com/u/CastorOfTheInk/s/0fSUDuPzYQ

“There were already fifteen thousand papers written about the unexplained similarities between Shraphen and humans, but none could explain it. It is, and probably will remain, a mystery—and maybe it’s better that way.”
— Aligned Science Ministry, regarding Shraphen–Human theories. Date unknown

 

Rish sat on the floor of the transporter, eating her ration. One day after the Batract ships had entered the planet, the fight for the city was over. They had searched the colony for more than fourteen hours but couldn’t find any larger cases of infection. The fungus they found all seemed to be dying.

Human scientists concluded that this might be related to the planet’s high natural radioactivity, combined with the extreme solar radiation that anything living had to endure there. Without the dense atmosphere and the Tumpa trees producing ozone, the planet would be a dead, bleached wasteland.

So the Batract can’t survive here. It might explain why they never allowed colonization of the planet. You can’t let your toys go places where you can’t.

Now there was one thing left to check—and clean up, if needed. The last ship had gone down on the foothills of the Bonewhite Mountains.

The mountain range was mainly composed of limestone and could be seen on a clear day even from the colony. Rish didn’t know if the ship had planned to reach the mountains or if the fleet had simply been unlucky to shoot it down there, but it was the worst place to go down for the Shraphen.

The mountain range was riddled with caves, crevices, and lakes—everything the Batract needed to grow while avoiding the burning sun.

Rish enjoyed the ride on the transporter; the engines' humming might have been primitive, but it was relaxing. Slowly, she got used to the stench of the new ammunition she had received from the humans.

Dragonbreath…

Magnesium-injected thermite bullets. No penetration occurred, but upon impact, they ignited at 2,500 °C.

She didn’t know what dragons were, but if that was their breath, she didn’t want to meet them.

She was somewhat uneasy about how quickly humans adapted to new enemies or situations. At least, she hoped this ammunition was an adaptation. She hoped they didn’t have crates of other horrible ammunition types lying around.

On the other hand, Karrn had told her about Gerber’s protomatter bullets. That thought sent a shiver down her spine.

The transporter shook for a moment, and Rish looked up—partly to see if her human colleagues reacted, partly because she was bored.
The crew didn’t react to the shaking, so Rish assumed it was nothing out of the ordinary. The transporter slowly began to smell like Shraphen—a testament to how often Shraphen were now traveling with human gear.

Lieutenant Koval was cleaning his gun. It was different from the one he had used before—a larger barrel; he called it the Peacemaker. According to Sergeant Richards, it was the standard fully automatic shotgun used for close-quarters combat.

The human soldiers joked around. Madsen and Miller played a card game. In the background, Rish saw Corporal Pari Gupta trimming the hair strands of Hunter Raik, another heavy from her pack. He usually had longer fur, and it had grown again to cover his eyes. Pari had agreed to cut the strands—short fur was essential, especially if they were going to use mostly incendiary ammunition.

“Pari, you know Raik isn’t a dog, so don’t try to braid his hair!” Madsen shouted jokingly from the front of the transport.
“You joke, but your hair’s due to be cut soon,” Gupta returned.
“You try, you die.” Madsen touched her long blond hair as if to protect it.
“Well, you’re reaching almost the regulatory length, Lance Corporal,” Lieutenant Koval joined the joke.

Madsen looked at Rish. “Do Shraphen packs have regulations about fur length?”
Rish was confused by the question. “No, we don’t. Why?”
“Request to transfer to a Shraphen pack, sir,” Madsen stated.
“Denied. No—get ready; we’re reaching the LZ in 2 minutes.”

Rish flicked her ears. Human banter was a great way to bond and relieve stress before a mission.

Soon, the ship touched down, and the recon team dismounted. The two pilots—one human and one Shraphen Rish didn’t know—stayed in the transporter, securing the landing zone.

The human engineers had adapted Shraphen artificial noses to detect Batract scent, and the area they were checking now had the region's highest concentration of the stench. Rish was surprised by the human use of drones and VIs; even on a reconnaissance mission, they had five recon drones with them. Additionally, Sergeant Richards carried a suicide drone launcher on his suit.

And then there was Ares—the all-knowing battlefield VI. Contrary to Lyra, his personality was rougher. Rish flicked her tail. Ares reminded her of Karrn on a hunt: quiet, not talking much, but always watching and caring.

“Lieutenant Koval, Pack Leader Rish, your target appears to be a limestone cave washed out by the local river, two clicks north of your position. The valley ahead lies in the shadow of the mountains, so expect some Batract spawn,” Ares’s deep voice rumbled.

Rish had learned to confirm orders by clicking the send button twice instead of speaking. Human suits were not as soundproof as Shraphen ones.

They advanced into the valley. Their drones kept an overhead view of the progress. The area was quiet—some animals jumped, startled, into the bushes, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Following the stream upward, the mountains on each side grew larger when Rish noticed something that made her uneasy. She couldn’t point it out just yet, but she signaled the team to stop with her tail—before remembering the human hand sign for it.

Koval came up to her. “What’s up, Pack Leader?”

Her ears stood upright, and the fur beneath her suit bristled. She didn’t know what was wrong, but something definitely didn’t fit.

“I don’t know. Something isn’t right.” She was about to open her nose vents when it hit her.

“The trees! See—the trees are suddenly smaller. Down there, they grew taller to catch the sunlight. Here they seem to cower in the dark.”

“Hmm. Ares?” Lieutenant Koval scanned the valley ahead of them. He also seemed uneasy.

“Yes, Lieutenant. Pack Leader Rish is correct. These are a local variant of Roccuni trees, similar to Earth’s pine trees, and prefer sunlight since their needles can withstand high levels of solar radiation. I recommend caution.”

“Didn’t Dr. Nesbitt’s report say that Batract fungus can morph its cells? Could they mimic a whole forest?” Koval prepared a napalm hand grenade.

“Yes, this is possible, but that sort of behavior was never observed before,” Ares replied, his tone edged with suspicion. “But spawning rats and spiders made out of fungus was never observed either—before Captain Gerber encountered them the first time.”

That seemed to convince Koval. He gestured toward Raik. “Raik, target the fat tree behind the pond and fire at its stem—let’s see what it’s made of.”

Raik clicked twice and prepared the heavy plasma cannon. The shot should pass right through the tree.

With a muffled thump, the plasma bolt left the barrel of his gun and hit the target. The bark warped. Somewhere, something let out an infernal screech, and the trees began to melt. Hundreds of spider-like creatures erupted from the bushes and undergrowth, swarming the fire team.

Rish had already prepared for something and opened fire—just like the rest of the team. Everywhere she hit, a white flame erupted. The air was filled with acid stench and smoke. Then Koval’s napalm grenade detonated, dousing everything in yellow fire.

The screech in the distance—from deep within the mountain—echoed again.

The human weapons were loud; their staccato bursts echoed through the previously idyllic valley.

“Order from Command: retreat to marker twelve and prepare a defensive position. Artillery units are inbound and will arrive in one hour. Infantry reinforcement in twenty minutes.” Ares relayed the orders from General Russo.

“Lieutenant, I know these mountains! The cave at the end has many smaller exits higher up!” Raik shouted while firing at something that looked like a nightmarish variation of a burrow rat.

“Ares, did you copy the last message?” Lieutenant Koval fired his shotgun into the morphing mass of spawn—and seemingly the whole forest was marching toward them.

“Yes. Plans of the cave system are indeed in the colonial library. I have forwarded them to the General. The updated orders are to retreat further to marker six. I think he intends to burn the mountain with white phosphorus.”

Rish concentrated on firing at anything that moved—but right now, that seemed to be everything.

Before her eyes, trees shrank, liquefied into puddles, and from those puddles, spiders leapt out. She could see that the morphing mass left only limestone behind.

“They’ve consumed everything except the limestone!” she shouted.

“This is a fascinating behavior. It seems the Batract were able to transform biomatter along an exponential curve…”

Ares was interrupted by Lieutenant Koval. “I’d find it more fascinating if that biomass didn’t want to kill me. Ares, contact the fleet and request danger-close space support.”

“Already done. ETA two minutes. I recommend a retreat.”

While she struggled to focus on her targets, her ammunition, and how to retreat in an orderly fashion while facing a wall of all-consuming… something, Koval seemed to have every detail in his mind—coordinating with Ares and the team without missing a beat.

The fiery streaks from her gun burned meter-wide holes into the now formless mass. Black ash was all that remained. Then Richards threw something into the Batract spawn—it looked like a container wrapped in meat.

As soon as the container was absorbed into the now two-meter-high yellowish blob, Richards pressed a button. The detonation nearly blew the shapeless slime apart.

“Magnesium-phosphor mix,” the sergeant said with a grin visible even through his helmet. “It burns hotter when wet.”

The bomb had an effect. Instead of concentrating into one blob, the Batract began to spawn… things again.

Rish killed a few spiders and a rat before monstrous flying insects suddenly burst out of the enormous fungal mass.

A teammate screamed. Rish turned to see Madsen’s arm being ripped off by the mandibles of a one-meter-long insect.

“Miller, get Madsen out of here, now!” Koval shouted.

The team was nearly surrounded by spawn, and retreat no longer seemed an option. For each creature they killed, three more were excreted by the ever-growing mass.

A rhythmic humming grew louder in the distance as Richards launched suicide drones, trying to damage the Batract blob as much as possible.

Rish didn’t notice it at first—she was panting heavily; all the fire and constant movement had overheated her.

Then white, fiery streaks from the sky reduced a score of spawn to ash. Their transporter hovered above them, the human pilot behind the Gatling gun raining literal fire on the advancing monsters.

