Warren dropped into the hollow the sentinel had made, his boots skidding as they hit uneven ground. The air was thick and damp, heavy with the sharp, earthy stink of fungus and rot. He craned his neck and shouted upward, his voice echoing strangely, as if the sound were being swallowed before it could fully travel."It’s dark as fuck in here, but it doesn’t seem that deep. I can hear the sentinel beelining for something. It feels like it dropped us into some kind of network. The mycelium above me is weird as hell when I look at it. It’s got bristly-looking growths, like it’s trying to grab anything that moves."
For a moment, there was only the faint shifting of soil and the distant, frantic noise of the sentinel tearing through something deeper in the tunnels. Then Imujin’s voice carried down, calm and curious.
"That’s common enough. Some fungi grow hardened, dew-like structures when they’re under stress or feeding aggressively. Let me come down and take a look."
Imujin hopped into the hole, landing lightly despite the uneven ground. He barely bent his knees as he absorbed the impact. Grix followed with less grace, grunting as he dropped, and then the rest of the party came down one by one. The confined space filled with quiet shuffles, muttered curses, and the scrape of boots against stone and packed earth.
When they were all down, Imujin lifted his hand. Flame curled around it, surrounding his palm and fingers in a steady, controlled sheath, turning his arm into a living torch. Warm orange light pushed the darkness back, shadows stretching and twisting along the tunnel walls. Layers of compacted soil were reinforced by thick bands of pale fungus, and the tunnel itself was wide enough for several people to walk side by side. Its walls curved in a subtle spiral, shaped by whatever the fuck had carved its way through here.
Imujin turned slowly, scanning everything with a critical eye. "This is interesting."
Warren crossed his arms and squinted into the light. "What’s interesting about it? Everything down here feels wrong."
Imujin frowned, studying the tunnel’s curvature and the repeating ridges along the walls. He crouched briefly and ran his fingers over the hardened fungal growths. "If I didn’t know any better, and to be clear, I don’t know anything about this place, I’d say we’re inside a giant worm tunnel. The structure matches what I’ve seen before. The fungus complicates it, but the shape is unmistakable. Something big moved through here, and the fungi moved in afterward to reinforce it."
Warren tilted his head and listened. The sentinel’s distant babbling echoed faintly, warped by the tunnels. "I can still hear it ranting about the heart. Whatever it is, it sounds closer than I’d like."
Imujin straightened and pointed to the left, where the tunnel sloped gently downward. "Then that way. The airflow is stronger there, and so is the sound."
The group nodded and fell into a loose formation as they started to move. The ground felt spongy underfoot in places, giving slightly before firming again. After only a few steps, Wren moved closer to Warren, her shoulders tight. Her voice stayed low, barely louder than the scrape of boots.
"Are we going to be safe in here? I can’t feel anything. No pull, no resistance, nothing at all."
Warren stiffened and turned to her, concern sharpening his expression. "You’re not connected to the world around you right now? Not even a little?"
Wren shook her head, unease plain on her face. "It’s really strange. This place feels like it doesn’t exist. As soon as I touched the ground, everything went black again, like whatever sense I rely on just shut off."
Grix snorted from behind them, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to slow down. "Comforting. Either we do what we came here to do, or we sit around and rot while whatever made this place comes back. I vote for dying horribly in some unknown direction instead of dying horribly while standing around doing fuck-all."
A few of them chuckled, the sound tight and forced, more habit than humor. The flame surrounding Imujin’s hand flickered, reacting to a sudden shift in the air.
Then the tunnel shook, dust and spores raining down from above as something massive moved somewhere deeper in the dark."
“Maybe we get ready for a fight?” Grix asked, his gaze sweeping the tunnel ahead as spores drifted lazily through the air.
Imujin laughed outright, the sound echoing off the curved walls. “Chucks, if there’s anything down here that could take us by surprise, then we’re already dead. Something that strong would kill us instantly if it struck from a place we couldn’t see. So don’t worry. It’s very unlikely there will be an engagement, let alone one we can’t handle.”
Tuhaka walked up behind him and slapped him on the back of the head, the sharp crack cutting cleanly through the echoes.
“She is right, little brother,” Tuhaka said flatly. “It is not wise to dismiss the possibility of danger. Even if we are powerful, we do not know what we are walking into. This place is old, layered, and wrong. Why would we give ourselves a disadvantage?”
