Broken Universe

Book One: Homecoming

By D.K. Landtroop

Broken Universe

Book One: Homecoming

Copyright ©2022 by D.K. Landtroop

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Dr. Timothy Nash

Because you give me drugs. Well, technically you give me prescriptions which I then take to get drugs.

Thank you for always taking care of me and my family, having just the right bit of humor, and a talent for carpentry I will envy forever. You will always be Grudluck to me (you never should have told me).

And no Denise, I haven’t forgotten you. May your motorcycle never fail, your helmet always fit, and your adventures never end.

Chapter One

Altlandia

Lines of people snaked across the land, stretching from the sprawling plaza of Light's Beacon Castle—a fortress perched on a grand island bisecting the flowing waters of the Great Maridine River—to the fertile plains beyond, where lush farmlands sustained the region.

Tens of thousands of humans, dwarves, elves, gnomes, beastkin, and a hundred other species of humanoid to insectoid lined the cobblestone streets. Along the main thoroughfare, flowering trees wrapped in decorative stone seating created a picturesque scene. The seats, claimed mostly by standing children and smaller folk, gave them a view above the crowd. As the trees shed their blossoms, petals fluttered through the air like snowfall, enchanting all who watched.

Every face shone with joy, free from gloom or worry. And why would anyone feel otherwise? Their beloved world champion and emperor had called for this celebration. Today was about peace, unity, and reaping the rewards of years of war and enjoying freedom from decades of strife.

I watched from high above the throng. The festive atmosphere was undeniable, and yet my heart beat faster than I cared to admit. Today was more than just a celebration for me. Today marked the start of a one-way voyage, a journey with no guarantee of return.

Sighing, I admitted to myself that I was no longer just taking in the sights below and I’d slid into procrastinating. I'd planned this for years, spending the last year meticulously setting up every detail for today's culmination. “Time to put on a show,” I muttered—then dove from a thousand feet up, crashing down in a perfect superhero landing at the capital’s gates. A heartbeat later, the sky behind me erupted in a blaze of conjured fireworks, painting the heavens with light and thunder.

My entrance had the desired effect as cheers erupted and spread out in every direction in a wave of sound. Floating back into the air high enough for everyone on each side of the street to see me, I moved along slowly while waving to my subjects. Behind me, an ethereal marching band of hundreds played conjured instruments.

Music, cheers, and the sounds of celebration saturated the city. Crescendos of oohs and aahs flowed from the crowd as a parade of wonders followed in after the band. From all corners of the magical world, the unique creatures had come. The Dragons of Mahzatha flew majestically while the merfolk maidens of the sea of Domis performed inside giant floating spheres of water.

A cacophony of sounds heralded the grand parade as leaders from across the lands, cities, and fiefdoms sent their floats, each adorned with unique designs and talented performers, showcasing the best of their realms. Vendors of goods and foods catered to the amassed crowds. There had never been a gathering or event like it in the world's history. Despite the sheer numbers inside and outside the capital, no crime worse than a mild jostling was committed.

“We love you!”

“Long live the emperor!”

“For peace and prosperity!”

Again and again, the same chants echoed in my ears as I floated above the cobblestone street to the castle. These were my people—the reason behind every war, every sleepless night, every sacrifice. Saving the inhabitants of this war-torn savaged world had been my sole focus for such a long time, I had almost forgotten who I was.

However, this wasn’t my world of birth, and my truest, most secret goal had always been to get back home. Once, that dream had been the only thing moving me forward until I found out there was no going back. Then my dream changed to saving my new home, and to do that I dedicated every waking hour to becoming the most powerful being this world had ever seen.

A world seemingly designed and born from the fantasies and dreams of gamers and geeks. A world where people could follow paths of progression becoming more than they were. And for me alone, it offered powerful classes, skills, and abilities all levelable with enough time, training, and grinding. And for a full-time gamer and nerd like me, ripe for exploiting. It didn’t hurt to have the same pantheon of deities that cracked open their sphere of existence to summon me, also granted me every advantage they could.

Strands of my dark brown, almost black, hair whipped about briefly as I continued my parade through the city. The jewel-encrusted mithral crown on my head stayed fixed thanks to a simple spell placed on the overly ornate symbol of office. The gleam in my green eyes came naturally as I acknowledged by way of a nod or a quick wave the hundreds of familiar faces in the crowds.

A crowd of veterans, some I'd led into battle, others who'd fought beside me, and some who'd once been under my command, had assembled to cheer me on. Memories, like a tidal wave of images and emotions, crashed over me, threatening to derail all my careful planning; the first days of training, new hard-won friendships, the sharp sting of betrayal, the feeling of triumph in our first victory, and the warmth of forgotten laughter all battled for dominance. Quickly re-centering myself, I allowed a few to slip through.

After the defeat of the demon hoards and the war of nine devils, the world was at long last fully freed. The past years had been spent using my considerable power to both rebuild their many cities, destroyed lands, and make sure they could take on any future threats. With the world restored, so too were the lost connections between the many peoples of Altlandia and their gods.

A grin spread across my face as I thought back to how a fifteen-year-old boy had so casually renamed a world far older than his own. Altlandia, a simple and silly play on words due to the alternate land I was trapped. When the powerful beings that summoned me endowed me with the position of their champion, it came with many perks I didn’t understand at the time. Back then, they had seemed so enigmatic and powerful.

As it turns out, the gods were much like me. People who had been ripped from their realities and brought here eons ago. They too had grown so powerful they surpassed all limits. Each one having specialized to such a degree, they became a representation of the areas they perfected. To keep the peace, they had made binding agreements with each other and sat back in their own little realms living like, well, gods. The memories of their humble beginnings were so distant, they felt like a fading echo in their minds.

Floating to the top of the castle’s gatehouse, I spent one last moment thinking of my conversation with the gods the night before.

“Are you sure you won’t join us? Once you return home, it will be as if you never left. Your power will be gone due to your realities' rules. Here you will have immortality, a place with us, and your own realm one day if you so wish.” The scent of wildflowers hung heavy in the air as Lucinda, goddess of earth and fertility, spoke almost longingly.

Her knee-length brown hair fell gracefully, creating a natural shield around her exquisite bare body, cleverly concealing her best features. In her bright brown eyes, one could catch a glimpse of emerald stars that added an enchanting sparkle. Her perpetually tanned skin gave off the scent of wildflowers. Once upon a time, she had been a simple Elven druid.

Smiling at the most beautiful of the goddesses, I answered her latest plea for me to stay. “I’m sure, Lucinda.” My informal tone with one of the sphere’s greater gods would have sent gasps of horror among the denizens if they had heard me. More than a few years had passed since she had practically commanded me to use her name, making it clear that anything else would be an offense.

“Then you shall be sorely missed, Son of the Song.” Her voice trembled with emotion as she spoke. My most ardent supporter’s eyes filled with unshed tears as she hugged me tightly, her grip almost painful in its intensity. As we held each other, a strange chill settled over me, and I felt the warmth of the hug dissipate. She broke away, her eyes filled with unspoken regret. Her head bowed in a final gesture, and then, with a soft sigh, she dissolved into a swirling mass of fragrant rose petals.

Never to let an emotional moment pass without a quip, Loptr, the trickster god, remarked, “It’s not love that makes a relationship complicated; it’s the people in it who do.”

Still staring at the spot Lucinda had disappeared, I calmly replied, “I miss my family, Loptr. I truly care for this world and yes, Lucinda, but I would never be able to give her what she wants or deserves. No offense, but usually your advice is less straightforward.”

His reply came swiftly and with more than a hint of amusement, “Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties—or if you prefer, I think you’re an idiot.”

I let out a small sigh, my gaze sweeping over the assembled gods, before settling on Loptr. His chosen dress being the height of fashion in the lands of his favored people and primary worshippers, the kitsune. The way he dressed was fascinating, combining the exaggerated flair of a European dandy from the fifteenth century with the refined elegance of geisha attire, a look that was both striking and unusual, yet fully in keeping with the trickster.

As the last shimmering traces of Lucinda's rose petals faded, a silence settled over the divine assembly. Loptr’s smirk lingered, but even his usual mischief was tempered by the weight of the moment.

“Then this is indeed goodbye,” said Zephyrion, god of storms and wisdom, his thundering voice subdued, as if the very heavens mourned my departure. His simple commoner’s attire was a stark contrast to Loptr. He had given me much advice over the years. Of all the deities in this realm, the restrictions against directly interfering with mortals weighed most heavily on him.

No words seemed adequate, so instead I gave a final nod, taking in the faces of gods who had become my unlikely companions. They had watched me rise, stood by me as I stumbled, and ultimately witnessed me reshape a broken world under constant demonic siege. Because of them, I was taken from my home, yet because of them I became more than I could ever imagine.

“It’s not goodbye,” I whispered under my breath. “It’s just… until next time.” None of them believed I would be able to come back, and if I’m honest, in my heart I knew this was goodbye. Turning away from the gathering of deities, I left to prepare for today.

Back in the here and now, I finished my part in the parade as the road split both left and right in front of the walls of the castle. Giving one more wave to the crowd, I flew into the heart of the towering edifice I’d built with magic. Everyone inside had been prepared for weeks for what was to come. No one tried to stop me anymore, although many a watery eye met my gaze while others openly cried. My generals, along with the high council, stood resolute, each saluting me in their own way.

Again, part of me wanted to turn back, yet my burning desire to see my parents, my home, quickly won out. Moving steadily, I descended beneath my throne room into the Nexus Chamber.

Beneath lay a space forgotten by time — a circular chamber of crystalline stone carved with ancient sigils. The air vibrated with raw, untapped power, thick enough to taste. Intricate runes spiraled outward from a raised dais at the center, where a single obsidian pedestal stood. It was the reason why I had built my castle and capital here.

This was no ordinary chamber. It was the epicenter of the arcane towers, a focal point where the world's mana converged — a convergence I had spent years preparing to harness. Here, I would rewrite fate.

With a single pulse of will, I sent out a simple command. Arcane towers across the world began to wake as ancient ley lines connected them. Towers far below the surface, buried by time and soil, sunken towers covered by millennia of silt, barnacles and coral, all the way to the tops of mighty mountains hidden in the clouds. Each one began to burn bright with the trapped mana of ages. They stirred from slumber, their ancient cores awakening in a synchronized symphony of magic.

If I had known about the towers, if any of us had known, the demon invasions would have been stopped in their tracks. The Gods would never had need of me, so great was the power stored within the ancient edifices. Each tower, in truth, was both mana collector and battery constructed eons ago by a people lost to time.

Yet even things lost to history may survive, carried on the wind in legends, myths, and stories, shared in the flickering firelight of campfires and passed down through generations, preserving the tales of the builders, otherworldly beings of great power. Not being a native, I accepted their stories as true, never dismissing them as mere myths. Discovering the towers took time, patience, and knowledge born of my home world, geology and climate. I simply looked where no one had ever thought to look before.

The ritual itself was simple enough—holding little theatrics or fanfare. In most ways, it was essentially a simple gate spell backed with enough mana to tear a hole in reality and force a long dormant tether to wake up. Now awake, the towers sent their mana out faster than lightning, faster and faster it moved from all across the world. In seconds, it filled the nexus chamber, running through channels cut across every stone floor, wall, and ceiling.

The intricate network of channels, or more precisely, the glowing circuits, had been designed to both contain and direct all the power to this single fixed point deep within the castle's damp, echoing bowels, focusing it all in the central chamber where I now stood. With pure focus and intent, I once again sent a command, this one to the preset ritual carved on the floor, the spell to send me home. Pure magical force infused the ritual, and the world trembled.

As the arcane towers poured the last of their long-stored power into the chamber, I felt the weight of what I was about to do. To leave this world behind was to sever a part of my soul. Yet, my heart yearned for home — for the family I had long thought lost.

“Altlandia,” I whispered one last time, feeling the name settle over me like a benediction.

Ten paces away, a black hole shimmered into existence, its sapphire-blue halo pulsing with an ethereal light and a low hum resonating through the air. The gravitational pull tugged at my very essence, and I felt the world resist my departure, as though Altlandia itself was loath to let me go.

With one last breath of this world’s air, the world I’d saved, the world of magic, the world of wonders, I whispered a silent goodbye to all I'd built. Then I stepped into the light—and reality shattered.

Chapter Two

Harbinger

[Adjusting attunement to human and new destination preferences…]

[Success!]

Momentarily disoriented, the appearance of the words helped give me some small frame of reference. However, beyond them was the vast darkness of space, not filled with stars but with uncountable spheres from unfathomably large to seemingly so small they could fit in the palm of my hand. It was the space between universes, known to the deities of Altlandia as The Tethers. A simple name that described it quite well for between every sphere dozens to millions of ethereal tethers connected them.