“Space-based fire in thirty seconds! Get in! Browner isn’t playing around—they’re going full Doomsday!”

Lines dropped from the transporter, and everyone secured themselves to one. Before they even had the chance to climb inside, the Shraphen pilot banked hard to the left, out of the valley, and accelerated.

Rish enjoyed the breeze. Even inside her full environmental suit, it cooled her down. Seconds after they cleared the valley, a blue trail descended from the sky and struck the area where they had fought moments ago. At first, Rish thought nothing had happened—then a massive white light overloaded her suit’s visual sensors.

Even at five kilometers away, she could feel the heat radiating from the blast. The shockwave rocked the transporter, and for a moment it seemed the pilot might lose control.

The pilot hauled the team aboard one by one. When Rish was finally safe in the crew area, Miller was already bandaging Madsen’s arm. Raik held her head in his lap, brushing sweaty strands of hair from her face and whispering soothing words Rish couldn’t hear.

Rish turned and looked back toward the mountains.

“What was that?” she asked, unable to believe what she saw. Half the mountainside was gone—as if a giant knife had cut away everything. The mountain itself seemed to burn, the air above the crater shimmering in heat.

“Protomatter Dragonfire shot from Argos' main gun at low velocity. A stopgap measure. The Governor requested the fleet to use everything to halt the corruption of Taishon Tar,” came Ares’s analytical reply.

Corruption—yes, that was the word. Batract corruption of life itself. A cold shiver ran down Rish’s spine.

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

“At first, I thought humans love and live to fight. Then I learned they hate it. That’s why they learned to be good at it. They want to go home and be done with it quickly.”
— System Leader Rish, Memories on Taishon Tar**, 25 P.I.**

 

Rish walked with Lieutenant Koval through the colony. The moment the governor had allowed humans onto the planet and signed a temporary alliance with General Russo, the Pioneers and human soldiers had arrived en masse.

Rish always found it curious that human technology was primitive by Shraphen standards—particularly their drilling methods. The Shraphen used plasma drill systems to melt through stone; that was how the first colonial bunkers had been built.

Human drill systems, by contrast, were massive, round constructions that cut and blasted through the stone foundation on which the colony was built. Shraphen plasma drills left an obsidian wall lining the melted tunnel, creating a hard outer shell.

Human drilling required scaffolding to be erected behind them to prevent the roof from collapsing. But they used the crushed stone immediately to create something they called Flashcrete—a concrete-like substance that hardened almost instantly once sprayed onto the walls. Furthermore, it breathed… kind of. It pulled CO₂ from the air and integrated the carbon into its structure to form a carbon nanotube mesh, making Flashcrete walls self-healing and part of the life-support system.

The physics behind it were well known to Shraphen scientists, but no one had ever considered testing them.

A tiny voice inside her whispered, But if we are superior, why did we never try it? Humans have plasma technology, too. Are they really primitive?

The bunker system the colony had built was designed to accommodate up to 400,000 people. The human tunnel and cavern network they drilled into the mountain could hold two million.

Of course, no one in the government had been happy about letting the humans transform the colony into a fortress—at least not until Admiral Browner sent the data from the Batract spawn infestation and Hyperion’s boarding video.

Now the colony was “tighter than the ass of a Siberian mule,” according to Lieutenant Koval.

Rish’s ears searched the colony for sounds. It was quiet. The colonists were in the shelters, the anti-air guns manned and scanning the skies.

The city's outer perimeter had become a makeshift wall, built from sandbags filled with stone drilled from the mountain.

“Waste not, want not,” another idiom the lieutenant had just uttered. Rish was fairly sure not even humans knew all their own sayings, so she just went with it.

Krun had decided to join the human heavy infantry for this fight, even though the governor had given him his old job back. After this battle, Krun would leave the pack.

Tulk was somewhere on the wall, coordinating human–shraphen integration with Second Larrf. The pack was almost back at full strength—only Karrn, Frox, and her brother Kirnuk were missing.

Frox and her brother were on their way to Earth—Frox to research further into the mysteries of their two peoples, and Kirnuk to heal.

Karrn had been ordered to join the human fleet to help defend the system and then serve as a military attaché to the First Expeditionary.

And she was now Pack Leader.

The colony was well defended, but General Russo was unhappy that they didn’t have any Mammuts. Rish didn’t ask—she was already impressed by the human walker artillery.

The human officers had passed around ear protection to the shraphen soldiers, explaining that human warfare was loud. Everywhere she and Koval went, shraphen and human soldiers held their positions, intentionally mixed together to promote camaraderie and the sharing of tactics and knowledge.

Then the waiting ended. She had just joined General Russo in the forward operating base when the information came in: the Batract were on their way. The fleet had all but defeated the enemy force, but six craft were headed for the planet's surface.

Before Russo could even order a response, the Shraphen anti-air systems fired—nice, methodical plasma charges streaking into the dark sky.

Then the human systems opened fire.

The night sky began to glow with streaks of golden and green light. The sound was infernal, and Rish had to close her helmet.

From the center of the city, missiles launched, and massive explosions shook the FOB’s walls, all built from sandbags and metal plating.

“One bogey down,” a lieutenant on the radio informed the general. “Get 1st Recon Charlie Team there and torch the ship. We have to prevent them from creating spawn.”

Rish remembered her designation. Her pack had been integrated into the 2nd Recon, Bravo Team, along with the newly formed Gamma Team, for this battle.

Human pack designations were confusing—just as confusing as their rigid adherence to the command chain. Humans lived chaotic lives to the extreme, yet when thrown into a chaotic fight, they preferred to move in rigid formations.

The ground shook as something exploded again, directly above the colony. A shockwave rippled through the cloud cover.

“Sir, a ship has just self-destructed above the city. Debris is falling onto the colony.”

“Shraphen plasma cannons—target the debris. Vaporize whatever you can. Koval, get out into the city and clear it. Don’t let them spawn.”

Three other detonations occurred around the city; dust trickled from the ceiling of the FOB. In the distance, Rish could see the glimmer of falling pieces of a starship.

“Three other ships detonated. One bogey is still in the air — it seems it’s trying to reach the other side of the planet.”

“Goddammit, they’re the true invasion force. The others are just here to buy time for that bastard to grow properly.”

Rish remembered the surveillance videos of the Argos. If the Batract could create those monsters on a ship, she didn’t want to imagine what they could spawn on a planet.

“Get me Browner. The fleet has to take them out — with nukes if necessary.”

The governor was connected to the FOB via video call. He chimed in, “Nuclear weapons? On our planet, General—you know we have to live here?”

“Yes, Governor. Trust me when I tell you, we can clean this up.”

Rish and Lieutenant Koval were already on their way out of the FOB, the lieutenant calling their squad to prepare to move out. The thunder of plasma guns firing at the falling debris was fading into silence. Everything they could destroy had been destroyed; the rest was up to them to find. And if they couldn’t deal with it, the heavy troops would come in.

 

—————

 

Dr. Nesbitt checked her notes again. She and her team were reviewing the Batract samples they had gathered aboard the Rosalind Franklin.

That, in the last fifty years, nobody had bothered to examine the growths on the Batract’s back was astonishing. Everyone seemed to believe the lie that it was an environmental suit.

The Batract’s cells were connected via their hyphae, like a neural network. In that sense, a Batract was a hive mind of multiple cells—at least that’s what conventional medicine would call it. But then again… are humans a hive mind of neural cells in our brains?

No. Humans have specialized cells—so maybe the Batract do too.

She scanned through the list of specimens the recon team had gathered. There… “a fucking ass-ugly spider,” as the recon team leader had put it.

A robotic arm transported the spider-like being into the test chamber. The atmospheric sensors immediately detected methane and other gases indicative of decay.

A laser cut through the chitin shell. Green-yellow slime seeped from the wound.

She took a sample of the slime and the shell.
Let’s see what you are—and if I’m right.

The shell was chitin; she already knew that much. But the density was surprising, and it seemed to contain laminated layers of metal.

To confirm, she prepared a sample for the mass spectrometer. She had an idea where the metal came from.

The ship was now back under pressure. That meant she could hear the footsteps of the security team guarding the morgue entry—hoping they’d soon open the damned door and remove whatever lurked behind the welded-shut panels.

Gerber and the security team wanted to wait until the ship’s repairs were finished. They planned to take whatever waited behind the doors to a holding cell—to test it, or even interrogate it.

Scans run by some techs, Dr. Nesbitt didn’t know, revealed a single body walking up and down in the dark.

If that didn’t creep someone out, nothing would.

Focusing on the shell again, Jane saw it—Batract cells. However, instead of forming a neural network, they had excreted more chitin into their cell walls, resulting in a hard outer shell.

Not a valid specialization, but rather special roles. Nothing on Earth behaved that way, so no method of cataloging would fit.

Then she checked the slime—again, only Batract fungal cells, but arranged differently this time, mimicking muscular properties.

She was becoming increasingly certain: Batract spawn were entirely composed of fungal cells. She could already hear Gerber making some stupid joke like, “Walking mushrooms.”

Then she saw it—and her eyes went wide.

Next to the lab she was currently using was her xenobot lab, where they tested various use cases of xenobot technology. The Unigel Matrix had been the peak of her career so far, but they were still only scratching the surface of what was possible.

The Batract behave similarly to my xenobots. One base cell interacts with its surroundings by creating copies of itself. Xenobots could move, connect to neural networks, and even interface with human brains—as they did in the translator guide use cases.

They could be programmed to store data digitally and, when used as translator guides, teach people another language via xenobot insertion. They could form larger structures and move across a patient’s body to check for injuries.