Imujin rubbed the back of his head with his free hand and scowled, careful to keep his burning hand well away from his hair. “What disadvantage could we possibly be giving ourselves? My hand is literally on fire. That alone should discourage most things. Luckily, I remembered not to rub my head with that one. It wouldn’t be the first time I almost set myself on fire, and I really do not feel like explaining that again.”
“Yes, I remember,” Tuhaka said, a brief chuckle slipping through before her expression hardened again.
Alan stepped forward, impatience clear in his posture. His eyes stayed fixed down the tunnel, following the distant echoes of the sentinel. “I don’t want to wait. The longer we stand here, the farther it gets. Let’s just move.”
Liquid silver poured from his hand, flowing downward in a smooth, deliberate stream before hardening into a trident in midair. It was not black steel, which was strange, and the surface never fully settled. It shifted and flexed subtly, as if it were alive. Living nanite, maybe. A skill, maybe a modified weapon. Warren had no idea, but it was interesting as all hells to watch.
Hwasa cleared her throat, holding up a small sealed container. “Just so everyone knows, and for anyone who’s curious, I grabbed a sample of whatever that liquid was back up there. I’ve never seen it before, and I assume someone will want it tested later. Unique substances usually have unique properties, and I would rather not lose the chance to study it.”
Warren nodded, his attention split between her and the tunnel ahead. “Thanks for doing that. Still, I think the sentinel is getting away. It sounds like it’s moving farther off, and faster too. Should we start running?”
“Running is not what I would call it,” Tuhaka said, pulling a small axe from her waist. The weapon was barely larger than her hand, its edge dull-looking but heavy with intent. “Let’s go for a light jog.”
She stepped forward.
What would have been a jog for a normal person was nothing like what Tuhaka did. She looked relaxed, almost casual, but each step carried her farther than Warren’s void echoes ever had. The ground blurred beneath her feet as she moved down the tunnel, covering absurd distance with effortless strides.
“Oh, so we’re playing like that?” Alan said, a grin spreading across his face.
He dropped the trident to the ground. It melted instantly, spreading into a smooth sheet of silver beneath his feet. The liquid reshaped itself as he stepped onto it, flattening and stabilizing. He lifted off the ground and shot forward, the silver forming into a surfboard as he rocketed down the tunnel in a controlled arc.
Warren looked at Grix.
Grix grinned back, eyes bright. “I think it’s a race.”
Imujin slapped his own forehead, exasperation written all over his face. “Why does it always turn into this? I just wanted to walk. I wanted to relax. I genuinely thought this would be fun.”
Then he bolted.
Flame wrapped around his body, not touching him but clinging close as he launched himself forward. The heat rippled the air as he tore down the tunnel, laughter echoing wildly behind him. “Winner gets a shiny rock!”
Wren looked at Warren and said, “My love, my husband, the sweetest man I have ever known.”
Warren slowed just enough to look at her sideways and snort. “What, you filthy cheater? What do you want from me now?”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Is that any way to talk to your wife?” Wren said, batting her lashes shamelessly and pressing a hand to her chest. “Your darling, loving, really, really, really smoking hot wife?”
“Yeah, it is,” Warren said without hesitation. “Especially when she cheats at every single game we ever play. Also, I’m losing right now because I’m listening to you. I’m having a conversation while a race is happening, Hwasa already ran off, Grix is gone, and now it is just me and you falling behind.”
Wren clasped her hands together and leaned in closer. “My darling, please, can you assist me? I have no ability to move quickly through these tunnels, and I really do not want to get lost down here. Everything looks the same, and I’m fairly certain this place wants me dead.”
Warren narrowed his eyes. “Why are you talking like this? You have never spoken like this in your entire life, and it is deeply unsettling.”
“Okay, listen,” Wren said quickly, dropping the act for half a second before picking it right back up. “If you do not help me, I might not give you the surprise I was planning for later.”
Warren slowed another step. “What surprise?”
Wren hesitated, her mouth opening and closing once. “Okay, maybe I have not come up with the surprise yet. And maybe this is just another plan to get you to help me. But I actually need your help. There is no way I can keep up with them, and I do not feel like wandering these tunnels alone.”
Warren let out a long breath. “As long as you are not part of the game, I’m fine with that. I’m not carrying you if you are trying to win.”
Wren made an irritated sound, bit her thumb, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. I’m not going to join the race. I’m officially opting out.”
“Good,” Warren said. “All right, get your butt on my back.”
He crouched, bracing himself, and she climbed up, settling into a piggyback position with her arms looped around his shoulders and her chin resting near his ear. Warren focused and reached for Rain Dancer, instinctively trying to pull water toward himself to make the movement easier.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, pushing harder.