[Adjusting levels to fit new physics…]

[Error!]

What? There shouldn’t be any adjustment… should there?

[New physics incompatible with old physics…]

[Error!]

Of course they’re incompatible. But it’s not like I’m trying to bring any artifacts or other magical items with me.

[Possible fix found…]

Fix for what? Is it possible I made a mistake? I quickly reviewed my memories of checking and rechecking each step of my work countless times. Where did I go wrong?

[Permission required…]

Permission? From who?

[Waiting on sphere’s deity(s) response…]

Since when did we have deities back on earth? Oh crap! Does that mean the myths are true? Have they just been off vacationing or somehow locked away? From what I learned of spheres, they almost all had deities of some sort, but some didn’t. How much the gods got involved varied as much as the spheres they ruled.

[…]

[HOLY *#%@!]

[The ONE ABOVE ALL has granted permissions and requirements…]

[Good luck human…]

The One Above All? God? Like God, God?

[Commencing deleveling…]

Deleveling? Okay, no worries, that’s expected. I’d breathe a sigh of relief, but currently I didn’t seem to have a body. That, too, was expected, based on my research into traveling between spheres.

[All levels and power drained to facilitate universal requirements…]

[Warning!]

[Cataclysmic change initiated!]

[Universal system broken!]

[Universal system reset!]

System, what system? Earth didn’t have a system, did it?

[Resetting age and arrival time to compensate…]

Resetting my age? No. No, no—please, not a baby. Anything but a baby.

[Resetting mental and physical attributes to compensate…]

[Compensating…]

[Cataclysmic power shift required!]

[All Powers, Spells, and Enhanced Abilities: Removed]

[Skills Removed: Bushcraft: legendary, Enchanting: legendary, Herbalist: legendary, Jeweler: legendary, Masonry: legendary, Runesmith: legendary, Spellweaver: legendary, Woodworking: legendary, Weaver: master]

[Skills Lowered: Alchemy, Archery, Blacksmithing, Cooking, Legerdemain, Perception, Tailoring, Tracking]

The messages came faster now—each one worse than the last, each one a punch I couldn’t block. Then the darkness consumed me, the spheres and tethers fading into nothingness, leaving only an oppressive void. A cold dread began to creep into my mind, like icy fingers tightening around my heart.

[Initializing…]

[Success!]

[Subject zero awakening…]

[New Interface Initiating…]

Words drifted in the darkness, accompanied by a mild, unrelenting torment. It was like the tingling pins-and-needles of a limb waking up—but everywhere, all at once. Trying to open my eyes triggered a lance of searing pain. Around me there was a background noise that sounded somehow familiar, yet distant. Every attempt to move or speak proved fruitless, leaving me feeling trapped and helpless.

It was evident that something had gone horribly wrong. If I’d made it home, then I shouldn’t be seeing messages. And why couldn’t I see or feel anything but prickling discomfort and a crippling weariness growing by the second? Waves of exhaustion threatened to send me to sleep, but again messages flared into my mind's eye.

[Title Gained!]

[You are the Harbinger]

[You are the catalyst and, as such, unique opportunities and dangers may surround you. Ability granted: True Sight! Should you survive and rise in power, new abilities may be gained.]

[Warning!]

[Status Effects: Fatigue! Hunger! Thirst! Atrophy!]

[New Status Screen Available…]

[Displaying Screen]

[Kyle: Status Overview]

[Class: Unclassified (Human)] [Level: 0]

[Health: 8/100 (Critical)]

[Attributes]

[STR: 1] [END: 1] [AGI: 1] [INT: 6] [CHA: 6]

[Status Effects]

[⚠ Fatigue: -25% physical abilities]

[⚠ Hunger: gradual health drain]

[⚠ Thirst: gradual endurance loss]

[⚠ Atrophy: severe strength and agility reduction]

[Skills]

[Alchemy: journeyman, Archery: expert, Armed Combat (Blades, Improvised, Polearms): legendary, Blacksmithing: journeyman, Cooking: journeyman, Disarm Trap: legendary, Gymnastics: legendary, Legerdemain: journeyman, Mining: legendary, Perception: journeyman, Stealth: legendary, Swimming: legendary, Tailoring: journeyman, Tracking: journeyman, Unarmed Combat: legendary]

[Title: Harbinger (Grants: True Sight)]

[Daily Quest]

[Move any part of your body]

[Sleep.]

My hard-earned skills, magical powers, and abilities were all lost or diminished. Worse, my physical attributes had bottomed out at one, and my mental attributes were massively lowered. No more near divine level intellect for me then, and it already showed by how slowly my mind was processing everything.

I never expected to keep any of my magic-based abilities and powers, but my enhanced attributes and skills I assumed would come with me. Maybe that was always wishful thinking though. Worst of all was my current state. With only eight health remaining, I was on the verge of death.

The old familiar menu had undergone a few subtle changes as well. Home—Earth—didn’t have menus, magic, or quests. At least it didn’t before I left. According to the alerts, my spell to get back broke the laws governing my home universe. Which meant I was truly in uncharted territory. The rules of the Altlandia sphere didn’t necessarily apply here.

My thoughts kept fading as I fought the pain and fatigue weighing down both my body and mind. Instead of worrying about answers that would come in the future, I made a conscious effort to stay present in the moment. The new system gave me a quest and with quests came rewards.

With all my strength, I concentrated on moving each part of my body in succession, feeling the effort in every limb. First, I focused on moving my hands, then gradually I shifted my attention to my arms and legs, hoping to pull off even the slightest movement. Just being able to wiggle my right ear would feel like a major accomplishment.

Unfortunately, I couldn't even muster the strength to open my eyes. I found myself drifting in and out of a tranquil state of sleep, each time being gently pulled back to reality. Despite waking up with the same overwhelming fatigue, I pushed myself to move.

A small shriek interrupted my efforts. “Oh, my God! He’s awake! Get the doctor!”

As the minutes, or possibly hours, ticked by, my weary mind struggled to distinguish the countless voices that seemed to encircle me. They spoke about my vital signs, analyzing everything from my heart rate to the rhythm of my breathing. Several times I felt people touching my fingers and toes. One voice stood out among the others.

Even in my fog, that voice cut through. Safe. Solid. Dad.

“You can do it, son. Just a finger. Just a toe.” His voice—equal parts exhaustion and triumph—was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. It reminded me of the triumphant cheers the men made when we emerged victorious from the years' long demon wars. I focused all my energy on willing the hand he held to return his grip.

“That’s it, son, that’s it!”

Mentally smiling, I passed out into a deep sleep.

[Quest completed!]

[Reward: 100 Experience]

****

[Daily Quest]

[Drink water and move both hands and feet.]

Given the alert waiting on me when I woke up, I assumed I’d been out for a day, or at least overnight. Given my new lot in life, I wasn’t going to complain about the previous day’s reward or the bar for a daily quest being set so low. Besides, I had more important things to do right now.

“Dad—Mom?” My voice came out raspy and quiet.

My mom’s voice, excited, sad, and happy all at once, greeted me, “Kyle! I’m here, sweetheart—it's mom! Dad had to step out, but he will be back soon. Oh Kyle, I’ve missed you.”

Something wet hit my face, and I realized it was my mother’s tears. She must have been leaning over me while talking. The feeling of kisses stormed my forehead while the scent of her favorite lavender soap hit my nose, bringing with it a flood of memories.

And then I was asleep again.

At some point, I woke up again just long enough to fulfill the day’s quest. Sleep came for me again, carrying with it bizarre dreams of eldritch gates.

[Quest completed!]

[Reward: 100 Experience]

****

My eyes opened slowly as I awoke from a sleep deeper than any I could remember. Within moments, my mother and father were hugging me.

“Just rest, son. The doctors say you will need a lot of sleep.” Dad’s voice, strong and reassuring, washed over me; a familiar comfort I'd longed for.

My thoughts slipped out in a raspy voice before I could vet them, “Dad—Mom—I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You did nothing wrong. Kyle, do you know where you are? What happened?” My mom asked, her voice growing steadier with each word. Naturally, my ever-inquisitive mother would want to know what happened to me. So did I, at least, what happened from their perspective.

“He needs rest, Bel.”

“Of course, never mind about all that. We love you Kyle.”

To my coma-weakened eyes, both of them were a blur. In fact, everything was a blur, except for the menu floating in front of me.

[Daily Quest]

[Move your fingers and toes ten sets of ten.]

[Sleep.]

Well, that confirmed the previous waking period hadn’t been a dream. That day’s quest felt like a marathon in slow motion. I methodically curled each finger and toe, the repetitive action accompanied by the persistent beeping of medical equipment. Upon completion of my task, familiar words appeared.

[Quest completed!]

[Reward: 100 Experience]

Despite my exhaustion, I tried activating True Sight—only to be rewarded with a blinding stab behind my eyes. The pain reminded me of casting powerful magic while injured in Altlandia. True Sight wasn't common back there, but it wasn’t rare either. Here on earth, used right, it alone would give me a major advantage. That is, if the pain only lasted until I recovered and if magic was really working here. Two big ifs that held both potential and dread. If magic worked for me, did that mean it now worked for others, and what else did my trip home break? What else might it have awakened or brought to Earth?

Sleep claimed me again, dragging me into dreams of tuxedoed orcs brawling with imps at a high school dance.

Chapter Three

Dave

I’d never been much of a church guy, but I prayed like crazy when they found Kyle in a coma. Every night. Every spare minute. Other than his parents, no one spent more time by his bedside than me. And now he was awake.

He was awake.

I should’ve been nothing but thrilled. But instead, I was standing in my bedroom, staring at the card Kristen made—the one we both signed. She used those glitter pens she liked, and I’d added the little drawing of a sword because… well, Kyle would get the joke. We’d always been into fantasy stuff. Old-school RPGs, spell lists, all that. Nerd stuff. But now?

Now, I was the one shaking, holding a card that said “Welcome back, hero.” My fingers smudged the glitter on the card without meaning to.

Because deep down, I wasn’t sure I deserved to write anything to him at all.

I tried to tell myself it was harmless. Kristen and I had kissed, once. Twice. Okay, a few times. We’d both been worried about him, and she kept coming around. At first, it was about Kyle. Then it wasn’t.

I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t go after her. Kristen kept saying Kyle would’ve wanted us to lean on each other. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe it because I wanted her.

But Kyle liked her. Okay, be honest, he’d been crushing on her for years before he finally got the courage to ask her out. Turned out she liked him too. They were finally about to go out; he had been so excited he rushed over to tell me. That was right before… everything.

And then he was gone. Not just coma-gone. He was found miles from anywhere. No accident. No signs of struggle. Just… gone. Doctors said maybe a seizure, some kind of rare neuro-thing. No one knew. There wasn’t a scratch on him. And the worst part? He was heading home from my place when it happened.

So yeah, I felt like garbage. Even now. Especially now. Because my best friend was awake. And I didn’t know what to say to him. Kristen and I made the card together. At the time, it felt like something. Now it just felt… lame.

Months ago, we agreed to break things off for Kyle—even as she kept telling me we’d done nothing wrong. He deserved his chance. And I knew I wouldn’t survive the guilt if I stole that from him.

It was a good plan. It really was.

But now—now we were in a relationship.

I sat down at my desk, flipping open my notebook where I was supposed to be outlining the endocrine system. I had been on track to graduate early until losing my best friend. How was I supposed to focus on pituitary glands and advanced calculus when my best friend might never wake up? Since then, my notes were a mess, half doodles, eventually turning into half guilty thoughts scrawled in the margins.

What was I supposed to say?

“Hey man, glad you’re alive. Sorry I made out with the girl you liked while you were out cold. Oh yeah, we’ve been sort of low-key dating for months now. We good, bro?”

Real smooth.

I dropped my pen and pressed my palms against my eyes. Maybe I could just keep it light when I visited. Bring the card, act normal. Ask about his recovery. Joke about Skyrim or D&D or something, try to keep it like old times. The truth was, he may not even be the same after a year in a coma. His brain could be mush or he could remember everything, and a year ago was just last night to him.

A buzz from my phone jolted me out of the spiral. A message from Kyle’s mom:
“Hey Dave, Kyle’s awake again this morning. Still tired, but he asked for water. ❤️ Thank you for checking in. We hope you can visit soon.”

I stared at the screen. My chest felt too tight.

Visit soon.

I would. Of course I would.

But not today.

I wasn't ready.

Chapter Four

Coma Kid

“Dude, you look like shit. But then again, everyone thought you were dead, so I guess being a dried-up cow patty is better.” Pausing to further look me over, he grinned before adding. “You are going to get so many sympathy dates out of this—that is—if you play your cards right.”