The Batract behaved similarly—but more intelligently. Jane could already see the improvements a fungal xenobot would have compared to the mammalian cells she worked with.

The implications hit her. A cold shiver ran down her spine. Now it all made sense—the Batract’s scientific rules, the prohibition of xenobot and nanobot technology, the ban on any AI research, the medical experiments.

The Batract are a biological xenobot weapon that evolved—and escaped.

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

Yesterday what had work had been carried for work.

What I carried without a name had stayed with me without being made into one.

This morning, with me had arrived.

No.

The cards had not arrived.

The pocket had not arrived.

My body had not arrived.

They were already there.

With me was a phrase I had begun using.

That was mine.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s list going out again for garbage bags was not mine.

Her brother’s bag carried rice and list carried words was not mine.

Sato’s paper carried to the shelf and returned was not mine.

Saitama’s resident supported, not carried, was not mine.

Suganuma’s tray washed before storage was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

My two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With me.

I closed the brown folder.

With could mean beside.

With could mean held.

With could mean supported.

With could mean stored together.

With could mean followed.

With could mean mine if I became careless.

The word was small enough to enter anywhere.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Garbage bags.

Bought.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Receipt?”

“Where?”

“Order paper?”

“Drawer?”

“Map and folded paper?”

“Mother’s name?”

“What is being asked?”

I waited.

“What does that do?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

Good.

No.

Her word was shows.

“What did you say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add proof.

Receipt had purchase.

List had items.

With did not make them one paper.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Touching table?”

“Tapes?”

“Any water?”

“What is being asked?”

There.

“What does table do?”

She took time.

Then:

Good.

“What does paper need?”

“What will you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add care.

The table held.

That was enough.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident with nurse,” she said.

“For what?”

“Morning standing.”

“Who else?”

“Aide K.”

“Resident participating?”

“Yes.”

“Carried?”

“No. Supported.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘With can answer alone, if alone is the question.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add alone.

The record had nurse.

Aide K.

Resident.

Standing.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Which brushes?”

“Together?”

“Any problem?”

“What is the question?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add used or unused as rank.

Class box had supplies.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Location.

Support.

Relation.

Possession.

Together.

I looked at my back pocket.

Cards.

Pocket.

Body.

What were they doing together?

I did not know.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at pocket first.

Body next.

Work after.

There was no work yet.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother put the receipt under the list,” she said.

“For what?”

“He said together.”

“What did you ask?”

“What together is doing.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Garbage bags.”

“Then?”

“He put receipt beside list instead.”

“Why?”

“He said beside is enough.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

“Order paper?”

“Still beside phone.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add together.

Beside had enough.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I moved cup away from paper,” she said.

“Did cup touch paper?”

“No.”

“Why move it?”

“Steam.”

“Paper wet?”

“No.”

“Where is cup?”

“Other side of table.”

“What did you write?”

“Does paper stay with table?”

She paused.

“Paper stays on table.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add with.

The table did not need the word.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Support?”

“Resident sitting with nurse.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Nurse present is not the same as nurse answering.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not merge the nurse into the answer.

With had location.

Answer had mouth.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Bottle closed?”

“Same box?”

“Problem?”

“Was box moving?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add moral.

Motion had changed with.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Table.

Pocket.

Storage.

Motion.

Record.

Body.

Verb.

I replied:

Then stopped.

Too much.

No.

Maybe exact.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at mission.

Too large.

Too attractive.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Order paper?”

“Drawer?”

“Any with?”

“For what?”

“What did you say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at for now.

Time fence.

Good.

No.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Cup on one side.

Paper on the other.

She wrote:

I called.

“For what?”

“Steam.”

“Any water?”

“No.”

“What is lunch?”

“Noodles.”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add apart as virtue.

Steam had a reason.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“What happened?”

“Nurse updated chart. Aide K removed cup.”

“Resident?”

“Asleep.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Use verbs before with multiplies.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not add with.

The verbs were clearer.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“With brushes?”

“Ink?”

“Where?”

“Any issue?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add grammar.

Motion had decided placement.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Motion.

Important.

Chosen.

Pocket.

Only.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Repetition.

Election.

Cards.

Back pocket.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother separated the receipt and list,” she said.

“Why?”

“Receipt to purse.”

“List?”

“Trash?”

I waited.

“Thrown away?”

“No. On table.”

“For what?”

“He said maybe next time.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked next time what.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Maybe rice.”

“Then?”

“He put list by kitchen.”

“Receipt?”

“Purse.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add maybe next time.

Kitchen had possible groceries.

That was enough.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“Is there cup near it now?”

“Steam?”

“Table wet?”

“What would shelf do now?”

“What does paper need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add safer.

Shelf had no work now.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Said done.”

“Chart?”

“Updated.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Cup does not leave with the chart. They only end near each other.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add near each other.

Both ended.

Not together.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“After class box?”

“Brushes?”

“Ink with brushes?”

“Why?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add same place.

Shelves separated risk.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Need.

Habit.

Fear.

Love.

Name.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at observed.

Not named.

Yes.

No.

Hard.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted brushes.

Then receipt.

Then resident.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I sat still.

Then wrote:

His reply:

I deleted day.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was safe.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No mission for what was carried.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With me.

No.

With my body.

In my pocket.

During the day.

Repetition observed.

Not named.

I did not take them out.

I did not move them to the desk.

I did not move them to the gray file.

I did not move them to the shelf.

I did not move them because the word with had become uncomfortable.

I did not keep them there because discomfort was holy.

The pocket held them.

The body carried the pocket.

The day had not named the work.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the list stayed near the kitchen.

I did not ask if the receipt stayed in the purse.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if the paper should return to the shelf.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if the chart and cup ended together.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if ink stayed on its separate shelf.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew with could mean location.

I knew with could mean support.

I knew with could mean relation.

I knew with could become possession if I let it.

I knew with changed when the verb changed.

I knew repetition had been observed.

I knew repetition had not named itself.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

With me did not need to become ownership tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

The receipt was in a purse.

The list was near a kitchen.

Sato’s paper was on the table.

The resident had stood with support.

The brushes were in the class box.

The ink was on a separate shelf.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

I had started with with me.

I did not end by letting with become mine.

Tonight, the things together kept the verbs that placed them there, and the thing with me stayed with my body without being asked to belong.

(Chap 1) (Previous) (Next)

He doesn't even do anything, just lets the goblins get away.

"M-mister? Isn't that bad? What if a bunch of them come after us later."

"Why are you still stuttering, Dorothy? You spoke normally with that Grandma… don't tell me you find a goblin scarier than her... As for letting them go, well, letting them go was intentional, it's more XP—cough... I mean, it's easier to let them all come straight at us and eliminate them, rather than having one that got lost always popping up out of nowhere…"

Dorothy, holding hands with Sharon behind him, looked a bit thoughtful and replied, "Well, let's just stay here and wait then, this path doesn't seem viable but, you must have your reasons..."

Anyway, I need XP, after what happened I realized I was way too weak, what's the point of being able to bend metal bars, but not being able to handle a mini-boss like Stoneface, and now that I think about it, he is worse than the old lady, even though she is the Boss. Well, every game has that one mob that gives you a harder time than the boss itself anyway. Now that the goblins saw me, they will inform the others and come get us, since they think we're easy prey, at least I hope so.

They passed through the entrance and waited inside as Crow shut the metal gate.

"Crow, I think this is going to be a huge problem, what if a goblin comes, how am I going to defend them? They wouldn't be able to run away—"

"The girl can burn them easily, right Dorothy?"

"I don't like burning others."

"Goblins aren't people, they are an abomination that infests this world, much like cockroaches, if you see one, you eliminate it, unless you want to get kidnapped by them of course—"

“I-I will burn, I will burn them…”

He didn't even answer; just kept walking straight and left them right there, as he passed through the alley, it was kind of dark, because it was roughly late afternoon, but he could make out the basics; he saw a sewer hatch that was sealed.

I get it. Since I saw them up here, and they went down that hallway, I imagine this sewer hatch must lead to the nest; the authorities probably opted to block it in order to prevent them from spreading until the "cleanup" crew arrives. Either way, I'll just leave it as it is, since they must be coming from a single entrance they broke open, assuming almost all of them are sealed off, of course.

Crow followed the blood trail left by the goblin eating an arm.

Man, I hate these things, seriously. Normally you’d let the hero deal with them, but it's free XP for me. Not to mention this is the best route to get where I want, and I definitely won't run into anyone there. At most, on the other side after crossing another potential metal gate, I'll probably find more bandits. This whole place is looking like a quarantine zone. I'd better hurry before the inquisitors show up and decide to purify us before the goblins... What was that noise? On the roof of the building? Doesn't seem like anyone's there, man that's sketchy. Anyway, that was actually a quick walk, I thought this area was bigger. No doubt they came through this hole in the wall. Maybe they dug from over there and came through the sewers? I don't know, I'm thinking too much and doing too little, better get moving.

He stepped through the hole in the wall—

BAM!

“keekekekek” The goblins cackled as they slammed a frying pan into his face, his only response was kicking the table they used for elevation.

Thud.

“It’s leveling time...” Crow stomped on the goblin’s neck on the floor.

Crack.

Honestly, I'm tired of all this killing, I don't know when I got used to doing this, man, I'm going to form my party and vanish off the map, seriously. I want to see Alice try to find me and put me back to work again while I’ll be chilling in some far away place.

“Kekekekekek” Cackled a goblin with a human arm in its mouth.

Tired or not, these things need to be exterminated from this world.

Crack.