Still nothing.
Wren shifted slightly on his back. “Giddy up, pony.”
Warren glanced back at her over his shoulder. “I can’t. I don’t know what’s going on. Whatever is happening in this place is, it’s messing with things. I guess we’re walking.”
“That’s fine,” Wren said easily. “Like I said Giddy up, pony.”
She slapped him on the ass.
Warren stopped short. “Hey. Don’t do that. I will drop you.”
“No, you wouldn’t dare,” Wren said, sounding entirely certain.
She did it again.
He dropped her.
She hit the ground with a startled yelp and a sharp breath. “Hey!”
“I told you I would drop your ass if you did,” Warren said, smirking down at her. “Not my fault you did not listen.”
Wren stared up at him, incredulous, brushing dirt off her sleeves. “Really? I am your wife!”
“And you know I’m serious about anything I say,” Warren replied. “Unless I’m lying.”
She huffed, then nodded. “Fair enough. Now let me get back on your back.”
“No,” Warren said. “You’re walking.”
Wren stood, dusted herself off properly this time, then stepped back in close and wrapped her arms around his middle. “Princess carry me. I am not walking through creepy fungus tunnels on my own two feet.”
Warren groaned and rolled his head back. “Fine. I lost anyway. This race is already gone.” He glanced down the tunnel, listening to the distant echoes of movement. “I wonder who is getting the rock.”
“My bet’s on Grix,” Wren said. “She is slippery.”
“Honestly,” Warren said, picking his pace back up, “I think it’s gonna be Hwasa. There’s no way Tuhaka needed a head start if he planned was going to win.”
Warren hurried down the tunnel with Wren in his hands, boots pounding against the uneven floor as the walls blurred past them. The air rushed over his skin, carrying the damp, fungal stink deeper into his lungs, but he did not slow.
Wren shifted slightly in his grip and let out a small laugh. “Ya know,” she said, “this is actually nice. I could get used to this.”
Warren glanced down at her, careful not to break stride. “Honestly, this is not bad. I was going to make a joke, but I really do love holding you. It feels right.”
“Oh, aren’t you a sweetie,” Wren said, smiling up at him.
She lifted her hand, and Warren knew exactly what she was about to do. He braced himself for it, already preparing a complaint. Instead, she lowered her hand, leaned her forehead against his chest, and spoke more quietly. “I love you so much. You are a terrible person, but you are my terrible person.”
Warren felt his mouth curve into a grin. “You’re a terrible person too,” he said, “and I love you.”
They both chuckled, the sound echoing briefly before being swallowed by the tunnel.
“Okay,” Warren said after a few more steps. “So, it’s time for potatoes.”
Wren stiffened. “What do you mean, potatoes?”
He answered by shifting his grip and tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, one arm locking around her legs as he leaned forward and started running harder.
“Hey, you fucking bastard,” Wren shouted, thumping a fist uselessly against his back. “How dare you do this to me, you asshole. Put me down.”
“Are ya sure you want me to drop you now?” Warren asked, his voice steady despite the pace.
“Okay, no, don’t do that,” she said quickly. “But can you hold me properly again. Or at least let me get on your back.”
She paused, then added stubbornly, “No. Actually, I think we are catching up.”
Warren snorted and picked up speed.
The tunnel rushed past them faster, the ground blurring beneath his feet. Wren’s protests faded into a low groan as her body bounced with each step.
“I don't feel so good,” she muttered.
“If you are going to throw up,” Warren said calmly, “do it facing outwards. I really do not want to clean vomit off my jacket.”
“If I vomit,” Wren replied darkly, “it’s going directly on you.”
Warren laughed and ran harder.
The tunnel kept winding downward, curving and dipping in a way that made it hard to tell how deep they had gone. It felt like the ground was slowly being pulled out from under them, each step carrying them farther below the surface. At one point, Warren cracked a glow stick one-handed, the sharp snap loud in the enclosed space. He stuck it between his teeth, the chemical light spilling across the tunnel walls in a sickly glow, just enough to see where he was putting his feet as he kept moving.
She held it together until they caught up to the others, who were all standing still and staring at something ahead of them.
Warren slowed to a jog, then to a walk, his attention pulled forward. The light ahead grew brighter with every step, but it was not coming from Imujin’s hand. Whatever the source was, it lay just around the corner, casting a pale glow that spilled across the tunnel walls. All of the headmasters and Grix stood frozen, their attention fixed on the same point.
When Warren reached the corner, he saw it.
He stopped and gently set Wren back on her feet.