“Dave, is that you?” My raspy voice barely got the question out.

Without skipping a beat, he responded with a clever comment that matched my recollection of his quick wit. “Oh crap, did you wake up all amnesia guy? Because if you did, I don’t still owe you twenty bucks and a new player’s handbook.”

Dave had been my best friend for years, since we were just two kindergartners crying for their parents. Staring over at him through the haze of my condition, he appeared mostly the same as when I left, with some peach fuzz and maybe an extra inch or two of height. His blonde hair was now cut short compared to the longer heavy metal look he used to sport, and somewhere along the way he'd lost all his kid pudge, replaced by the lean build of someone who’d outgrown the awkward phase. His new look suited him for a sixteen-year-old, or rather, a seventeen-year-old.

We stared at each other for a moment before his grin faded and tears welled in his eyes, causing their blue to stand out more. His voice, filled with sincerity, trembled as he said, “Sorry, man, I freaking missed hearing your stupid jokes and seeing your dumb face every day. I swore I wouldn’t make you deal with me going all teary-eyed on you.” Wiping his eyes, he added, “The doctors all said you waking up was unlikely on the scale of dinosaurs coming back unlikely.” Leaning down, he gave me a gentle and brief hug.

“Water please.” I asked while grasping for the bed controls and raising myself up. “I’m still weak as a kitten but getting stronger fast.” For a moment, I entertained the idea of telling him everything but thought better of it. If I did, I wanted it to happen away from here and from any potential prying eyes or ears.

Holding up a cup of water for me, his shock when I casually reached for it clearly showed. Damn, I forgot people don’t recover this fast from a coma. Acting weaker was going to be a serious problem for me. If I’m not careful, someone’s going to call the CDC—or worse, a military lab. The staff already gave me too many odd looks. Taking a long sip, I asked, “Can you slide that table over here?”

Sliding the customary hospital table over the bed, he stared as if studying me. Instead of sitting the cup down, I took another long sip while avoiding his eyes. Dave wasn’t dumb, and we were both more nerd than geek. Meaning we made good grades and loved learning stuff, on top of being into all the usual sci-fi and fantasy stuff.

“Sorry for staring. It's just when your mom called. She said you just woke up a few days ago, not weeks. Even the news got it wrong,” he stated with a bit of an edge.

“Wait, what news?” That’s all I needed right now, more people watching me.

Laughing, he answered, “Dude you’re a coma kid that woke up. The news covered you from outside the hospital and the newspaper ran a small article on you. Come to think of it, you are getting both the waking from a coma thing and the fame thing. When you get out, you should immediately call Kristen.” Raising his voice as he showed what seemed to be a forced smile, he added, “No, you should call her before you get out. Let her see the brave coma survivor in his hospital bed recovering.” Spreading out his hands for dramatic flair, he continued, “Upon awakening, you had only one thought, and that thought was… Kristen. She will positively swoon, bro.”

Dave’s ability to make up crazy yet almost plausible scenarios was truly a marvel. Kristen had been my crush years ago, a fact that now seemed like ancient history, at least from my perspective. There would be no women for me in the foreseeable future, or at least until my body hit eighteen, and I met a woman closer to my actual age. Legal or not, I couldn’t get past the ick factor — not just the mental age gap, but the utter lack of shared experience.

“Sadly, no women for me, man. I may be doing better than expected after waking up a few days ago, but I still have a road to recovery and, according to my parents, a year of schoolwork they won't let me skip out on. But enough about me and my epically long nap. Tell me everything that’s been going on with you and leave nothing out.”

“That settles it then. I’ll tell you everything I’ve been up to the past year but know this…” Leaning in close, he whispered in my ear, “Either you're an alien impersonating my friend, or there’s some weird supernatural crap going on. Because no way does my best friend turn down a chance to be alone with Kristen, and no one recovers this fast.” Pausing, he leaned back up, giving me a concerned look before asking, “What was I always going to be when I grew up?”

Remembering countless conversations, I knew exactly what he always planned on doing for a future career. “A doctor, research stuff like your hero Edward Jenner, the vaccine guy.”

Face crinkling, he gave me a look of disdain that I remembered all too well. “He was far more than just that vaccine guy. He’s saved more lives than anyone in history and he did it when doctors were still bleeding people and believed in the four humors.”

“I still believe in humors, even if you lose yours every time we talk about that guy.” I replied with a grin.

“My humors may be gone… but they’ll return and in greater numbers.” He couldn’t help but giggle at the stupid joke we used to make all the time. “Okay, you're not an alien, but something's up with your recovery. It’s too fast, like maybe they experimented on you. Maybe you could share anything your doctors tell you when you can.”

Staring at him for a moment, I thought it over. I still trusted my old, if still younger, friend. It’s not like we were decades apart and more than a few back in Altlandia would argue over their emperor’s maturity. “I promise to tell you what's what when I know myself. Now, tell me how you’ve been, starting with the hair.”

He spent the next hour bringing me up to speed on high school life, the details a mix of excited chatter about new romances, hot video game releases, and the must-know events I'd missed. Multiple times he brought up Kristen, enough for me to suspect there was more to it than he was letting on. I could have sat listening for hours more, but the nurse came to shoo him away. As he turned to go, Dave held out his fist. Without thinking, I tapped it with mine and followed it up with the triple-snap, finger-gun finish we made up in middle school. He grinned. “Still got it.”

With Dave gone, I took a good look around the room, noting the large number of flowers, cards, and balloon bouquets. Most came from my parents' friends and people associated with their work. One stood out in the mix, a small handmade card featuring flying books drawn to look like old encyclopedias having a conversation. Squinting, I read what each flying book said to the other.

“I’m retiring from the library?”

“Why?”

“It’s just time I started a new chapter in my life.”

Inside the card was a hastily scribbled, “I hope you get over your coma soon.”

The handwriting looked rushed, and not remotely familiar. Staring at the card, I couldn’t help but notice it was unsigned. Maybe the card had simply made it to the wrong room. Shrugging my shoulders, I knocked out the latest daily quest before slipping back into sleep.

Chapter Five

Maddie

“I love your dress. It’s so retro. Did you get it at Before Times?” The bubbly twenty-something girl behind the counter commented as I placed my most recent find on the counter.

“Thanks, but no—I made it myself.” Before Times was a local thrift store a lot of college kids frequented. Apparently, retro styles were back in again, which probably made the fifth time in my short life. At this rate, dated clothes would be in and out every other month. Technically, my dress was influenced by older styles, but it also brought in modern influences, colors and design. Rather than a purely vintage look, it was a stylish fusion of fifties and futuristic design.

“Well, it looks very trend and not at all boujee.” I repressed a full-body shudder at the latest buzzwords, sure they'd go the way of the dinosaur within a year.

Behind her, a mirror stretched the length of the back counter, casting my reflection in full. My shoulder-length black hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon that matched my handmade dress. White nylon socks climbed to just below my knees, mostly hidden beneath the calf-length hem. My skin was pale—closer to porcelain than peach. No amount of sunshine had ever managed to give me a tan, however sunburns were always on the menu.

Picking up the book I’d selected, she turned it over, looking for the price tag while still making conversation. “Looks like this old thing will be twenty bucks. Books have to be some of the best decor.” Moving it around in her hand, she added, “This one is kind of small but thick. It may be old, but it’s got a great design for the binding and cover. I’d totally use it in a stack feature.”

Once again, I fought back a shudder, the urge to retort with my true feelings barely suppressed.

I paid the cashier in cash—mostly coins saved from selling my crafts—and left the shop cradling the book like it was a relic of power instead of a dust magnet with fake Latin and bonus mold spores. The sunlight outside felt fake after the cozy gloom of the bookstore, and I squinted all the way to the bus stop.

Once home, I dropped my bag with a satisfying thunk, kicked off my flats, and laid the book reverently on my desk. It was hideous, but beautifully hideous. Weathered leather, warped spine, gilded lettering that had faded into invisibility. I half expected it to hiss when I opened it.

Instead, it creaked.

The inside was worse. Handwritten gibberish mixed with actual diagrams, and the table of contents had a big coffee stain that looked suspiciously like someone had tried to erase it with sandpaper. I flipped to a dog-eared page about halfway in. The heading read: ‘Lucentia Minor: The Calling of First Light’

“Okay, now we’re talking.”

It was a ritual, all right. Long and ridiculous. Required total silence, an hour of breathing exercises, a four-point hand gesture she was supposed to hold for fifteen minutes at a time, and a spoken phrase at the end that looked like a tongue twister designed to summon spit.

I stared at it for a long moment, then cracked my knuckles.

“Well,” I muttered, “it’s not like I had plans tonight.”

I spent the next hour preparing the ritual, following every faded word verbatim. White sand courtesy of my old sandbox, a gift built by my dad. Feathers from a bird of flight, already in my collection of things found while walking our local nature trails. Various spices that were probably hard to get centuries ago, but now only took a short walk to the kitchen. The longest bit was getting the positioning of everything just right.

The lights were off. My room smelled like beeswax and cinnamon—thanks to a tea candle I’d lit in a moment of theatrical impulse. The book lay open on a pillow in front of me, anchored by the small geode paperweight I used to keep the wind from tossing my spell notes out the open window.

I sat cross-legged, back straight, hands raised with palms cupped toward each other like I was holding an invisible snow globe.

And I was sweating.

"Okay," I whispered. “Last part.”

I took one more breath—deep and slow—and then spoke the final line exactly as written, pronunciation guesses and all.

“Lūmēra, miya threx avalonnar.”

The moment I said it, I expected… well, nothing. Or maybe for the candle to flicker in a vaguely magical way. What I didn’t expect was the slight pressure behind my eyes, the sudden warmth at my fingertips, and then—

A flicker. Soft and blue, like moonlight trapped between my palms.

I gasped. The flicker turned into a pulse. A sphere no bigger than a ping-pong ball shimmered to life between my hands, flickering softly like bioluminescence underwater.

It held for maybe four seconds. Then it blinked out.

I sat there, stunned.

"Okay," I whispered again, but this time in a completely different tone.

This was real.

I scrambled for my phone, nearly knocking over the candle. My fingers trembled as I opened my texts. There was a new one at the top—from Emma.

“Coma guy’s awake. Kyle Sangster. News vans have been all over town today. Too bad you only volunteer there on weekends or you could have been on TV!”

The air felt suddenly too thick.

Kyle was awake.

I just used magic.

Somewhere deep in my brain, a door cracked open.

Are they connected? There was one surefire way to find out.

I’d just walk up and ask him.

Chapter Six

Zero Level Human

One lovely perk of being confined to the hospital was it had an amazing view. Nestled just outside Chattanooga, close to the majestic, fog-wreathed Smoky Mountains, the location seemed small and peaceful despite its actual size. Chattanooga, a small city in its own right, possessed a certain beauty and vibrancy absent in many other less attractive urban centers. The smell of fresh mountain air mixed with city scents created a unique aroma.

The biggest drawback of the hospital wasn't the endless tests—which were getting increasingly difficult to dodge—but the sheer impossibility of finding a moment alone. To my doctors, I was an anomaly just from waking up and not being mentally handicapped. My recovery, though I tried to hide it, was moving far too swiftly. They were frustrated at not understanding what was going on with their patient, or more accurately, lab rat, and wanted to test me every five minutes. Meanwhile, I was frustrated that my healing ability was gone. If it weren’t, I’d have been at a hundred percent days ago.

They’d moved me from the LTAC—long-term acute care—to this place under the guise of ‘further treatment and monitoring.’ Unofficially, and more accurately, I was here because the doctors wanted to poke, prod, and otherwise use me as a test subject. Too bad for them, their desire to use me for research didn’t work for me and my plans.

Thanks to careful wording and making sure to ask in front of my parents, I’d been given permission to walk outside with one of the nurses each day. It was the work of a full day to pick which nurse would be the best choice. After covertly sniffing a half dozen of them, I found my girl, Nurse Denise. I knew she was the best choice when I smelled the pungent scent of tobacco on her. Within moments of my walk ending at the outdoor seating, she took the opportunity to go sneak a smoke while I sat staring at the scenery. Or at least that’s what she would assume I was staring at.

My status screen back on Altlandia had never been so small and less full of details. I was now a zero-level human and despite the daily quests that kept ratcheting up the exercise regime; I hadn’t leveled or gained a single ability point. However, my debuffs were finally starting to go away.

“Should you be out here?” A feminine voice sounded to my left, startling me.

Glancing over, I took in the sight of a girl who looked around my physical age. Her hair was pulled back into what appeared to be a fifties-style bun. Her makeup seemed minimal yet pronounced all at once. Bright red lipstick with a bit of rouge on the cheeks accentuated her ivory skin. Mixed with her candy striper attire, she looked as though she stepped out of an old magazine ad or movie. Recognizing her, I blinked. “Maddie?”