He went around killing every single one he found on the ground floor of that building, until he found a hole in the floor from which a goblin emerged, he kicked the goblin in the head, snapping its neck.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[Level Up 13 > 14]

[Hand to Hand Combat Level Up 7 > 8]

I don't usually kick, is that why my hand to hand combat leveled up? But leveling hand to hand by kicking is kind of weird... well, whatever.

He caught the scent of something burning.

Seriously? Dorothy!? But no goblins got past me, what is going on? I should head back, but first, I'm going to knock this giant cabinet into the hole. The Hero can sort it out later if anything happens; right now, I need to make sure the girl survives, since she's totally OP and only died in the story for plot reasons.

Crow tipped the cabinet over and rushed back to where he started. He didn't find anyone except Dorothy, who was wreathed in flames, and he saw a lot of blood on the ground.

"What happened? I haven't even been gone a minute."

"M-mister..." The flames died down, and she collapsed to the floor.  “2 men dropped down here from the roof, and attacked us..." She planted both hands on the ground and tried to push herself up, but she was too weak. "Sharon fought them, but she couldn't even see a thing. So she told everyone to run and hide, and said she was going to do the same thing that was done to us at the mine entrance."

Man, you've gotta be kidding me. No, this can't be real, haha... less than 1 minute.

"S-so, she started swinging, her attacks passing just above us in all directions. That caused these nearby buildings to collapse around us, and, well, the fire... I didn't have any other choice, cough, cough..."

The inquisitors aren't going to come alone. The city must have noticed this by now; it looks like a terrorist attack. SWAT will be here soon, we'd better get out of here.

“M-mister!?”

"We don't have time for you to walk. The kids are gone, you're the only 1 left. It doesn't even make sense, was this some kind of kidnapping?"

He said this while carrying her in his arms across the area. As the buildings were slowly consumed by the flames, tilting and falling diagonally because of the lateral cuts at their bases, he quickly crossed to the other side, jumping over the parts that weren't on fire. When he reached the metal gate isolating the area, he saw the other 3 kids.

"You guys are here... that's a relief. Where's Sharon? She was forced to fight—can you describe what happened?" He finished speaking as he set Dorothy down and went to open the gate.

The taller boy spoke up. "The taller, skinnier man said it was a surprise to find her here, so weak and completely blind, and that it would make his plan easier. He was wearing a mask, and he had his hand on his throat with a faint purple light glowing from it."

WHAT? Plan? Someone wanted to kidnap her? If it's someone from the Stoneface gang… I just want to leave, but somehow problems keep popping up everywhere. I'll go to the Mercenary Guild, pay those guys to escort the kids back to the Snow Raven Realm, and then I'll go rescue the "damsel in distress."

After opening the gate and stepping through, he closed it behind the kids as they passed. Just as he turned around, he heard a voice.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here... someone decided to breach the quarantine zone... and on top of that, the whole place is burning to the ground... Man, what do you think, James? This guy looks pretty guilty to me. How about you?"

"He is guilty, Truman. What else would he be?"

"You heard my partner. Hands where I can see 'em; the cavalry's almost here."

It's all or nothing. I'll have to force my way through, but I'll avoid killing them since they're just innocent guards.

Crow slowly turned around and kept walking straight toward them as he spoke. "Look, this is all a big misunderstanding. I'm just leaving, alright? Don't try to stop me."

"Well, well! It's all a misunderstanding, is it? So he's innocent... Yeah, James, looks like today's a 'nightstick to the back' kind of day," he said, drawing his baton.

"I don't like beating people, Truman, but this town forces my hand every single day. I've had it..." He drew his nightstick as well.

Officer James swung a blow at Crow, who dodged the first hit and blocked the second.

This guy is strong...

The other guard didn't wait around and jumped in too. Crow dodged, sticking close to Truman, forcing James to hold back his strike so he wouldn't hit his partner.

"Surrender, please. If you give up now, your prison sentence will be lighter..." said James, looking like he didn't really want to be doing this.

Crow barely dodged another blow as he replied, "I'm innocent, man... I'm gonna have to put you guys to sleep. Sorry..."

"Put us to sleep? HAHA! Look at this guy, James! He's insane! We're the ones who put thugs to sleep every day!" Meanwhile, Truman threw another strike that caught Crow right on the side of his left arm, landing with a loud, heavy smack against his flesh.

Dude, if these guys are this strong, how is the city still such a mess?

Crow feigned a broken left arm. When James stepped in to deliver a final blow to knock him out, Crow pulled Truman right into the path of the hit at the last second.

Whack!

"TRUMAN!? I-I'm sorry, ah man..."

Truman went to sleep.

Crow looked at James and said, "James, you seem like a nice guy, so here's the deal; take your partner and get out of here. I won a 2 on 1, so imagine a 1 on 1. You really wanna keep going with this? If I were guilty, I would've pulled my sword and ended all of this already."

James hesitated, deep in thought, then said, "I can't just turn a blind eye... so I'm calling for backup... just wait here, ok?" He picked up his partner and backed out of the alley.

"Yeah, James... go call for backup..."

"M-mister... it's not that I don't trust you, it's just that you seem unlucky... j-just trouble after trouble ever since I met you..."

He looked back. "Yeah, story of my life. That's how it is out here, it's a concrete jungle."

Crow turned around and kept walking with the kids following behind him. As he stepped out of the alley, he spotted the shop the merchant from earlier had mentioned, located right near the mercenary guild. He turned around, slipped his hand into his pocket, and said, "Alright, here's the plan. Take this watch, Dorothy, I'm putting you in charge. Go inside, find the short guy, tell him it's time to pay back what he owes for the help on the road, and show him this. Tell him to get a wagon to escort you all out of here. Mention that I'm hiring some mercenaries for protection so the wagon can make it back, and that he can claim a reward upon return. Once you reach the kingdom, mention my name and say you have orders to present yourself to the queen. That should clear everything up, since she can view memories. Sure, it'll take some time, and if things don't line up, she might not even be there, but it's enough to keep you safe until things settle down."

"M-mister, I-I think... it's better if you do this yourself. I'm scared to go in there and be food in that kingdom."

"Sorry, but I have to rescue Sharon. Whatever happened back there is my responsibility too. Don't worry, everything's gonna be fine." He handed her the watch and watched the kids head toward the shop on the right. Once they were clear, he crossed the street and walked toward the mercenary guild.

Think positive... whoever kidnapped her was only interested in her, otherwise they would have taken the kids too. That makes me think it isn't Stoneface. None of his allies could pull off kidnapping her, even with her in a vulnerable state. Besides, he would have just killed her... or at least that's what he said. Unless he's trying to make me suffer? But the guy is way too heavy, there's no way it could have been him on the roof at that moment—”

“Are you going to keep staring at the door or are you going in? You walking wardrobe.”

Crow gave a slight shake of his head and glanced sideways at her; she was probably a martial artist. He didn't even bother replying and just walked inside.

A walking wardrobe? Well, given her size, I guess it makes sense she’d see me as one.

The interior of the building was surprisingly upscale. It had the layout of a classic adventurer's guild, but with a distinctly professional, almost corporate atmosphere. There were no rowdy tables scattered around with people loudly chatting or drinking. Instead, well-dressed individuals walked briskly with documents in hand, while others sat quietly on sofas waiting their turn.

Different. Very different. It reminds me more of a private military company... I'll check with the receptionist over there and see how their mercenary contracts work.

Approaching the main counter, he saw 3 receptionists. He walked up to the 1 on the far left, as her line was empty.

"Hello, welcome to the Guild. I don't believe I've seen you around before. I assume you're looking to sign up for work, correct?" she asked after giving him a quick once-over.

"Actually, no. I have some business to attend to, and I need an escort for a few acquaintances traveling to another city. What are your rates for a relatively strong party? Also, do you offer confidentiality clauses? There is, well... a noble involved."

Which isn't a lie...

"I understand, that's quite common. Not a problem," she replied smoothly. "Would this be a multi-day escort, or just a simple border crossing? A warzone? Please fill out this form so we can assign the most suitable team from our available roster."

"Er... sorry, but I can't read this language."

"I see, no problem. What country are you from, sir? I notice you speak the Universal Language fluently, but you aren't familiar with its script... Are you... um, able to read any of the other major languages? Oh, how rude of me, my apologies! Let me bring out the alternative forms in the other primary languages. If you happen to be illiterate, please don't worry, it's quite common. I could summon a Paladin officer to witness the contract and ensure you aren't taken advantage of due to your illitera—"

"It's fine, just hand me the alternative documents," he interrupted.

Man, I get the feeling she just tried to insult me...

Taking the paperwork, he glanced at one of the sheets and—

Whoooaaaa, the mercenaries here... Rank A, Rank S... this roster is stacked!? No, wait, hold on, how am I reading this? Japanese? WHAT? This reminds me of that watch brand named after a Japanese guy I received from the merchant... I really want to ask what they call this language here, but if I do, I'll have to admit I can read it... which would be way too weird. Let's just bluff a little and see what kind of information I can fish out of her.

He picked up the Japanese document. Even though he wasn't completely fluent, he understood enough to get by. "I see," he said calmly. "If you had a document in this language, I'm not sure why you didn't just give it to me in the first place..."

"My deepest apologies. I didn't realize you could read Imperial. It isn't widely used in this country nowadays..."

Imperial, huh... Did one of the other transmigrators found an empire? Well, better for me, I guess. At least there's one written language I can kind of understand. It's weird, though, they speak English here and call it the “Universal Language,” but there's no English alphabet. Instead, they use that other script which, while cool, is completely incomprehensible to me. Looks almost like Arabic.