She immediately doubled over and threw up.
After a moment, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and straightened. “Okay,” she said hoarsely. “That was awful.”
She followed his line of sight, saw the way he had gone completely still, and frowned. “What is it?”
Warren did not answer. He simply lifted his arm and pointed.
Wren froze.
Vaeliyan did not know what he was looking at.
Gleck had shown him a holo reconstruction of something that felt both familiar and deeply wrong. Vaeliyan had seen it before, or at least fragments of it, impressions that had surfaced in past conversations and half-forgotten story. Even now, his mind refused to fully settle around the shape. The longer he looked, the more the image resisted becoming whole.
The reconstruction resolved into the form of a red-skinned man, tall and impossibly solid, with massive forking horns that twisted and curled upward in slow, deliberate arcs. A vertical slit ran down the center of the man’s forehead. It was neither a scar or a tattoo, and Vaeliyan found that his gaze slid away from it every time he tried to focus directly on it.
The figure’s feet were coated in a black ichor-like substance that looked fused to the flesh rather than worn over it, as though the ground itself had crawled up and claimed him. He wore almost nothing. There was no armor, no ornamentation, nothing to suggest rank or role. His body was bare and unashamed, marked only by scars that looked less like injuries and more like memories carved into skin. A long tail curved behind him, resting against the ground with casual certainty.
Across from him stood mechs the size of mountains.
They were not simply large. They distorted scale itself, their silhouettes so vast that Vaeliyan’s sense of distance faltered when he tried to judge how far away, they stood. Their shapes were angular and brutal, designs that belonged to an era that had not cared about elegance or efficiency, only dominance. Even frozen in reconstruction, they felt heavy with intent.
This was not footage of something real.
It was a reconstruction, layered together from fragmented accounts, degraded records, and second-hand descriptions that had been stitched into coherence by necessity rather than certainty. A story rendered solid enough to be observed. Solid enough to be believed.
It was a story Vaeliyan had heard before, long ago, and never taken seriously.
Yuri spoke beside him, his voice calm in that unsettling way of his, as though what they were looking at did not merit emotion. “This is what caused that city in the Princedom to vanish, or so I believe. There is a memory gap here. One of the memories I did not retrieve from my predecessor, my progenitor. I can feel the absence clearly. There were notes, references, contextual markers. The framework exists. But the memory itself was never accessible to me.”
He laughed.
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Four sharp, jarring sounds, evenly spaced.
Vaeliyan did not understand why Yuri kept doing that. It happened at regular intervals now, like a metronome he could never quite tune out. Almost ignorable. Almost. Each time it happened, it left a faint pressure behind his eyes, as though something had gone unsaid and refused to stay buried.
“What year is this from?” Vaeliyan asked. “Do you know?”
“I am not entirely certain,” Yuri replied. “I have looked extensively. There are no surviving records of anything like this. But as far as my inherited memories suggest, those are Mech Lords, from when they were functional. Not the statues the princedoms keep buried beneath their cities as monuments to the former Empire. Those are hollow echoes. These were war machines. They fought things like this.”
He gestured toward the red-skinned figure, his hand passing through the projected form without resistance.
“I would wager the natives know exactly what it is,” Yuri continued. “They always do. They will not tell me, but they always know.”
Vaeliyan frowned. “There are multiple types of natives, though. Different groups, different histories. It is not a single category.”
“Are there?” Yuri echoed mildly. “I have only ever met two. Well, I have not truly met this one.” He pointed again at the red-skinned man. “But there is at least one more in Nespói. We are fairly certain. Patterns suggest it.”
Yuri tilted his head, studying Vaeliyan instead of the projection. “What level are you?”
Vaeliyan blinked. The question felt abrupt. “I honestly have not checked in a while. After getting out of the Red and hitting fifty, everything accelerated.” He paused, then sighed. “Let me look.”
He pulled up his notifications, skimming past alerts he had not bothered to open.
Four level gains.
From the failed siege.
“Fifty-four,” Vaeliyan said aloud, the number feeling heavier than he expected.
“Good. Good. Good. Good,” Yuri said, nodding to himself. “Then this will work for you.”
He turned his attention to the room. “Room Ghost, retrieve Item ZX38–2. Alpha Gamma configuration. Version seven.” He paused. “No. Correction. Version Nine.”
“Yes,” the room replied after a moment. “I shall do that. At least this way, it will feel as though I have a purpose.”
The room’s voice sounded even more depressed than it had when Yuri first addressed it, as though the act of being useful was the only thing keeping it from shutting itself down entirely.