She smiled, tilting her head just slightly. “You remember me.”

“Yeah,” I said, sitting up a little straighter. “From school. You were always in the library, right? Wrote your essays by hand when everyone else used laptops.”

“Still do,” she said, crossing her arms lightly. “And you were always reading or playing some board game with David… then… well, you were the guy who disappeared.”

I winced. “Disappeared. Guess that’s one way to put it. Oh, and he goes by Dave.”

Nodding, she stepped a little closer, but didn’t sit down. Her gaze lingered on me—not in awe, but like she was doing an internal puzzle. “So… you’re really okay?”

“I’m alive, if that’s what you mean.” I gestured to the hospital gown. “Can’t say I recommend the whole coma thing. Too much paperwork.”

She didn’t laugh. Just nodded, slowly. “When you woke up a few days ago. Do you know the time you woke up?”

There was something there behind her eyes. This was more than just a simple question for her. “Around four o'clock, from what I was told.”

Moving closer, her voiced lowered as she slowly spoke, “The thing is… I’ve been trying to decide if I’m imagining things. Or if something really did happen.”

I studied her more closely. Maddie had always seemed a little different—soft-spoken, sharp-eyed, with that old-soul energy. If I recalled correctly, she had also been very direct when speaking, skipping past normal social cues and getting right to whatever she was thinking. Apparently, this wasn’t just a random visit.

“What kind of ‘something’?” I asked carefully.

She hesitated. “I tried something. It would have been at about the same time they said you woke up. You’ll probably think it’s silly.” Pausing, she seemed to steel herself before she went on, “A ritual from a book I bought at a secondhand shop. Mostly, I thought it would just be a fun way to pass the time. But when I finished it… something happened.”

My heart began to race at her words.

Her voice dropped a little. “Just a flicker. A little light. Probably a trick of the candle or my brain playing games.”

“And you think it’s connected to me?” I asked, not accusing—just… surprised. This girl was either a deductive genius or something else was at play.

She met my gaze. “You woke up right after. The timing was weird. And—this is going to sound crazy—I felt like something snapped into place. Like a gear clicking in a machine I didn’t know I was part of. An image of you flared in my mind.”

I didn’t say anything right away. I couldn’t. Part of me wanted to brush her off. There was already a mounting number of issues for me to deal with. Could I really add any more to my plate? And yet, this issue was partly my fault. Intentional or not. Guilt was there. Minor. Insignificant. Because at the end of the day I might have been the one trying to come home, but I sure wasn’t the deity or deities that made the rules that allowed or made all this happen.

Ultimately, it wasn't guilt that got me. It was that she looked so certain. Not desperate. Just… honest. But I wasn’t ready to divulge my past or even what my theories were just yet.

“You’re not crazy,” I said finally.

That startled her. “You believe me?”

“I believe you believe it. And I’ve seen enough to keep an open mind.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… loaded.

Then something else tugged at me. That sense of something just out of view. Maddie didn’t feel normal—not in the ‘I’m secretly an evil villain’ way, just… different. I focused inward and hesitated.

Should I try it?

True Sight.

I let it flicker into place—and the pain wasn’t as bad this time. A dull throb, but manageable.

And then I looked at her.

[Maddie Draycott]

[Awakening Human Female]

[Weaknesses: None]

[Strengths: Elevating physical attributes]

[Status: Anxious, undergoing cultivation metamorphosis]

The usual basics appeared along with something more… magic—not exactly the kind I used to know. But something forming. Dormant, embryonic. A potential. She shimmered faintly, like her soul had dipped a toe into a much deeper pool and didn’t know it yet. While different, the magic infusing her was doing so in a way I was all too familiar with. She wasn’t destined for leveling like me. She showed all the signs of one who could walk a path of progression—an awakened.

All that future power forming in and around her heart. I’d have to watch her to see how long it took to fully form, for her to awaken. Then, if she wanted, I could guide her to a degree, give the basics of cultivating her power… whatever they would mean here on Earth. Wait and see, Kyle, you have to wait and see.

I blinked the ability away, and the Sight faded. Maddie looked at me, her head tilted again.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling slowly. “Just a little lightheaded. Still adjusting.”

She didn’t push. Instead, she finally sat beside me. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to know if I was going a bit crazy.”

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. “This ritual of yours… it came from a book?”

She nodded, her red lipstick pulling into a small smile like she’d been waiting for me to ask. “Old thing. Thick and peculiar. Found it in a bin at Before Times. You know, the thrift shop with the incense smell and the weird taxidermy owl over the register?”

“Hard to forget.”

“It was wedged between a paperback astrology guide and a moldy copy of The Art of War. No title on the spine, just a symbol that looked like someone tried to draw a crescent moon with a knife.”

“Sounds cursed.” I joked.

“It might be,” she said brightly. “But it also had a chapter called The Calling of First Light. That’s what I tried. Long and ridiculous. Needed white sand, a feather from a bird of flight, cinnamon, a four-point hand gesture I’m sure I did wrong, and an hour of controlled breathing.”

I stared at her. That was a long, light spell, even for a progression path.

She shrugged. “I was bored. And curious. And maybe a little… hopeful.”

I leaned back, processing. “And the spell worked?”

“Well… something happened. A little ball of light. Like a tiny blue sun. It hovered between my hands, then blinked out. And then—” she tapped the bench lightly, “I heard you woke up.”

She thinks she had something to do with my miraculous recovery. If only she knew it was probably the opposite. The timing couldn’t be ignored. Nor could the shimmer I’d seen with True Sight. Maddie has been touched by whatever changes have been made to Earth.

I looked down at my hospital wristband and the IV taped to my arm. Both symbols of my current restrictions and captivity. “They’re not letting me out of here for a while. At least not without half the CDC and a science documentary crew tagging along.”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Then you’ll just have to escape.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You suggesting a jailbreak?”

“More like a carefully timed visit once you’re free. You’ll want to see the book for yourself. It’s… a lot.”

I nodded slowly. “Alright. When I’m out of this place, I’ll come find you.”

“You’d better.” She smiled again, soft and real. “I’ve got questions. And I think you do too.”

She stood, smoothing her dress and glancing toward the path back to the hospital entrance. “I should go before Nurse Denise comes back from making friends with nicotine.”

I chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you were making sure I was just staring at the scenery and not in a walking coma.”

Smiling, she turned to go, then paused. “I’m glad you woke up, Kyle.”

“Me too,” I said. “And thanks—for sharing. Most people would be too worried about what others think.”

She gave a small nod, then walked away, leaving the scent of beeswax and old books in her wake.

Chapter Seven

Tabbetha Barrington

People like the Sangsters should really lock their doors.

Not that I’d ever do anything inappropriate—heavens no. But still, it said something, didn’t it? That kind of carelessness. That trusting little porch, that flimsy chain-link gate, the screen door that creaked like it was begging to be replaced. I didn’t knock. People like me don’t knock.

I let myself in, one heel clicking smartly on the concrete. The sound was satisfying. It echoed just enough.

The inside of the house was exactly what I expected. Tired furniture. Worn rugs. The faint smell of too many candles trying to cover the scent of too little hope. Photos of their boy were everywhere, like some kind of shrine—before and after the coma. Frankly, it was embarrassing. You don’t make a personality out of tragedy.

Bel Sangster came fluttering into the hallway, that nervous little bird energy she always carried around like a scarf. Poor thing. Thin, tired, dressed like she hadn’t bought a new top in five years. Yet still attractive. Damn it, she didn’t even wear makeup. Prideful bitch.

“Oh… Tabbetha. We weren’t expecting—”

I offered her a smile. Not my best one, but pleasant enough to pass.

“That’s what makes it a visit, not a summons, dear.” I stepped past her and into the living room like I owned it—which, technically, wasn’t far off.

She offered coffee—of course she did. That was Bel. Trying to be a good hostess even when her home was one late payment away from not being hers anymore.

“I wouldn’t say no,” I said sweetly. I didn’t intend to drink it, of course. I’d seen their mugs before. Stained. Cheap. You could taste the poverty. My god, these people used to be part of the upper class. Upper middle anyway.

Henry entered from the hall, all shoulders and silence. He still looked good, damn him. Gray at the temples, yes, but that just added weight to the quiet strength he’d always carried. The kind that didn’t bend—until it did.

“I heard you were back in town,” he said.

“I live in town, Henry. I own half of it.”

“We’ve been busy,” he added, stiff as ever.

“Mmm,” I murmured. “It must take a lot of effort keeping up these days.”

Bel returned with the coffee, handed it to me with both hands like it was some sort of offering. I took it graciously. Didn’t sip. Just let it steam politely in my lap, like a mutt begging for approval.

I gave them a moment. Let them stew. Let the weight of my presence settle into the room.

“Barrington First Trust has been very patient,” I began. My tone was light, but every word carried iron. “But it’s been what… eighteen months since the refinance? And I understand there were considerable medical expenses involved.”

Bel went pale. Henry’s jaw tightened.

“We’ve been making payments,” he said.

“Some,” I corrected, keeping my smile intact. “But I thought we could have a friendly chat. No need to get the Chattanooga branch involved. We can keep this local. Personal.”

“You mean you want to be the one handling it,” Henry said, flat.

There it was. That tone. The same one he used when he turned me down. Years ago, in a parking lot behind the VFW, when I’d made it clear he had options beyond Bel. He’d smiled—kindly. That was the worst part. Like I was some lonely spinster with too much time and too much perfume.

I smiled wider. “You always were direct, Henry. One of your more tragic qualities.”

I turned to Bel. Time for the kill.

“It’s just unfortunate, isn’t it? All that money spent on a boy who…” I tilted my head slightly. “Well, it’s a miracle he woke up at all, isn’t it?”

Bel flinched.

Victory. God, that felt good.

I stood slowly, savoring it. Smoothed my skirt. Adjusted my blazer. Perfect posture. Perfect face. “I’ll leave my card,” I said. “We’ll talk soon. Barrington First Trust always tries to work with our clients—especially when they’re…” I glanced around the modest room. “So obviously trying their best.”

I moved to the door, ready to step back into my day of errands and mild dominance.

And there he was.

Kyle.

Standing at the base of the porch steps like a statue. Taller than I remembered. Broad shoulders. Steady eyes.

Those eyes. Like Henry’s—but… sharper.

“Tabbetha,” he said, calm as a lake.

My smile came on instinct. “Oh, Kyle! My, you look so much better than the last time I saw you. Standing upright and everything!”

He didn’t smile back.

“I’d say the same,” he replied. “But you look exactly the same as always.”

It hit me like a slap. Not the words—the tone. The stillness. The sense that, somehow, I wasn’t the one holding the power in this moment. He looked at me like a math problem he’d already solved. Like I was predictable. Small.

I hated that look. But I smiled anyway. Because appearances matter. Because women like me don’t blink first. But he didn’t budge an inch, he didn’t even blink. Just kept that cold stare with almost a hint of an upturn on his lips, like he found this amusing.

Before I could stop myself, I was turning away and sliding into the driver’s seat of my Lexus. It was a retreat. No, it was like a queen returning to her carriage. The leather was warm, supple, custom stitched. The only decent thing my late husband had ever done for me, bless him, besides dying at just the right time.

I flipped the mirror down, checking my lipstick. Still perfect. Of course it was.

But that boy’s voice… the way he looked at me. Like he saw through everything. Like I wasn’t wearing a full face of Dior foundation and legacy wealth. Insolent little brat. Upright now, walking and smug, like his parents hadn’t practically begged me for mercy behind closed doors.

I ran a finger under my eye, checking for smudges. None. Good. I’d make them squirm. All of them. Kyle might be upright now, but he was still underage. Still a Sangster. Still born into debt. And thanks to the terms of that refinance, I owned a sliver of their soul with every payment.

There were ways to remind people. Small nudges. A surprise visit from an inspector. A convenient clerical error in their escrow. They wouldn’t even be able to prove it was me. Not really. But they’d know. Some people just didn’t realize how good they have it, but I would remind them. I was doing them a bigger favor than just loaning them money. Pathetic, really. You’d never catch me with my hand stretched out for charity.

I started the engine, smiling as the car hummed to life. Smooth. Silent. Powerful.

There was a widow on Chestnut Street, two payments behind on her husband’s old loan. She had a walker, a porch, and a little garden out front she was so proud of. She wore that pleasant little smile like it meant something—like fresh daisies and a well-swept porch could cover the fact that she was in debt. I hadn’t visited her in a while.

I pulled into traffic, adjusting my sunglasses.

Time to remind her who owned the land her daisies were planted in.