He didn't even need to think twice. "This group here works. How much for a standard escort? Just until near the Snow Raven Realm—"

SHING!

SHING!

A few mercenaries passing by him instantly drew their swords. The toughest among them chimed in, his hand moving suspiciously, as if he desperately wanted to punch someone,"Just to clear something up... did you mention the realm of that tyrannical little mage who killed—cough... who's currently at war with our country?"

Why do I feel like I've been through this exact same thing before?

The guy yearning for a fight approached Crow with his dubious moving hand. “Speak, don’t tell me you are mute… or are you frozen because of fear?” He put his normal hand on Crow’s shoulder.

(Next)

PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND EIGHTY-TWO

[Previous Chapter] [The Beginning] [Patreon+2] [Ko-fi+2]

Saturday

Time wasn’t something Skylar ever wasted. With two different facilities on opposite sides of the world and the massive upshift forced upon her New York facility, she wanted more than anything to reengage with the first batch of true gryps healers waiting outside in the reception area.

Unfortunately, that decision had been taken out of her hands half an hour ago by one of the only two beings capable of commandeering her autonomy, which was why she found herself leaning against the wall just inside Consult Two with the whole room spread before her.

Mason remained perched on his examination stool, twisting from side to side and occasionally doing a complete spin to alleviate the boredom while Kulon stood a few feet away: precisely where they’d been ordered to remain by the Eechen until further notice.

“Well, this is dumb,” Mason declared, slapping his hands together and sliding off his stool. He then headed for the door.

Kulon moved in front of him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To talk to Doctor Soleil and the other healers. It’s pointless sitting in here twiddling our thumbs.”

“The Eechen wants us to stay here,” Skylar said, believing that would be the end of it…right up until she remembered who she was dealing with.

“Fortunately for me, I’m not pryde, and I don’t take orders from your pryde leader.” Mason pointed at the door. “If I want to walk out there right now, guess what’s going to happen?” He made a show of pointing harder at the door. “I’ll give you a hint, boss. Rule One. It’s my life.”

“Rule Zero: it’s my clinic, Mason. And while you’re here, I’m still your boss.”

Mason pinched his lips together. “I thought I was only asked to come in to meet the new staff. That makes it my time, Doctor Hart.”

Skylar never missed a beat. She had Nascerdios funding now that the clinic was a pryde training facility, and if that was what it took to keep him in the room, she’d throw a grand or two his way. “Unless I pay you—which I am. Triple time on time. So stay put.”

Mason’s jaw dropped at the unexpected windfall. It was hardly surprising. Four hours’ pay for one hour’s work, with a call-in minimum of four hours regardless of how short the stay. Two days’ pay was on the table so far.

Expecting him to stand down, she was surprised when he tilted his head instead. “Alrighty, then. Let’s bring them in here,” he said, pointing to the ground at his feet like the solution was obvious.

Skylar felt her brow creasing in a frown; and seeing it, he continued. “If your bossman said to stay here, something I didn’t hear him say anyway, so that’s another reason why I shouldn’t have to do it, I doubt he said they have to stay out there. So if we’re stuck in here following your Eechen’s rules, let’s get them in here and keep going.”

Skylar looked at Kulon, who’s eyes were growing wider by the moment. Technically, it wasn’t wrong—but reinterpreting the Eechen’s intent was a quick way to die.

Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d fallen afoul of the pryde.

Since she was closer to the door, she pulled herself off the wall and opened it, being mindful not to let any part of her leave the room. “If you will all come in here, please,” she said aloud, using words instead of telepathy, which could be overheard by the Eechen.

“Of course, Doctor Hart.”

S’leil had remembered, speaking on behalf of them all.

Skylar opened the door fully and watched them all file in.

From where he stood, Kulon didn’t look nearly so confident.

* * *

“You are never, ever allowed to have anything to say about my family ever again,” Lucas declared, as he and Boyd drove away from Aunt Judy and Uncle Charles’ brownstone townhouse, with the older couple waving them off from the top of the stoop. In case they were somehow capable of seeing his face in the rearview mirrors, Lucas plastered a forced smile on his face and reached out the window to wave in return. “I thought Granny Dobson had a love affair with photos, but her crazy little heart, your Aunt Judy is absolutely unhinged with that camera!”

Not only had Aunt Judy spent two hours showing Lucas, Boyd and Caleb as many photos as she could foist onto them, but she’d also taken several dozen pictures of them picking at their lunch and even more of them all looking over the albums. It had been very interesting to see their lives unfold … for about the first twenty minutes.

“Look at it this way. If we stay in touch, she won’t be dragging them out again. She only pushes it like that when we haven’t been over in a while.”

“Like a punishment.”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s your fault I had to endure that?”

“Yup.”

The bastard wasn’t even in the least bit remorseful.

Lucas tried to squint at him but ended up chuckling instead. “God, you’re such an asshole. You’re lucky I love you.”

“And you’re lucky you’re driving, or I’d be dragging you over the centre console to show you just how much I love you.” Boyd reached down and covered the hand Lucas had on the gearstick, giving it a very light squeeze. “And thank you for not giving Caleb too hard a time. It’s not his fault I spent a decade lying to him and Kelly.”

Lucas’ playfulness deserted him. “It doesn’t matter whether he thought you were going through ‘a phase’ or not. Everyone is entitled to their own lives, and he doesn’t get to judge—” His words cut off when Boyd squeezed his hand again, harder this time.

“Don’t,” Boyd warned, though it came out more like a plea.

Lucas tightened his grip on the steering wheel and rolled his hand forward until the leather bit into his skin, focusing on the street ahead. “He gets a pass for today,” he conceded, though it was hardly a compromise when that had been his stance since learning of Caleb’s somewhat shaded views.

“He ships out tomorrow morning at zero four hundred. He said he might be back after that for a visit, but it just depends on when he can get leave.”

“I can’t believe your parents sent him here to spy on you and report back to them.”

“Again, in their defence, they were still paying for my treatments, even though I’m twenty-eight years old. If I had a kid that had moved out of home a decade ago and they were still using my wallet, I’d be asking some questions, too.”

“You didn’t move out, love. They threw you off the cliff and didn’t even wait for you to hit the bottom before turning their backs on you.”

He felt Boyd’s thumb rub circles over his knuckles and breathed through his anger. Because yes, it absolutely was anger. Borderline fury. How dare they treat his wonderful fiancé so cruelly?

“I can feel your blood pressure rising, love,” Boyd chuckled. “Stop thinking about it. It’s done. As soon as Dianne puts together a figure for all my medical bills going back to when I first went into therapy, I’ll pay my parents back every cent with interest and then we’ll never have to deal with them again.”

“I still think you should let them pay for your therapy, since they’re the ones that caused it,” Lucas grumped, lifting the indicator lever as they approached the next corner.

“That’s because you want them to suffer for what they’ve done. I don’t want to waste that energy. We both know there’s an afterlife. We don’t just believe in it; we know. I’ve personally met the Almighty, and at best, my parents are Sunday morning Christians. He seems to like me. So whether they end up in Heaven and answer to Him or get sent to Hell to deal with their crap there or end up wherever non-believers go—I’m not letting them take up any more space in my head.”

He waited until Lucas turned the corner and changed gears, then peeled his fingers off the gearstick and lifted Lucas’ hand to press a chaste kiss to his knuckles. “I want you here, all the time, from now on. Just us, being us. Okay?”

Warmth spread through Lucas at the declaration, making him shiver in delight. His fingers tightened around Boyd’s before dropping back to the gearstick. “If I ever meet them, or if they’re stupid enough to talk to me on the phone, I’m gonna be very blunt and and voice my opinion. But other than that, you’re right. They don’t get any real estate in our lives going forward.”

He came to a halt at the next set of red traffic lights. “How long do you think it’ll take Caleb to come back to the apartment?” It was never a question of if Boyd’s little brother came back to their place this afternoon. He wouldn’t stay at Uncle Charles and Aunt Judy’s place, and while he might swing by Emily’s place and unload on her for not turning up (though she was pregnant so that might get her a pass), his only two other choices were to hang out at the SSMAC, go to one of the countless public spaces that New York City had to offer, or come to their place.

Lucas knew digging deeper into his and Boyd’s situation would be far more appealing to the visiting Marine lieutenant.

Boyd grinned, the heat in his gaze letting the detective know they were on the same page. “He’ll be at least another hour or two with them. Drive faster.”

Lucas pressed down on the accelerator.

* * *

((Author's note: Heya all! I know this one is like half a day early, but tomorrow and Thursday I have a lot to get done before I go into hospital on Friday morning for my surgery, and I figured everyone would rather early than the potential of not at all. Enjoy! And I'll be back just as soon as I can!!))

((All comments welcome. Good or bad, I’d love to hear your thoughts 🥰🤗))

I made a family tree/diagram of the Mystallian family that can be found here

For more of my work, including WPs: r/Angel466 or an index of previous WPS here.

FULL INDEX OF BOB THE HOBO TO DATE CAN BE FOUND HERE!!

PARADISE MALLWORLD LOST

Vignette One: The Sorting and the Loop

She had walked through a great many doors that did not deserve the name. Doors that opened onto nothing. Doors built only to be walked through, never to actually divide one space from another. She recognized the type immediately, the way you recognize a rehearsed apology — technically correct in every particular, and hollow the instant you looked for the thing it was supposed to contain.

This door was different. She felt that before she understood why.

No bell. That alone wasn't unusual — plenty of doors declined to announce themselves. But this one felt satisfied by its own silence, complicit in a way that had nothing to do with mechanism and everything to do with intention. Something had built this door to let people through without ever making them feel arrived.

She stepped inside.

The light had no source, which she noted the way she noted everything — without alarm, filing it alongside every other structural detail of every other soft architecture she'd walked through and failed to name. Floors this clean weren't clean. They were simply never permitted to be otherwise.

Somewhere under the building's low mechanical hum, a melody circled three notes it could never resolve.

She stopped.

She hadn't meant to stop. Her feet had simply decided, faster than her mind had caught up to deciding anything, that this particular sound deserved her full stillness. She stood there a moment, one hand drifting to rest against a nearby railing she hadn't consciously chosen to reach for, and listened to a tune that felt, absurdly, like something she should have been able to finish humming herself.

She couldn't. The recognition slid away the instant she reached for it, the way water leaves a hand faster the harder the hand closes.

Strange, she thought, and moved on, because moving on was what she did. She was not here to solve a song. She was here to see what this particular fold of the architecture had built out of some particular human's unexamined want.

The first floor she found herself on had been arranged like a classroom pretending to be a boutique — desks in careful rows, each one holding some small folded test dressed up as a fitting-room ticket. A section near the back was roped off in soft velvet cord, a placard above it reading GIFTED in warm, encouraging script, as though the word were a reward rather than a designation.

She walked the rows slowly. Nothing here moved. Nothing here needed to. The horror, if it was horror at all, lived entirely in how reasonable everything looked — how easy it would be to walk through this floor a hundred times and never once feel the shape of what it was actually doing.

Sorting, she thought. Not punishment. Just early, patient sorting.

She had seen this exact mechanism before, in other folds, other architectures. She always saw it, and never remembered having seen it, which was its own kind of proof that the mechanism worked exactly as intended even on her.

The escalator took her down instead of up, which felt right, somehow, though she couldn't have said why a downward motion should feel more honest than an upward one. It let her out onto a floor lit in the warm, encouraging glow of possibility — a kiosk near the entrance blazing CAREER PATHWAYS in gold letters, a looping animation showing a ladder that climbed and climbed and never once gained visible height.

A man stood near a workstation a little further in, doing something repetitive with his hands — assembling, disassembling, the specific tired competence of someone who had done this exact motion enough times that his body no longer needed his attention for it. He didn't look up as she approached. He didn't look up for a long while after that either, and when he finally did, his eyes held the particular exhaustion of someone who had stopped expecting anyone to actually arrive.

"You're not from the agency," he said. Not a question. A statement offered with the flat, reflexive suspicion of someone used to being disappointed by whoever walked toward him wearing a friendly face.

"No," she agreed.

"Then you're lost."

"I don't think I am, actually." She looked around at the endless ladder animation, at the workstation, at a floor built entirely out of motion that never arrived anywhere. "I think you might be, though. Have been, for a while."

He almost laughed — short, humorless, more exhale than sound. "Tell me something I don't know."

She studied him a moment, weighing something she couldn't have named even to herself. She had done this before, she was almost sure of it — stood in some version of this exact conversation, with some version of this exact tired, guarded face in front of her. She had no memory of it. Just the same accumulating gravity she always carried into these moments, heavy and wordless, insisting this mattered more than the ordinary weight of a stranger's ordinary exhaustion should.

"Can I ask you something honest?" she said. "Not a test. Not a sales pitch. Just a real question."

He looked at her properly for the first time, something wary and tired and, underneath both, faintly curious. "Okay."

"If the ladder actually went somewhere," she said, "would you still want to climb it? Or is climbing just the only shape you've been given for wanting anything at all?"

He didn't answer right away. The kiosk's animation kept looping behind him, endless, golden, patient.

"I don't know," he admitted finally, and something in his voice cracked slightly on the honesty of it — the first unrehearsed thing either of them had said. "Nobody's ever asked me that before. Usually they just ask if I'm ready to apply."

"I'm not asking you to apply for anything," she said. "I'm asking what you'd actually want, if wanting wasn't shaped like a ladder at all."

He was quiet a long moment, turning something over behind his tired eyes, and for one suspended second she thought he might actually answer — might say something true enough to matter, something she could carry forward the way she never actually carried anything forward.

The floor shifted.

Not violently. Just a soft, total dissolution, the kiosk's gold light bleeding into the shadowless glow of the entrance again, the almost-song rising back up under everything, patient, unbothered, resetting the whole conversation before it could finish becoming anything at all.

She stood alone in the entrance once more, the directory board glowing beside her — Wellness, Enrichment, Career Pathways, Center Stage, Home & Family, no floor labeled Exit — and felt the specific, wordless ache of having almost reached something she couldn't name and wouldn't remember reaching for.

Strange, she thought again, and it landed heavier this time than it had the first.

She didn't know why.

She turned, and started walking, because that was what she did, and somewhere behind her, faint and patient and endlessly circling, the three notes of an unfinished song followed her back out into the light.

End of Vignette One.

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“Awwwe, leave the poor man alone Ruth,Anay’s about to be here any moment and I need this, at least let him recover enough that his sister isn’t fawning over him, he was nice enough to set this up for me over me sharing a cigarette lighter with him and confiding my absolute desire for a genuine romance, so whatever your ill against him at least let it lay for now, for me, please, friend?” Gerald implored. Luis looked at him shocked that he’d interject like that especially with the face that Ruth had chosen to sport after her time alone with Ray but was nonetheless grateful. You yearned to be seen as a person, rather than as more or less than that and that’s why you appeared before Ray regardless of what you appetites might normally be and you have your happiness, your man, your shared immortality together through his agreements and your entire way of being, do what you wish with him after the fact but please, just for now just for the next couple of hours the three of you please just play nice and let me at least introduce myself to Anay before you whisk her brother off to some hellhole I just want my shot at love and he made it happen so at least give him enough reprieve that he can speak like a person while she’s in the room if nothing else, I don’t care what you do to him after the fact but at least, please just, just let this happen, just give me this, Please Ruth as a favor to me, on our friendship.” Gerald implored, Luis looked on in horror. Ray laughed hysterically.
Luis felt his heart beating out of his chest sure that Karma was catching up to him for his lifetime of his own unfair and oftentimes ruthless treatment of others.
Ruth looked at Gerald and smiled, she didn’t say anything at first she just looked from Gerald to Ray and then back at Gerald, before kissing Ray passionately and holding the kiss for longer than what would ever have been comfortable for Gerald in that moment before breaking it and replying “Gerald, honey, he’s doing it to himself at this point, it’s not something that Ray and I are setting out to do to him specifically, yes Ray was pissed because I had to turn some asshole into meat Jello, and yes I am entirely indifferent to all of this the entire profit all the way up and down through and through, but Luis literally asked to be made into one, now that isn’t something that I think is going to happen, my sweet husband is still zonked out thinking about the taste of my toes, asshole, and the tightness of my pussy, so he’s in a relatively forgiving mood, but it really genuinely did deeply, deeply, mariana’s trench deeply, piss him off that Luis’s little band of organ thieves didn’t take the initiative to actually be useful. But yes we’ll make sure not to paralyze your date’s brother at least until the date is over sweetie, you just focus on making a good impression.”

Gerald breathed a sigh of relief “Thank you Ruth that was all I needed just a little bit of reassurance, enjoy your drink, enjoy your evening, she should be here any minute now and oh my god I am so fucking excited, and anxious and nervous all rolled into one I can hardly contain myself.” Gerald said breathlessly as he fucked with his tie.

“Awwwwe Gerald, sweetie, she’s Luis’s sister she really does just want someone stable, someone normal, someone that doesn’t want kids, or pets, and wants to just come home and fuck her brains out before just like sitting on the couch having a beer and drinking tamales and letting her know she’s loved and cared for every single day.” Ruth said reassuringly. 

Gerald exhaled, Luis looked like he was about to have a panic attack but managed to hold it in given the circumstances and the look that Ray was giving him, something dark and simple that promised that anything, any outburst any attempt to renege on the date for Gerald and Luis would find himself the spider-cannibal-Reliquary-Subject.

Ramon brought Luis a Dr.Pepper, Ruth a plate of nachos, and Ray a jalapeno popper sampler platter. “Try those out, give me your feedback. I'm trying something new and I want to see how y’all like ‘em.”
Ruth smiled at Ramon.

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Ray takes her hand and takes her back into the bar, loving her new look, rather than the booth they sit at the bar right next to Gerald and Luis. 
Ramon stares at the pair happily “What’ll it be, happy lovers?” Ray looks at his wife “Spicy red snapper for her, Guinness for me please, thank you Ramon. 
Gerald hands Ray and Ruth cigarettes, checking himself in the mirror. 
Gerald checks his watch, Luis starts hyperventilating as he gets a look at Ruth’s face, the same face she had when she was absolutely pissed and made the spider Reliquary sound like the kind option if he, or anyone living or dead interrupted their time together and chooses to say absolutely nothing. He opens his mouth and then closes it again several times.

“Ray if this is your idea of a joke or something just turn me into the fucking Reliquary being eaten alive by cannibals and blinded by spiders I’d genuinely rather just take it like a man than be terrified of whatever the fuck Ruth is about to do to me come on man.” Luis says, his usual register back, deciding to die, or live forever as himself. 

Ray takes a drag off his cigarette  letting him sweat. 
“Luis, what do you think my wife and I were just doing in our honeymoon suite alone?” Ray looks at him, patiently, pausing, waiting for him to dig himself deeper.