Chapter Eight

You Can’t Go Home

The small, two-bedroom house, nestled on a tiny quarter-acre lot, felt suffocating. Wood-paneled walls closed in like the ribs of a long-forgotten beast, their faux-oak sheen unable to hide the age and wear. The popcorn ceiling above bore faint stains from years long past, and the shag carpet underfoot swallowed sound like a crypt.

Basic kitchen, living room, one bathroom, and the two aforementioned bedrooms, all still carrying the dark paneling common to the seventies. The floor creaked in places untouched since morning, as if resentful of being filled again.

Each tiny room, dark and cramped, pressed in on me, a physical embodiment of the guilt I carried. A life too big, too altered, was being crammed into a space too small to hold it. To fund my treatment, my parents had to give up their spacious four-thousand-square-foot home and the five-acre lot that came with it.

While most of my friends had endlessly complained about their parents, I’d always known I had hit the lottery with mine. No screaming fights. No cold shoulders. Just two people who genuinely loved each other—and loved me more than I probably deserved.

People often assumed my parents were born into wealth, failing to consider that they might have chosen hard work over frivolity to build a brighter future for their family. They didn’t take fancy vacations. They didn’t lease flashy cars. Every dollar went into stability, into the family.

They had given up their carefree years to create a better life, only to have the life they’d constructed, brick by brick, decade by decade, crumble before their eyes under the weight of crippling medical bills. It wasn’t just a house they sold. It was dreams. Their garden, their music room, the home theater dad had built by hand—gone. All because I’d been ripped from my own universe.

And as if the debt and downsizing hadn’t been enough, Tabbetha Barrington had decided to grace us with one of her unsolicited visits. From what I’d heard, she never came to help, only to remind my parents she still owned the note on their lives. The look she gave my mom was enough to curdle milk—sympathy laced with venom.

I wanted to blame myself for being off playing hero, but leaving home was never my choice. I didn’t walk away—I was taken. Ripped from everything I knew, everyone I loved. I wanted to blame the gods that dragged me away, but they hadn’t expected their great summoning to bring a child, let alone one from a non-magical world long cut off from the cosmos of spheres. To them, I was a wild variable—an anomaly they handed power to out of need, and maybe a bit of guilt.

It was irrational to blame myself for not having researched the ritual more, but I did anyway. I’d scoured Altlandia for every speck of knowledge, just as I’d called in every favor from the gods. Mulling on all this was fruitless and wouldn’t help anyone.

Once I’d pushed the guilt into a cage built of logic and reason, I refocused on the task at hand. Not vengeance. Not punishment. Just resolution. I owed them more than they’d ever say out loud.

My new mission was clear: make up for everything my folks had lost—and then add a fortune or three on top. They’d sacrificed their dream life for me. I intended to return the favor tenfold.

In Altlandia, I’d rewritten the fate of nations with a whisper, raised armies with a word. Now, I couldn’t even open a checking account without parental approval. It was like trying to repay a burning skyscraper with pocket change—and I didn’t even have the change.

Trying to pull off any kind of fortune-making plan while under their constant, well-meaning watch—and legally stuck at seventeen—was like building a castle out of wet sand. If I were eighteen, maybe I’d lean into my combat skills. Boxing. MMA. Maybe even high-dollar private security.

The problem? No history. No documented training. No paper trail. Just a minor with a medically documented coma and a suspiciously miraculous recovery. Any sport with a halfway decent lawyer would run screaming. And as for becoming a mercenary? That meant frequent travel, high visibility, and no guarantee my current body could withstand modern firepower the way my old one had.

I needed something else. Something fast. Legal. Under the radar. And capable of generating serious capital without setting off any alarms. Something that let me operate without drawing headlines—or black vans.

It also had to be something I could do independently, without my parents' understandable, yet constant, oversight. That’s why I was currently on a walk up and down the sidewalk in front of the house with my best friend, Dave, as we brainstormed ideas.

The crisp fall air swirled around us, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and wood-smoke, sharp and grounding. My mom watched from the porch with that quiet, all-seeing intensity only parents seemed to master—the kind that made you feel both seen and shadowed at the same time.

Dave and I walked the length of the street and back in silence, the soft sounds of our feet hitting the sidewalk mixing with the rustling of leaves. As soon as we were out of earshot, he finally spoke.

“Dude, like it or not, you may have to put your plans on hold for a few months. At least until your parents adjust to you being back in the land of the upright and talking.” Dave spoke while casually throwing a glance back at my mom. “And don’t you still have recovery?”

I wanted to say, “Nope, I’ll lose my mind staying cooped up playing at being a teenager again.” But since I still hadn’t shared yet, instead, I said, “They gave up everything for me, Dave. I have to help repay them and every day I wait will just increase my guilt. Not to mention, sitting in school every day would drive me mad.” When he shot me a judgmental look, I replied to his unspoken condemnation. “Yeah, I get those are both technically selfish reasons, but they are also valid and fall under mutually beneficial self-interest.”

“Mutually beneficial self-interest?” He repeated back at me while grinning. “That is such a wonderful phrase—I'm stealing it.” Changing his tone to sound serious, he continued, “I’m not grabbing the last donut out of greed or gluttony, Dad. I’m doing it to help with your diet while also getting to enjoy another tasty treat. It’s called mutually beneficial self-interest.” He grinned even wider as he finished pantomiming talking to his father.

Grinning back, I replied, “You're just jealous of my superior logic skills.”

“No offense, man, but outside of a job at a retail place or fast food, what can you do?”

Mix healing draughts, forge swords, disappear in front of you, and steal your pants without you even noticing. Instead of sharing my thought, I replied vaguely, “More than you think. But first, I need capital.”

Dave sighed and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “There’s always gold panning,” he muttered. “Plenty of old-timers still head up the creek with tin pans and dreams of early retirement. Half the local tourism brochures still pretend we’re part of the gold rush.”

That was true. The large creek and surrounding area had long ago seen its own gold rush. It had been a couple of centuries since all the large amounts of gold, silver, and other precious minerals and gems had been mined, panned, and otherwise found. However, some bits still turned up frequently enough to keep a few hopefuls coming around year after year. Plus, there was still a trickle of tourist trade around the area.

Instead of dismissing the idea out of hand, I asked, “You think we’d have any better luck than the million who came before us?”

“Not even remotely.” His tone was blunt. “That place has been combed over, scanned, mined, and poked so many times it’s basically the geological equivalent of a bald spot. The mines are played out. Caves too… probably.” He turned speculative for a moment before continuing. “You’d need to own the land and the mineral rights,” he said, pausing before adding. “Or, y’know, not care about either and run really fast.”

I nodded thoughtfully, the wheels already turning. If there was anything left—anything—my mining skill should tell me. In Altlandia, I could sense ore like a shark smelled blood in the water. Ten feet of rock meant nothing to me. I just didn’t know if that ability translated here. Yet.

Dave laughed as he spoke. “You could grab a metal detector and go full backyard archaeologist. Maybe find some lost Confederate buttons or someone's grandma’s wedding ring.”

“You could also take up piracy,” he continued, warming to his own nonsense. “Hit a few banks. Maybe a yacht. Become an international criminal. You’ve got that vaguely mysterious coma survivor vibe going for you.”

I stopped walking.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He asked.

“How much is a metal detector? Are they expensive?” I asked, dead serious.

“Depends on the type. If you seriously want to try, my dad has one he never uses. He’d probably loan it to you—if not flat out give it to you. You do know the likelihood of finding anything worth money is really low, right?” Dave asked.

A smile spread across my face as I replied. “You let me worry about that.”

Chapter Nine

Bullies & Bullion

“No, that’s yours to keep. I won’t hear another word about it,” said Dave's dad, shaking my hand vigorously while I cradled what felt like my parents’ future. Gary—as Dave's father insisted I call him—assured me the F75+ metal detector would be all I needed as a beginning hobbyist. Dave had been right about his dad giving it to me.

“You just take it easy out there, son. Henry-Bel, great to see you as always. Don’t forget the cookout this weekend.”

“Like we’d miss one of your steaks and Bee’s desserts,” my mom replied, smiling at the thought.

“Don’t let him overdo it,” my dad added, tilting his head toward me as he addressed Dave. “And by him, I mean both of you. I mean it. Stick to the paths, stay where people can see you. And Kyle, remember what your doctor said—short walks, fresh air, low stress.”

I gave my best innocent smile. “If I find anything heavier than a paperclip, I promise to swoon dramatically and signal Dave to drag me home.”

Neither of them laughed. They just gave me that look—equal parts love, worry, and helplessness. The kind parents get when they’re trying not to hover, but fear is still fresh under the skin.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Dave promised with a small wave. “If he so much as looks like he’s about to reenact The Goonies, I’ll tackle him before he gets past the sidewalk.”

That got a real laugh from Gary. “That’s my boy,” he said while patting Dave on the back.

With a final round of hugs and a “call if you need us,” they strolled off toward the parking lot. My new hobby had bought me some freedom—but not total. Driving was obviously out, as was being left miles from them. At least I had free rein in the local state park, as long as I was with Dave and within cellphone range.

The moment they disappeared around the curve, I felt my spine relax a few degrees.

Dave turned to me. “So, ‘new hobby,’ huh?”

I held up the detector. “You’re the one who said your dad had one. And this gives me a way to get a break from my amazing yet watchful parents, while also potentially scoring seed money for bigger and better things.”

Telling Dave about my past would have to happen sooner rather than later—but not yet. I was still weak. The quests sped up recovery, but I was still lagging behind the average seventeen-year-old. Last night, I tried using Stealth, only to receive a message:

[Warning!]
[Physical-based skills capped until full recovery.]

Dave would probably believe I believed my story. And if I showed him I could sense ore, he might buy that I had some weird mutant ability. But to get him to fully accept the truth would take a real demonstration.

At least, that was what I told myself.

Part of me still warred with the split between Earth and Altlandia. Fourteen-year-olds had jobs and fought in wars back there. Earth, well… Earth was different. Here, people in their twenties still refused to get jobs and cried over spilled lattes.

Maybe I was underestimating Dave.

“You’re not even gonna pretend to read the manual first?”

“I’ll have you know I read up on them last night after you told me your dad was bringing it,” I said, flipping the machine on for exactly three seconds before switching it back off to save battery power. “Besides, the best way to learn is by doing.”

“Pretty sure they were talking about fishing, not tech from a 1980s spy movie.”

We made our way across the grassy rise toward the tree line. Leaves crunched underfoot, the early signs of fall giving the park that strange half-life between summer warmth and winter’s ghost. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere behind us, kids were laughing near the playground.

I scanned the area like a treasure hunter—slow, deliberate, letting Dave’s running commentary, equal parts Discovery Channel and stand-up routine, wash over me. It gave me cover. More importantly, it gave me quiet moments to focus as we walked a grid pattern.

I reached out—not physically, but with the part of myself that had never stopped being a world-class miner in another world. I’d spent years alongside Dwarven armies, fighting through the Fourth Demon Incursion. Thanks to my ability to absorb skills like a sponge, I’d maxed out mining—a skill that took dwarves centuries to master.

I wished I had that same absorption trait back here.

A faint pulse tingled in the back of my skull. Directional. Subtle. But real. The pull of my legendary skill guided me toward something small.

“Here,” I said, crouching near an old root.

Dave tilted his head. “Wow. I didn’t even see you sweep that area.”

“You must’ve just missed it,” I lied. Note to self—run detector over spot before digging.

He didn’t reply, so I started digging with the small folding trowel we brought—slow and deliberate—until my fingers scraped something cold. I brushed the dirt back, revealing the thin curve of a silver ring.

Dave’s jaw dropped. “Are you… kidding me?”

“Beginner’s luck?”

He snorted. “You are officially banned from Vegas.”

We kept moving, working our way across the outer field, following the mental grid we’d worked out. It kept us from going over the same area twice and allowed me to swiftly move in twenty-foot sections, the limit of my ore-sensing. There was no reason to limit myself to the reach of the metal detector when my mental detector could reach out ten feet in every direction. Thankfully, Dave just viewed this as humoring his friend and not a true endeavor to gain wealth.

I paused near a patch of matted grass, pretending to check the detector. “Right here.”

Dave raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Feels like a prime bottle cap zone.”

I crouched, trowel in hand. “Only one way to find out.”

Seven inches down, I hit something solid. A small, square box—tin, corroded at the corners. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, was a tarnished gold brooch shaped like a leaf, a single sapphire still clinging to the setting.

Dave let out a low whistle. “Alright, now you’re just showing off.”

“I prefer ‘demonstrating my natural aptitude,’” I said, brushing dirt from the box.

“Nah. You’re definitely some kind of loot goblin. Admit it—you’ve been bitten by a radioactive prospector.”

I smirked. “That would explain the sudden craving for hardtack and moonshine.”

Dave tilted his head. “Wait, do people still make hardtack?”

“No one should, but yes.”

We stashed the find in a pouch and moved on. A few steps later, I paused again.

“Let me guess,” Dave said. “Another silver ring? Maybe a Civil War-era shoelace tip?”

I pointed at a patch of bare ground. “Old coin. Two inches deep. You dig this time.”

He rolled his eyes but kneeled. A few seconds later, his fingers pulled up a coin—grimy, but the eagle design and date were clear after he scrubbed the coin with the polishing cloth he brought along.

“1892?” he said, voice rising. “That’s… that’s actually worth something, right?”

I grinned. “I’d say it’s worth the price of your disbelief.”

“You’re buying lunch with that coin, time traveler. I swear if you pull out Excalibur next, I’m calling the Smithsonian.”

“Please. They’d just try to tax me.”

Dave pulled out his phone, swiftly took a photo of the coin, and grinned. “That, my dear sir, is an 1892 morgan silver dollar.”

“How much is it worth?” I asked, hoping for at least the hundred-dollar range.

Still staring at his phone, he snickered out, “Somewhere between five hundred to a couple of thousand bucks.”

I whistled low. “I think that officially makes this the most profitable walk of my life.”

“You’re welcome,” Dave said, slipping the coin into his belt pouch like it might sprout legs and run. “Finder’s fee applies if I have to carry you out of here from excitement.” Looking back at me he added. “You find one more of these, and I’m quitting school to become your hype man. We’ll call it Two Dudes and a Detector.”

I chuckled. “Sounds like a YouTube channel doomed to get demonetized.”

He tucked the coin carefully into the pouch. “Can’t believe your first real haul is worth more than my entire collection of comic books.”

Trying to maintain some semblance of normal, I replied, “Most likely, no one has ever gone over the park with a metal detector. They only started letting you keep stuff you found a couple of years back.”

Nodding, he said, “Yeah, that’s what my dad said when I told him you wanted to take up the hobby.”

Gesturing toward the deeper trailhead, where the wide park pathways ended and gave way to the smaller overgrown hiking trails. I asked, “What do you think? Push our luck a little deeper?”

I glanced toward the trees. The light changed there—cooler, quieter. A different kind of silence waited past that bend.

He nodded. “Yeah. Let’s see if the old miners left anything behind.”

Leading the way, I dutifully swung the detector back and forth as we left the well-maintained park grounds.

“These used to be the old mining trails, right?” Dave asked, stepping over a cracked bit of graveled path swallowed by creeping roots.

“Yeah,” I said. “Back before the place was a park, this whole ridge was dotted with prospecting sites. Some of the old foundations are still back here, if you know where to look.”

“You’re not leading me into a horror movie, are you?”

I shrugged. “If you hear banjo music, run.”

He snorted and stepped over a knotted root. “Nah. If this were a horror movie, I’d already be dead for not being the protagonist.”

I gave him a sideways look. “You sure about that? You’ve got comic relief energy, and they always survive—at least until the third act.”

“Wow. Harsh, but accurate.”

The deeper we walked, the more the world shifted. The park’s laughter and joggers faded behind us, swallowed by trees that grew thicker and older. The temperature dipped a few degrees. The light fractured through the canopy in long slats, throwing shadows that shifted just a little too slowly.

The trail narrowed, winding along a low ridge. Moss coated crumbled stone markers and rusted signposts, all relics of the mining operations that used to live here long before there was civilization.

Dave pointed to a jagged pit just off the path. “That an old shaft?”

“Vent hole,” I said. “Too small to climb down, but deep enough to ruin your day if you’re not watching your step.”

He edged away from it. “Glad to know death traps are part of the ambiance.”

I stopped for a moment, not to dig, but because something in the air had changed again.

Laughter. Not Dave’s. Not mine. Rougher, harsher—just ahead. Familiar in that way bad memories are. I didn’t tense, not visibly. But I recognized the rhythm.

People. Teenagers. Three, maybe four.

Voices. Too loud. Too close.

I looked ahead and caught the blur of motion through the trees—broad shoulders, a football jacket, and a swagger handed out to future bullies at birth.

Ty Ransom.

Of all people.

He hadn’t changed a bit—same linebacker frame, same empty confidence, same sneer that screamed “my dad’s a lawyer.” He was flanked by two other guys—taller, one heavyset, one wiry. Laughing like the woods were theirs.

I stopped on instinct. Not from fear. From calculation.

A week ago, I could’ve ended this before it started. Disarm, disorient, drop—three moves, maybe four if I didn’t want to leave bruises. But not now. Not with this body. I was barely back to average for an out of shape seventeen-year-old. No enchanted gear. No backup. No exit strategy.

Worse… Dave was with me. If it was just me, I could take the hit and spin it off. But if they came at him too? I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.

And I couldn’t afford that. Not here. Not yet.

They hadn’t noticed us yet, so I started walking again—slow, deliberate, like nothing was wrong.

Dave caught the shift and fell in step. “Well, that just killed the vibe.”

I didn’t reply.

Ty spotted us as we closed the gap. He lifted his head, thumb still flicking his phone, like we were part of the background until we suddenly weren’t.

“Yo!” he shouted. “Check it out—Coma Kid’s treasure hunting. You lookin’ for your lost dignity?”

The other two laughed on cue—classic hyena backup dancers.

I stopped, straightened, and slowly looked up.

“Already found that,” I said, my voice calm. “Turns out it was buried right next to your GPA.”

I heard Dave mutter, “Dude,” but I didn’t turn. Never take your eyes off an enemy, even if they are only a young, stupid potential enemy.

Ty’s grin twisted. He stepped forward. “You got jokes. What else you got, coma boy?”

I didn’t move. Didn’t shift my weight. Kept everything neutral.

Inside, I was already mapping outcomes—trees to block the line of sight, roots for tripping, where Dave could run if this went bad. But I didn’t want it to go bad. Not for them. Not for me. Not for Dave. They were idiots, but they were mostly benign ‘grates on your nerves’ idiots.

Ty stepped closer again. “What’s that look? You finally realize you don’t belong here?”

Ignoring his question, I stared into him with True Sight.

[Ty Ransom]

[Awakening Human Male]

[Weaknesses: left side of right knee, right temple, right shoulder]

[Strengths: Elevated physical attributes]

[Status: Alert, undergoing cultivation metamorphosis]

Changing my focus from the floating message to Ty, I could see the same magical shimmer I’d seen in Maddie. He was awakening. That’s all the world needed people like Ty gaining superhuman abilities. Depending on how long the process took for him, he was going to kill someone on the football field. Another variable I couldn’t control and more proof that Grayton Creek was changing.

Ty’s stare went from aggressive to confused in the span of the few seconds I spent getting a read on him. He was actually waiting for me to give him a real answer. My god, could this guy be any more a caricature of a dumb bully?

I met his gaze and said, voice steady: “You’re not worth the ER bill.”

Then I turned and walked away—one hand brushing Dave’s arm to signal him to follow. Not yanking. Not rushing. Just motioning.

Ty shouted something after us. I didn’t catch it—too many threads running at once. On Altlandia, I could coordinate armies and rewrite spells mid-cast without missing a beat. Here, even at peak human intellect, my thoughts bottlenecked—strategy, secrets, contingencies, hundreds of plans, all trying to squeeze through a single lane.

I kept walking, silently cursing the downgrade.

Chapter Ten

Dave

The unmistakable sound of teenage testosterone approached—hollering, laughter, and that voice you only heard right before trouble found you.

Three guys emerged from the trail bend. One led, broad-shouldered, varsity jacket, football smirk. Linebacker build. The kind of guy whose spirit animal was a bruised locker door.

“Yo!” he shouted. “Check it out—Coma Kid’s treasure hunting. You lookin’ for your lost dignity?”

The others laughed. Classic hyena backup dancers.

Kyle stood up, slow and casual. “Nah. Already found that. Turns out it was buried right next to your GPA.”

I winced as I muttered. “Dude.”

The lead jock stepped forward, not laughing now. “You got jokes. What else you got, coma boy?”

Kyle didn’t move. His posture stayed relaxed—too relaxed. He never would’ve stepped to these guys in the past. But that look on his face… I knew that look. He was reading something. Working something out, even if he acted like he didn’t care.

Ty stepped closer. “What’s that look? You finally realize you don’t belong here?”

Kyle didn’t answer. He just stared, calm and unsettlingly blank.

Then, finally, he said, “You’re not even worth the ER bill.”

And walked away, grabbing me as he moved.

“What, no comeback?” Ty called after us. “No coma flashbacks? You think you’re better than everyone now?”

“You remember that guy?” I asked under my breath.

“Unfortunately,” Kyle said under his breath. “Ty Ransom. Linebacker. Brain like a potato, fists like bricks.”

“Yep, that would describe him.”

Kyle didn’t turn around as I followed him, unsure what to say until we were well out of range.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine.”

Quickening my step, I said, “You looked like you were gonna say something else back there. Like… you saw something.”

Kyle shrugged. “Let’s just say… I’ve been punched by monsters way uglier than Ty.”

Frowning, I noted. “That’s… an oddly specific metaphor.”

Kyle just smiled. Saying nothing.

He used to talk about everything. The latest patch notes. Weird science articles. Dumb YouTube conspiracies. Now? Half his sentences sound like he’s quoting a movie I never saw—and I’m starting to wonder if it’s one he lived through instead.

He probably thinks I haven’t noticed he’s been using the metal detector wrong half the day either. And no one finds that much lost jewelry and coins this fast. It’s like he knows where they are buried already. Was it the coma or what happened before it? What the hell happened to him?

Chapter Eleven

Gold and Grit

Golden sunlight filtered through the Smoky Mountain mist. The scent of pine filled the air as needles crunched underfoot, and the rhythmic whine of the metal detector cut through the quiet. While he absolutely suspected something was up with me, I hadn’t told Dave the truth yet. Maddie had checked in a few times, each text as short as the last. With each one I promised ‘we’ll meet up as soon as I can.’ And we would meet up. I just had more pressing priorities.

The next few days blurred together as I rinsed and repeated the same daily plan. We started early each morning with me doing the daily quests the system served up—like a personal trainer with a fondness for cardio. Gone were the easy days of “walk a mile” or “eat a balanced meal.” First it was fifty squats. The next, a two-mile jog. By day four, I was doing sprints up the side of a ridge trail while Dave cheered between bites of granola.

“You realize most people ease into recovery,” he said, watching me gasp through another set of pushups on the third morning. “This feels like you’re prepping for a kung-fu tournament.”

“Maybe I am,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow.

What I didn’t say: I could feel it working. My strength returning. Slowly, but surely. Muscles waking up. Stamina rebuilding. Nothing on the scale it had been, but every completed quest gave me a stat boost. Soon I would be able to use my physical skills, hopefully, to full effect. Then I could really show Dave something he couldn’t dismiss.

When we weren’t training, we hunted for lost treasure.

The park, as it turned out, was full of lost things. People lost more than just weight and patience out here. Over six days, we found six rings, four busted watches, dozens of coins, a handful of necklace clasps, two tie clips, and a silver earring with what my mining skill told me was a real diamond.

And buried near the edge of a long-forgotten trail, two feet down in compacted soil, we struck something even rarer: a broken leather pouch, its stitching nearly gone, stuffed with dull yellow pebbles.

Dave called them “weird rocks.”

True Sight didn’t. It tagged them as natural gold nuggets, unprocessed, unmarked by any modern refining technique. Just enough to make some money. Not enough to get noticed. The local pawn shop bought a lot of my finds, netting me a grand total of ten thousand six hundred and five dollars. After that, I had to start holding on to the formerly buried treasures until Dave and I could get out to Chattanooga.

Part of it was the price—my finds were worth more than the shop could reasonably pay. The other part? The look the owner started giving me, like he was one missing Rolex away from calling the cops. In hindsight, going there four days in a row might’ve been a tactical error.

We were sprawled on a boulder overlooking the creek, packs at our feet, the last of our snacks demolished. The mountain air had that crisp bite that made your lungs work for every breath.

Dave tossed a granola wrapper into his bag and leaned back, still perusing a map of the area. “Alright, treasure goblin. You’ve officially paid off my student debt in theoretical shiny things. But I gotta ask—what’s the actual plan here?”

I glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“You said this was about helping your folks—but you’re working like a guy who owes the mafia three favors and a kidney. No one our age makes the kind of bank you have and treats it like pennies. What’s the real plan here? Buy a castle? Fund a time machine? Or are you secretly building a Batcave in the hills and just haven’t told me yet?”

I smiled faintly. “Land.”