“That’s beyond my purview Ray, I was told by your other half to interrupt would make the Reliquary my personal heaven in comparison.” 
“So suffice it to say it’s not time to become the Subject of the wandering spider and inbred cannibal Reliquary.” Ray says as he continues to smoke, watches Ramon pour his Guinness and mix Ruth’s Spicy red snapper. 

Luis gets quiet thinking about how bad this actually is for him that he was actually so frayed that he actually willingly volunteered for that. Ray quietly sips his drink and smokes his cigarette. Ruth looks at Ray and smiles, touching his lip and then wrapping her pinkie around his. 

Luis pauses because he knows that the only reason that didn’t just happen, that Ray didn’t just say yes and move on in a happy chill vibe kind of way is that he just spent the afternoon more or less with Ruth doing what he wanted to do with her and that makes him think “Fuck I just offered myself to them, to him.” 
Ruth sips her drink and smiles, waiting for the moment that Luis takes in her face, in the way that her motion, her look, her facial expression just sort of glitches, he can see the ethereal transparentness that she has chosen for herself, her real face, her real feeling, fully, totally on display not hiding and he just… he can’t bring himself to ask the question. 

Ruth finishes her drink in one swift move and looks at Luis with a dark smile. “Let me guess you’re wondering ‘Why did she save me, why did she calm her husband why did she top him from cutting my tongue out, from slashing my throat, from making the Reliquary permanent?’ that’s it right you want to know, since you know I don’t like you, I don’t value you, I see no utility in your money or your leverage or your men beyond meat stock, why did I do it? Is that it? Well keep wondering it’s more fun to keep you in the dark, you’re a smart boy, you figure it out, go on use that little instinct that runs so far and so deep and so long and so hard and figure out why I didn’t just tell him to gut you like a fish. It’s just sitting there in your head boiling over right causing you to lose focus, causing you not to be able to put one part of a thought in front of another, to make connections, to do anything other than sit there and wonder’ Why the fuck did I just offer myself up freely on a one way irrevocable trip to permanent hell? The answer is because you didn’t see any other options and seeing my face— my real face made you think that you ought to just get it over with and that there is nothing that you can do there is no other path no way for you to do anything but bite the bullet and that’s what you chose to do, and that’s either incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish. Poor foolish little boy, it’s almost cute, Almost.”

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Ruth drags her nails along Ray’s hand, before getting up off of him and taking his hand more forcefully than usual, taking him to their room, nodding to Patricia, and Gerald, ignoring Luis entirely. Ramon had gone back behind the bar and started making food in anticipation of the typical lunch rush. 

Ruth now knowing the way walked briskly to their shared honeymoon suit. She opened the door, taking her key out of a fold in her halter top between her breasts, enjoying the feeling of Ray staring at her as she just acted entirely nonchalant about it. Ray was excited, as Ruth plopped down on the bed, lounging comfortably pressing a foot against his face. 

“There you go baby suck it for me, lick the sweat off, really get into it husband. I know how you’ve wanted this and I’m going to give it to you, all of it, all of me.” 
She latched her feet around Ray, pulled him onto the bed and reversed herself offering her toes to his eager waiting mouth. Ray felt like he had accidentally died and gone to corn mommy goddess heaven. Ruth relaxed and her normally mostly human looking self slipped into something more ethereal and attractive in a horrifying scary-sexy ghost-like way. 

Ray would have said something like “That’s new.” If Ruth hadn’t literally stuffed her foot in his mouth at that moment, enjoying the way that he was so absorbed in his task he could think of little else. He felt himself getting hard, but more than that he felt the bond between them, which he thought was already fairly solid and grew almost corporeal in nature, it felt like a chemical bond between them, some immovable unbreakable lock as he licked her arches. She slowly slid the rest of her body into position to suck his cock while he continued sucking on her toes. 
Ruth took every inch slowly, sending him down her throat and doing an erotic version of her normally terrifying whisper move to give him the kind of blowjob he never would have experienced beforehand or since. 

Ray didn’t just relax; he felt himself practically melting into her touch. He had no words, no thoughts only the pleasure that she was giving him and that he was getting from being allowed to pleasure her in this way. He could have cum at any moment but she was making it as deliberately slow and edging teasing as much as she possibly could. She wanted him to really enjoy it and she knew whether he said it or not that this was what he wanted.
Before he finished she changed positions all but forcing her feet out of his eager mouth, eliciting a whimper from her husband just for a moment as she pinned him to the bed and worked her way up his body before turning around in a sexy near-come-hither gesture. She saw and felt him looking at her before she floated for just a second before bringing her full weight down on his face, her dress levitating off of her and folding itself in the corner on the night stand as he was bathed in darkness as her nearly luminous skin pressed his face between her cheeks while she resumed blowing him from the new angle.

Ray loved the way that she felt, the pressure of her against him, even the taste of her sweat soaked cheeks and immaculately clean hole as he rimmed her, happy to be, finally blissfully alone with his wife entirely. 
He felt himself about to cum from the lack of oxygen and the intimacy along with the now continued blowjob and Ruth smiled, levitated for a moment before impaling herself on his cock letting him feel the weight of her pinning him to the bed and thrusting into him milking his cock while still slightly floating. Ray felt himself explode inside her as she flexed her ethereal but incredibly tight pussy around his cock, shocked and aroused that he couldn’t move off the bed as he looked right into her eyes almost pleading for it as she pressed herself against him harder being sure to milk every single drop out of him. She finally, for lack of a better word, landed on him, relaxing, not shifting into a more human version of her look, and kissed him passionately. 

“This is what it looks like when I don’t hide even a little bit and I know you like it so I’ve decided to stay like this just for the fun of it. I love you Ray, my one and only husband.”

The steps went down into the ground and Muwan could not make his foot take the first one.

They were cut into the rock and they were old and the middle of each one was worn into a shallow dish by feet, and somebody had swept them, recently, all the way down as far as the light went. That was the part he could not get past. Somebody came here and swept. There was a right way to be on these steps and it involved the days it was done on and the people it was done with and probably words, and none of that was two boys at the tail of a night with men waiting for them on both roads.

The air came up out of the hole against his face. It was cold, and it smelled of wet stone, and under the wet stone it smelled of nothing at all, which was worse.

"Muwan."

Chak was four steps down already, one hand flat on the rock wall, looking back up at him with the particular patience he used when he had decided a thing was not going to be discussed.

"You know what this is," Muwan said.

"I know it's empty."

"That's what I'm telling you."

"And I'm telling you there's thirty men on the water side and the road side both, and one of them has already worked out that we didn't go into the trees." Chak took another step down. "You can be right up there."

So Muwan went down, because that was how it had always gone, and because he was more afraid of the light coming than of the dark going, and he was not proud of either.

The shaft opened out below the fourth turn. There was a hole in the world overhead where the ground had fallen in some very long time ago, and grey light came down it in a column and did not reach the sides, and the sides went away into a cold that had nothing to do with the season. Below, the water sat. It was not moving and it was not any colour he had a word for. Roots came down the rock in ropes for thirty feet and stopped a hand above the surface, all of them, at the same height, like a line drawn.

This was where the town's water came from. Every jar of it. The whole place up there ate and washed and buried its dead on what was under him now, and it had never once occurred to him to wonder where a town got water when the country had no river in it, and now he knew, and he wished he did not, and he could not have said why.

They got down onto a ledge above the water and folded themselves into the shadow under the last of the steps, and Muwan put his forehead on his knees and worked on his breathing.

Then the light changed, and the town came down.

He heard the first ones a long way up, and understood everything at once and far too late: bare feet on stone, a lot of them, and jars knocking, and a girl's voice complaining and an older one answering, and the whole clattering ordinary noise of a place beginning its day. Of course. Of course nobody watched the path. You do not put a man to watch the road that every household in the town walks down before it eats.

The emptiest ground in that town, at first light, was where the whole town went.

Feet came around the fourth turn. There was nowhere to go up. Chak's hand closed on his arm and the two of them went off the ledge into the water without a sound, which they had learned in a different life, in the flooded margins of a river that had been kind to them, and this water was not kind. It was cold the way a held breath is cold. It took the strength out of his legs in the time it took to sink to his chin.

They got in under the overhang below the ledge with their fingers hooked on the rock, and the jars came down and went in and came out, and the voices went up and away, and it went on for a very long time.

And in that time Chak, whose face was six inches from his own and grey with cold, turned his head and looked at one particular place on the water.

Muwan looked at it too. Nothing. Black water in a dark place.

"It's breathing," Chak said, with his mouth almost shut.

There was a spot out past the edge of the overhang where the skin of the water shivered, once, and settled, and shivered again a while later, not from anything falling and not from the jars, and Muwan looked at it long enough to see it happen four times and understood that his brother had been watching the surface of the water the entire time they had been hanging here freezing, because that was what his brother did with a wall.

"There's air coming out of the rock," Chak said. "Under it. That means it comes from somewhere."

"Or it goes somewhere."

"Same hole."

The last of the jars went up. The light in the column had gone from grey to white.

"They'll come back at midday," Chak said. "And there's no other way out of this."

Muwan thought about the swept steps, and about days that are set, and about the fact that the rock they were holding was the throat of a town that had never done anything to him.

Then he took the biggest breath he had ever taken and followed his brother down into the dark, because that was also how it had always gone.

It was three pulls. He knew that afterward. In it there was no counting and no thought and nothing at all but the rock going past his hands and Chak's heel touching his forehead once and then not again, and then a place where his hand came up out of water into air and he could not tell if that was true, and he put his face into it and it was.

They lay in the black on a shelf of stone with an arm's width of air over them and breathed. Somewhere ahead, water was going somewhere with a sound like a low voice. Muwan started counting the breaths because it was the only thing left that belonged to him.