He blinked. “Land?”

“Yeah. There are old plots around here, back when people still thought the hills were full of gold and silver. Some of the rights expired. Some of the owners died off. Some land is just… forgotten. I want to buy it up—quietly. Strip it legally.”

Dave stared. “Wait—you want to open a mine?”

“Nothing big. Not like drilling machines or hardhats. Just hand tools, maybe some custom equipment. If I own the land and the rights, I can take whatever’s left—without questions. No one checking IDs, no one asking how I found it.”

He nodded slowly, thoughtful now. “Okay… that’s actually brilliant. Odd, full of holes, but brilliant.”

I shrugged. “It’s the safest way to build capital fast. Without drawing headlines or black vans.”

He snorted. “That again. Dude, who do you think you are? Jason Bourne’s nerdy cousin?”

“You’d be surprised how many people notice when a seventeen-year-old starts hauling out rare gems and antique coins by the pound.”

His smile faded a little, not completely. “Yeah. I guess that's part of what weirds me out.”

“What does?”

He waved vaguely at me. “You. I mean, I know you’re you, but you're also different. You talk less. I know that you know that I know you aren’t really using that metal detector as much as you want me to believe you are. But you keep up the pretense anyway.” He stopped, a heavy sigh escaping his lips, then kept talking.

“Then there is this grand plan. You know how mined out the region has been for decades and yet you are very confident you will find something. And you are borderline obsessed over people not knowing how quickly you’re recovering, as well as not finding out you keep accumulating a small fortune out here.” Pausing, he breathed deeply before adding, “You don’t have to explain. Lord knows you’ve been through enough. Just know if you woke up all ‘Dead Zone’ for treasure, I’ve still got your back.”

The warmth of his sentiment washed over me. Putting my hand on his shoulder, I said, “And I appreciate it more than you know.”

“Now, with the emotional stuff out of the way, this map shows us crossing over into private property.” Leaning over, he showed me the line between the state park and someone’s property. “Last night I did more digging, pun intended, into how far you could go metal detecting. The good news is you can probably go all through this area without anyone giving a crap. The bad news is you would technically be stealing anything you dug up.”

“That’s why I need more funds. If the land is for sale—” He cut me off before I could say more.

“It is for sale, although it’s an unlisted sale due to the number of years it’s just sat there untouched. In fact, it’s actually cheap at about a grand an acre. From what I found online, the last owner died back in world war two. No one came around claiming it, so it went into limbo for a long time before a land developer bought it and I guess their plans fell through because they put it up for sale around ten years ago.” He ended with a large grin.

“And all I have to do is see if the land is worth buying first.” I excitedly replied.

Grabbing his pack, he replied, “Yep, now let's get going. We only have about four hours left before your parents send out the marines.”

We still had to cross over a small stream and walk a couple of minutes to reach our new destination. I’d been increasingly using my True Sight to see if I could spot anything valuable, with most results being of the minimally valuable variety, a truffle here, a moderately rare plant there. The trouble with using it all the time came down to the massive headache from constant use and that the ability didn’t play well with focusing on my mining ability. It was too much like a million pop-up ads while playing a game.

We had just jumped over the stream when the edge of my vision picked up something just below ground beside an uprooted tree. Moving closer, I saw a disturbed patch of earth near the largest exposed root—the soil was freshly turned. Not much. Just enough that the soil felt too soft compared to everything around it.

Crouching, I dug, slow, deliberate. Three inches down, the trowel scraped something hard. Not rock. Not metal. Stone maybe?

It was round.

Avoiding touching the object, I cleared more dirt.

A shallow disc, maybe eight inches across, appeared under the soil. Carved symbols, symbols I didn’t recognize—not from Earth, anyway. But they made my stomach twist.

Dave leaned over, squinting. “What the heck is that?”

Moving slightly to allow more sunlight, the full pattern emerged. Lines, not letters. Etched deep. Old. And in the center—what looked like a stylized eye. Half-lidded.

Thoughts of all the cursed items I’d dealt with back in Altlandia caused me to say, “Don’t touch it, okay? It’s probably just part of an old cabin foundation.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Yeah. Real rustic. Nothing says Appalachian homestead like something out of H. P. Lovecraft.”

I stood, brushing the dirt off my hands. “Let’s mark the spot. Come back later.”

“You’re not taking it?” He asked, surprised.

“It might contain lead or something. Best to make sure before digging it all the way out.” He didn’t look like he believed a word of what I said—but he didn’t argue, either.

He did stay quieter during the rest of our treasure hunt. Which would have bothered me more if not for the ongoing success of my search. Thankfully, Dave kept receiving a barrage of texts that culminated in him asking if we could cut the day short. Normally, we chatted quite a bit before he drove me home. This time, he was quiet. Contemplative. Guilt gnawed at me as all the lies I kept telling ran through my head. I’d have to tell him the truth soon or risk alienating my best friend.

****

Twelve.

Twelve distinct hits.

All buried. All clustered across a stretch of undeveloped land about four acres deep—thick trees, no trails, private property, at least according to the app Dave was using, that no one visited.

Gold. Refined. Shaped. Repeated over and over again in regular spacing.

These weren’t veins. They weren’t coins scattered at random. It was clear that someone had intentionally and carefully positioned those caches. And if I was right—if even half of what I felt was real—I’d just found something worth more than everything in the pawn shop combined.

Legendary mining for the win. Most of my skills may be gone, but keeping this one was more than making up for my losses. With a deep breath, I leaned back, closed my laptop, and quietly, almost inaudibly, murmured to myself the words, “I need that land.”

But first, I had to convince my parents to let me buy the land, then I had to figure out how to hide the windfall from any lingering press. My internet search on the topic of hiding instant wealth had taken forever—turns out, years of dungeon diving didn’t do much for typing skills or web browsing. Thankfully, I could use a trust or form an LLC to maintain anonymity.

Laying back on my bed, I almost dozed off just as my dad knocked on the doorframe, holding two mugs.

“Thought you could use something warm,” he said, offering me one.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it. The scent of cocoa hit me—probably my mom’s idea.

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just sipped and stood beside me at the window, watching the dark settle over the trees like a blanket.

“Busy day?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Good busy.”

He nodded. “Well… just don’t burn out,” he said, swirling the cocoa in his mug like he didn’t want to look directly at me. “You’ve still got time. You don’t have to prove anything to us. Just take care of yourself.” He paused, then added more softly, “And we’re proud of you. Not for the treasure stuff—though that’s cool. For getting up. For pushing forward. That takes more guts than anything you’ll ever find in the dirt.”

I didn’t answer right away. I just sipped my cocoa and let his words sit. Glancing around my small room in the small house that they still made a home, a wave of emotion washed over me and with it, the amazing childhood and teenage years my parents gave me.

Sliding off my bed, I sat my cocoa down and gave my dad a massive hug. “I love you dad, thank you for everything.”

Mom joined us a short while later, all of us somehow squeezing onto my bed. For days I had been asking, and each time the subject was changed, until finally, for the first time, they talked openly about the dedication required to care for me and how happy they were to make every sacrifice. How close they were to losing even this small house before I woke from my coma.

Screw waiting until tomorrow.

“Mom, Dad. How would you feel about me buying some land?”

This led to a whole other conversation filled with “why there” and “saving for your future.” Ultimately, I think what made them relent was their happiness at having their son back. That and I made a minor reference to having a ‘feeling’ about things like this since waking up. It was both true and played up to a lot of tropes about coma patients that people just sort of accepted as possible. Sneaky, yes. But it was a good sneaky.

Goal one was nearly complete: a brighter future for them.

Then—and only then—would the real work begin.

Chapter Twelve

Restraint

Turns out buying property, even with cash, isn’t instantaneous. The realtor didn’t take cash, but would take a check. That meant going back to the bank where my parents had started my savings account when I was twelve. They handed me a few starter checks—like Monopoly money, but legally binding—along with a promise of more in the mail, including a debit card. Then there were a lot of papers to sign and more than a few “are you sure?” comments from my parents and even the realtor.

The only quick part of everything was the offer for the land. I’d expected days to weeks of back and forth. My initial offer of five thousand was soundly rejected, but thankfully not taken as an insult by Judy, the real estate agent. Leaning into the role of recently-woken coma patient slash awkward teen, I made the offer with an ‘aw-shucks, ma’am’ approach. They asked for the full amount, and we ended up meeting at a little under nine thousand when all was said and done. Given the look on the faces of my realtor and her colleagues, they were happy to be rid of the land.

Now it was just waiting for checks to clear and officials to sign off on the sale. With a forced pause on goal number one—get rich and repay my parents—I turned to the next priority… namely, investigate any and all instances of how much of reality is getting changed. So far, other than me, it’s only been a couple of people and a minuscule spell that took an hour to cast.

Thus, Saturday morning found me waking to my new normal.

At least the system was predictable. Every morning, about an hour before sunrise, the screen appeared like clockwork:

[Daily Quest]
[Run three miles.]
[Bonus Objective: Maintain pace over uneven elevation for 50% of distance.]

I groaned, but swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Muscles complained less these days, and my breathing settled faster after each session. Progress. Real, measurable progress. Each morning, I'd sneak out before sunrise for quests; the silent, dark hours would have increased my stealth level if it hadn’t already maxed out long ago.

[Daily Quest Complete]
[Primary and Bonus Objective achieved.]
[Physical Assessment updated.]

I’d just finished the run as the sun crested over the rooftops, sweat cooling on my skin, when the notification popped up. Normally, focusing was easy for me. After all, I had spent a long time working on it. But despite my efforts, my mind wouldn’t settle. I opened my status window, and the familiar glow of the interface only I could see filled my vision.

[Kyle: Status Overview]

[Class: Unclassified (Human)] [Level: 0]

[Health: 100/100 (Normal)]

[Attributes]

[STR: 3.4] [END: 4.0] [AGI: 3.7] [INT: 6] [CHA: 6]

[Status Effects]

[None]

[Status Change]

[Fully Recovered]

[Use of physical based skills restored to corresponding physical attribute.]

Not bad. If I were just an average seventeen-year-old, I’d be thrilled. Now they looked sad—weak. Generally, my parents still wouldn’t wake up for another hour or two. Plenty of time.

Cutting across the back streets, I headed toward the old trail loop behind the school, a shortcut I hadn’t taken in years. If I wanted higher attributes, I would just have to push myself harder. In fact, far harder than I ever had back in Altlandia. Halfway across the section of the trail running near the football field, Earth reminded me it had its own dangers.

“Look who’s training. Plan on joining the football team, loser?” The voice came before I saw him. Ty Ransom, right on cue. He stepped onto the trail like he’d been waiting for this moment, his two shadows flanking him, neither with a thought of their own. Behind them, a half dozen beer cans littered the ground. Well, that explained why they were out here before the dawn.

“You training for something, coma boy?” he sneered. “Or just running from the truth?” I didn’t stop, but I didn’t speed up either. “Just running,” I said, keeping my voice level.

Ty fell into step beside me, close enough to crowd the narrow trail. “You think you’re better than us now? All that media attention kissing your ass gone to your head?”

Seriously? I glanced sideways at him, calm. “I don’t think about you at all.”

That was the wrong answer.

The shove, delivered with surprising speed, was gentler than he was capable of; like a subtle test to see if I would retaliate. A sharp, stabbing pain jolted through my body—far more intense than I expected. I took a step back, rubbed the spot, while wincing. Damn, my body is weak.

“Come on,” Ty said, pushing again, this time with less force. “Hit me. Show me what you’ve got.”

I didn’t move. Pain radiated under my ribs, but I held still. I could’ve ended this. One step, one move, and he’d be on the ground, wondering what happened.

Maybe.

Or maybe my weakened state meant even my legendary unarmed combat skill couldn’t deal with all three of them. But that’s not what stopped me. What stopped me was every move that entered my head would kill each of them. Maybe not an awakening Ty, but certainly his friends. Earth humans are far too squishy. Instead, I gave a pleading look before staring at the ground.

He laughed, stepping back, louder than before. “Thought so. Still the same loser.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, walking off. “Sure.”

The ache in my side reminded me I wasn’t invincible anymore. My youthful body had limits, even if my willpower didn't. Each step was deliberate—just enough to make me look hurt and afraid. Behind me, Ty’s voice rang out, too loud, too forced. “Keep running, coma freak! Maybe you can give me a real fight one day” I didn’t look back.

****

“Library?” my mom repeated, spoon halfway to her mouth. “With Maddie?”

I nodded. “She’s into research. Wants help digging through old newspaper archives and public land records.”

“Mm-hmm.” Her smile turned just a little too knowing. “She’s a sweet girl. Cute, too.”

I blinked. “Mom.”

“What? She is.”