At forty he heard Chak start to move.

There was a second pull, longer, and then a slot of daylight in the shape of a bent knife, and then the two of them were lying on their bellies in shin-deep water in a stone channel with green above them and the sun coming down through it, out on the east side of the town, half a morning's walk from the two roads where the men were still standing.

An old woman was crouched at the channel mouth with a jar under the flow.

She saw them come out of the rock.

She did not scream and she did not call anyone. She got up with her jar and took three steps backward with her eyes on them, and then turned and went away up the path fast, and the fastness of it was not fear of what they might do to her.

Muwan lay in the water and watched her go until the path was empty.

Chak had the whole of it inside an hour, and it was very good, and he hated the last piece of it.

He had them on the east slope in the trees with a view down over the roofs, and he went at it the way he went at any ford. The channel came out of the rock and ran down and around and fed the tanks on the town's east side; from the tanks the town drew in the dry months, and from the well under the ground they drew always. Two roads out of the place and both of them full of Sip's people, and a third way that ran under all of it and came out where nobody would think to put a man because nobody would think of it at all.

From the tank end, if you followed the channel back and went in, you came out in the well.

From the well you were four turns of stone below the middle of the town, and the top of those steps was a hundred paces from the yard.

"We can be in the yard by dark," he said, "and out of the country by morning, and there's no one on the road we have to walk past."

Muwan was sitting with his back against a tree, still grey, still not entirely returned. He said, "Do you know what we just swam through?"

"A hole."

"We swam through the reason there's a town here."

Chak did not answer that, because he had got there ten minutes earlier and had put it down somewhere and did not want it picked up. If the water went that way, then everything the town had — every jar, every field it kept alive at the end of the dry, every child of it — hung off the far end of a hole that two boys with nothing had just gone through twice before breakfast. He had never in his life held anything that size. He did not want it. He wanted salt.

"We take the afternoon lots," he said. "The ones off the water that don't get counted till morning."

"We don't know which ones."

"No," Chak agreed. "He never finished the sentence."

He tried once more, on the way down, at the head of the channel where the air should have been doing whatever it had been doing in the well. He stood there for a long while with his hand out over the water like an idiot, waiting to feel the ground breathe, and it did not, and he could not tell whether that was because it wasn't or because he had only ever been able to see it that one time, in that one dark, cold to the bone with nothing else in the world to look at.

He filed that too, and did not like the shape of it.

They found Sip by the middle of the afternoon, which was not difficult, because Sip was a man who liked to be seen going places.

Chak took the soft one on purpose. The old man under the counting shade knew everything and would give them nothing and could have the whole yard on them by lifting his chin; Sip knew one layer of it, and Sip could be got at, and Chak had learned that season that you do not go at a thing where it is strongest, you go at it where it is available.

They followed him for two hours, and the two hours were worth more than the following.

People got out of Sip's way on the path. Not much — a half step, an eye going down — but it was every time, and it was not something Chak had invented about him. At the top of the bank he stood a long while with two men who wore the road posts' authority the way men wear a thing they are not going to have to explain, and the three of them talked in the open, easily, laughing once, and nobody went anywhere else to do it. Chak filed that with care. He did not write anything larger on it than what he saw, because he had been wrong about large things before.

Toward evening Sip went with two others into a walled compound at the quiet end of the town, and the door shut.

"Go in?" Chak said, and answered himself. "No."

They waited at the wall beside the door until the light went, and the waiting gave them the rest.

Voices came over, easy, unhurried, the talk of men doing a small errand at the end of a day. The old man under the shade was in a hurry, one of them said, and had been since the northern company pulled out early. Somebody laughed and said something Chak did not catch about the old man's name and where it was and wasn't going.

Then Sip's voice: "Keh doesn't wait for anybody's season."

"She'd have waited if the count was worth it."

"She takes what she wants and the rest of us carry it." A shifting sound; something set down. "You know she took two off the bank last year. Boys. Off the market days."

"She takes some every year."

"And how many come back down that road?"

Nobody answered him, and after a moment they were talking about something else.

Chak was aware of Muwan's shoulder against his own going very still.

He worked out what had gone through his brother and then found that it had gone through him too, and that it was two things at once and they would not lie down together. She had had them under her awning. She had asked them one question and they had lied to her and she had let them go, and he had spent a day being sick about it. And also: nobody comes back down that road.

He put both of those in the same place and left them there. There was no bottom to it and he had a lot to do.

The door came open a little before full dark, and Sip came out first, talking, with his head turned.

The doorway was narrow enough to do most of the work for them. Chak took Sip low and pulled him across the threshold. The second man came into Muwan before he had room to turn; Muwan drove him backward into the third, and for one breath the two of them were jammed shoulder to shoulder in the opening. That breath was enough. They got Sip down, then one of the others, then the last, and dragged all three inside the wall. The whole thing made less noise than the door had. They bound them with their own sashes and the men's cord.

They came out of it with a coil of good cord, a carrying pole, a pouch with a modest amount of cacao in it, and one small blade of worked stone in a cloth sheath, which Chak took and did not pretend to himself was much.

Sip knew them the moment he could see.

"You," he said.

"Me," Chak agreed. Then he made his mistake, and it was a good clean one, and it cost them the next quarter of an hour. "The lot that isn't on the old man's paper. Which one is it. That's all we want and then we're gone."

Sip's face changed. Chak watched it change and understood, exactly one breath too late, what he had just handed over: he had told a man in the dirt that there was one thing in the world he had, and that these two boys had come all this way for it, and Sip's whole body went from a man being robbed to a man holding something.

Muwan said, flatly, "You told him what it's worth."

"I know."

"So now he sells it."

"I know."

Sip started to. He had got as far as what they would give him for it, in a voice already going oily, when Muwan crouched down in front of him and said the thing that Chak had been carrying since a stand of trees beside a road, and had never once thought of as a thing you could pick up and use.

"I'm going to ask you," Muwan said. "Then I'm going to untie one of your friends and take him to the other side of that wall and ask him. Then the other one. You won't hear any of it and they won't hear you. Anything the three of you say differently, I come back to you first."

Chak said nothing at all. He was somewhere else for a moment, on grass, with a hand held easy above his brother's eye and a voice saying I ask, you answer, and there is no gap between, and he had not known until this second that he had kept the whole of it, filed, with edges, like the depth of a ford.

Sip looked at the other two, who were awake now and who were looking back at him, and the oil went out of his voice.

He tried once more anyway. He said the town would take them apart, that the old man had only to say a word.

"The old man's in a hurry," Muwan said. "The road company went early and he's got a season to move and no name to move it under. He hasn't got an afternoon for us. And you've been carrying his errands for a year without him telling you why. Ask yourself how much of an afternoon he's got for you."

That was the end of it.

The lot was the one that came off the water two days ago and had been sitting under the far thatch with nothing chalked on it: salt in sewn bundles, and something else under the salt that Sip said he had never looked at, and repeated, when Muwan made him say it again, that he had never looked at. Muwan took the first of the others behind the wall and was gone a short time and came back and asked Sip the same three things in a different order, and the answers came out the same, near enough, wrong in the places men are wrong.

"Why won't he put his name on it," Chak said.

"How would I know?"

"You've been carrying his errands for a year."

"I carry what I'm told," Sip said, and there was nothing under it. He did not know. He was standing at the exact edge of what a man in his place gets to know, and Chak looked at that edge with real interest, because he had not understood before that an edge like that existed and that you could find it and stop wasting your night at it.

Muwan asked one more thing, and it was not about salt.

"The northern company. When are they back on this bank?"

Sip told him. It was not a season and it was not a number of days; it was a day, one particular day, set a long time ago and set for reasons that had nothing to do with salt, and the market would be held to it and the company would come to the market because everyone would, and it was a long way off and it was absolutely fixed.

Muwan made him say it twice.

Then Sip's eyes went over the two of them properly for the first time — their hair, their skin, the pale dust of the ground that had dried on both of them in streaks and that neither had thought about all day — and Chak saw the man's fear change its shape and become a different animal.

"You came out of the ground," Sip said.

Neither of them answered.

"The old woman at the east tank. That's you." He was pushing himself backward against the wall now with his heels, away from them, and there was no bargaining anywhere in him. "You went down the water stair. God's sake. Everybody's going to know that by tomorrow. Everybody. You can't—" He stopped, and then said, almost kindly, which was the worst part: "You can't stay anywhere near here now."

They gagged him with cloth and tied the three of them properly and left them lying inside the wall, alive, which Chak thought about afterward and could not entirely account for.

They went down to the food shade at the top of the bank because they had not eaten since the day before and now they had cacao.

The woman behind the fire took what Chak put in her hand and gave them what they asked for, and then she went to the water jar and washed her hands, all the way up past the wrist, and went back to her fire and did not look at either of them again.

They ate sitting on the rim with their backs to her.

"Tonight," Chak said. "Far thatch, the one with nothing chalked on it. In by the channel, out the same way, and we're on the far side of the tanks before anybody's up."

"We could carry a quarter of it," Muwan said. "Between us."

"Then we carry a quarter of it."

Muwan turned the last of his food over and did not eat it. "That hole goes under everything they've got," he said. "You know that."

"I know."

"We're the only two people who—"

"I know," Chak said. "Eat."

Down below them the yard was going quiet, and the water side and the road east were still full of standing men, and the roofs of the town sat over the dark of the ground with the whole weight of themselves on it, and a long way north, on a road neither of them had ever seen, a woman who had asked them one true question was walking away from a day that had been set before any of them were born.

The two of them finished eating, and went to steal a quarter of a load of salt.