“It’s not like that.”

She hummed noncommittally and turned back to her breakfast. I didn’t have the energy to clarify that Maddie was more interested in ancient books than romance.

The car ride was quiet for the first few minutes, just the soft hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional chirp from her phone’s navigation. I stared out the window, not really seeing the trees flash by. My side still ached faintly where Ty had shoved me, but I wasn’t about to bring that up.

“You know,” she said finally, tapping the steering wheel with her thumb, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should look into getting you set up with homebound schooling.”

I glanced at her. “Because of the coma?”

“Well, yes. And no,” she admitted. “You’re doing well, but we don’t want to push too fast. A lot of the teachers said they’d be willing to work with us, and I’ve already talked to the counselor about options. It might be good for you. Less stress, more time to recover.”

Less stress. I almost smiled at that. If only she knew.

“I don’t want to go back,” I said, watching the trees. “Not yet.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s why I brought it up. I think you should take your time. If homebound is what you want, we can do that. Just promise me you’ll keep up with the work.”

“I will.” It wasn’t a lie. I’d keep up with it, and my new enterprise. School would have been an unacceptable waste of time. 

She reached over, giving my hand a quick squeeze before turning back to the road. “Good. I just want you to have choices, Kyle. You’ve lost enough time already.”

I didn’t argue. She was both right and wrong on that count.

The library came into view, its old brick facade and heavy glass doors looking almost out of place in the modern world. Like a relic that refused to fade away. There always seemed to be endless funds for sports and new government offices, but when it came to a library, a place filled with knowledge to educate the future of mankind, it was always some old unwanted, barely functioning building.

She pulled into the parking lot, idling. “Need me to come in?”

I shook my head. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” She hesitated, then smiled. “Tell Maddie I said hi.”

“I will.”

I stepped out, closing the door gently behind me. As she pulled away, I took a breath, letting the cool air settle the ache in my side. Maddie was waiting outside on the one thing the county had spent money on, the benches that dotted the creek walk. While the library building needed updating, its location was beautiful. Carefully nested among trees and flowering bushes, when in season, the creek walk ran most of the downtown area.

The creek walk in fall was always something worth seeing. Leaves drifted down like lazy confetti, painting the path in shades of amber, rust, and gold. The air held that perfect balance—crisp enough to feel alive, but not cold enough to bite. The trees lining the creek leaned in just enough to frame the water, their branches swaying gently with the breeze, scattering light in ripples across the ground. It smelled of damp earth, fading flowers, and the sweet, faint decay of autumn leaves.

Maddie walked a step ahead, her pace steady, but not rushed. She wore one of those dresses she liked—modern cut, but vintage flair. Deep green, cinched at the waist with a black belt, the skirt flaring just enough to sway as she moved. A cropped black jacket sat snug over her shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair, dark and curled just right, pinned back on one side with a small silver clip that caught the light when she turned her head.

I watched her for a moment, then glanced away, taking in the surrounding quiet. Even with everything shifting beneath the surface, Grayton Creek hadn’t changed. Not yet.

“You’ve really been into this magic stuff a while, huh?” I asked, breaking the silence.

She glanced back at me, smiling faintly. “Since I was thirteen. Got my first book in a Goodwill store in Chattanooga. Most of it was garbage, but it felt so cool finding some old thing that others just ignored. Don’t get me wrong, I knew magic wasn’t real. It was always just fun, a hobby maybe.”

“And now it actually works,” I added.

She nodded, eyes forward again. “Maybe. I’ve only gotten one spell to do anything, and it’s small. But it’s something.”

“Could be the start of more,” I said, thinking out loud.

“That’s why I want you to watch. You’ve seen things, right? I mean, you seemed surprised when we talked before, but not surprised by the spell part.” Her face scrunching, she added, “It was like… when someone is surprised that someone else has the same rare car.”

I hesitated, then nodded. “That’s an interesting observation.”

She didn’t press, just let the silence settle again as we walked. The sound of the creek filled in the gaps, water moving over rocks, birds shifting in the branches above.

“You don’t think I’m crazy?” she asked, voice softer now.

Repressing a sigh, I replied, “As I’ve told you almost every day for the past week of texts, no, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

She smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. “Good. Because I need to know I’m not alone.”

“You’re not,” I said, and I meant it. We both had skin in the game. She wanted to make sure she really cast a spell, and I really needed to know if spell casting was working here on Earth. And how it worked here.

We turned off the path, her house just ahead, tucked behind a row of trees that hadn’t quite lost their leaves yet. The grass in the yard was patchy, but clean. The porch, half-covered in potted plants and wind chimes, creaked under our steps.

Inside, the house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you lower your voice without thinking. The air smelled faintly of dried herbs and something floral, maybe lavender. The living room was tidy, a mix of old furniture and newer touches—cushions that didn’t quite match, framed photos on the wall, a shelf packed with books and trinkets that looked half thrifted, half inherited.

She guided me through the house, past a kitchen with the quiet stillness of an untouched tea kettle on the stove, past a sewing room filled with the soft texture of fabrics and the stark presence of an old mannequin, and finally down the hallway to her room. The door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing a space that was all her.

The walls were painted a soft cream, the kind that caught the afternoon light just right. Posters of moon phases, vintage ads, and a couple of old band flyers decorated the space without crowding it. Her bed was neatly made, covered in a quilt that looked hand-stitched. A small desk sat under the window, cluttered with notebooks, candles, and more of those little jars filled with herbs or stones. A shelf above it held a line of worn paperbacks, half of them about astrology or Wicca, the rest a mix of fantasy and old history. A chaotic collection of books, some barely clinging to their bindings, littered the floor, the air thick with the scent of aged paper and forgotten stories.

She kneeled in the center of her room, laying the leather-bound book open with care. Her movements were precise, practiced, like she’d done this dozens of times before. I stayed quiet, watching as she set out the materials she’d once described to me in passing—white sand poured into a neat circle, a feather from a bird of flight placed at its center, and a pinch of cinnamon sprinkled carefully along the edge.

I let True Sight settle over my vision, the world around her sharpening, colors deepening. Faint strands of energy began to form, barely there, but real—like mist catching sunlight. She was drawing in mana, from where I had no idea.

She raised her hands into a four-point gesture, fingers steady, posture locked in place. Her breathing slowed, falling into a rhythm I could sense more than hear. Fifteen minutes passed like that, her focus unbroken.

Then she spoke.

“Lūmēra, miya threx avalonnar.”

The space inside the circle seemed to pulse, and a small sphere of light blinked into existence—soft, but undeniably there. It hovered, held together longer than I expected—five, six, seven seconds—before slowly fading.

Yep, spellcasting was officially here… and I both recognized it and didn’t. It had to be the longest casting of a basic light spell I’d ever seen.

Maddie lowered her hands, eyes flicking to mine. “You saw that, right?”

I nodded, still watching where the light had been. “Yeah. I saw it. It’s real.”

Her shoulders relaxed, a smile spreading slowly. “Better than last time. The light stayed longer, and I felt something… almost as if I could make it move.”

Yeah, basic light spells could be placed in a spot or travel with you. They also could be cast with no components, rituals, and in about a second. But until I tried, I wouldn’t know for sure. Right now was about Maddie though.

“Maddie, it’s your choice, but I recommend you keep this between me and you for now. This is the sort of thing that governments make people disappear over.” Good job, Kyle. Scare her into silence. No ulterior motives here.

“Well duh, obviously I’m not telling anyone I’m a wizard,” she scoffed, a smirk playing on her lips as she looked over her shoulder.

If she only knew how right she was.

I gave a small laugh, shaking my head. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

She sat back, tucking her legs under her, the excitement still lingering in her eyes, but softer now.

“You’ve been different since you woke up,” she said, watching me carefully. “Quieter. Like you’ve got something on your mind all the time.”

I shrugged, not denying it.

“Did you… talk to Dave about this? About me?” She hesitated. “Does he know what I can do?”

“No,” I said, quick but even. “Not about you.”

She looked relieved, but only for a moment. “Will you?”

“No. Dave’s my best friend for a lot of reasons and while we don’t really keep secrets from each other, we’ve both kept plenty of them for other people. If this was about him, I might, but it’s not. So no violation of the bro code.” I smiled as I finished.

A pause settled between us. Not heavy, just real. She stared at me like she was working on a math problem. Then it changed to a moment of pity, back to problem.

“Have you… have you talked to Kristen since you woke up?” she asked tentatively.

Kristen again? Come to think of it, Kyle had brought her up more than a few times, then swiftly changed the subject he brought up.

“Not really. I did send out a lot of thank you cards and texts to people. I’m sure I sent something her way. Why?” I asked, truly curious.

“Oh, I thought… well, never mind.” Something obviously took place in her mind as she flipped topics immediately. “Would you like to see me do the spell again, or maybe try to cast it yourself?”

Glancing at the clock, I stood up while commenting, “Yeah, I would, but I should go. My mom’s going to be picking me up in an hour, and I don’t want to upset her. My parents have been through enough.”

Maddie stood with me, brushing down her skirt. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for showing me.”

Outside, a cool breeze swept through the air as the sky turned to soft shades of orange and pink. Although the buildings remained the same, a different energy pulsed through the town, a palpable change that made it feel both familiar and transformed. Ultimately, there was nothing I could do about the bigger picture right now but wait and see. But that didn’t mean I was doing nothing.

Tomorrow, I’d get the buried gold.

After that? I’d take things one step at a time—quietly, carefully. And above all, hidden from prying eyes.

Chapter Thirteen

Dave

I sat in the driveway, engine idling, watching the house like it might give me an answer I didn’t want to hear. The porch light flickered, just enough to annoy, but I didn’t turn the car off. I told her I was here five minutes ago. She always took her time.

Which left me too much time with my own thoughts.

The steering wheel felt cold under my hands, and for a second I thought about just driving off. Not far. Just enough to delay this whole thing again. But I didn’t. Because that’s not who I was.

The front door opened, and there she was. Kristen. Her brunette hair flowed freely, the loose jacket casually hanging off one shoulder, and a charming smile played on her lips, masking any troubles. Like we weren’t sitting on a secret that could blow up in our faces.

She slid into the passenger seat without a word, pulling the door shut with a soft click. The scent of her mango-vanilla shampoo hit me first with its familiar, fruity sweetness. She leaned across and kissed me. I kissed back, but only half-heartedly. She leaned back, glancing at me sideways.

“You okay?” she asked, like it was just another night, choosing to ignore my lame kiss.

I nodded, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About Kyle?”

I didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

She sighed, pulling her legs up onto the seat, turning toward me. “We need to tell him, Dave. This is getting stupid.”

“I know.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

For him to have his life back, for me to have never betrayed him with you, for time to reverse and everything to be made right.

I said nothing—just sat there, watching the faint glow from the dashboard light reflect off the windshield. The truth was, I didn’t want to hurt him. And she did. Not because she didn’t care—but because she wanted it over.

“It’s only been a few weeks,” I said finally. “He’s still figuring things out.”

“So are we.”

I looked at her then, really looked. She was right—and wrong. We’d been figuring things out for months, mostly by making out, while Kyle lay unconscious.

“I just… I feel like I’m betrayed him,” I admitted. “He liked you. Before everything. Before he—”

“Before he disappeared.” Her voice softened, but her eyes didn’t. “Dave, we can’t keep acting like nothing happened. He’s your best friend. He’ll get it.”

“Will he?” I asked, more to myself.

Kristen reached out, her hand resting on my arm. “I love you. I want to stop hiding.”

I loved her too. I’d even tried pushing Kyle to talk to her—like that would somehow make it easier. It only seemed fair to give him the chance to see if there was something still there on her end. Part of me hated how easy she made it all sound. Like Kyle wasn’t still in the middle of all this. Like his feelings didn’t matter.

“I’m not saying we wait forever,” I said. “I just… give it a little more time.”

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t push either. “You’re too good sometimes, you know that?”

Or maybe I just didn’t want to the bad guy. The scum bag that took his best friend's girl while he rotted away.

Rubbing at the back of my neck, I stared out into the night. Kyle wasn’t the same. He was still Kyle—still had that stubborn streak… that weird sense of humor—but there was something off. Like he’d come back with pieces missing, or maybe pieces added that didn’t quite fit.

He barely reacted when we found the jewelry. Like digging up a fortune was just another task on his to-do list. And then the land thing—wanting to buy property, fast. Who does that? We should still be wrapping our heads around homework and graduation plans, and he’s talking about deeds and old mining trails.

Kristen leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. “We can’t keep doing this, Dave.”

“I know.”

The words felt hollow, but I didn’t have anything better.

She shook her head, turning toward the window. “You keep saying that, but nothing changes. We sneak around, we avoid him, and for what? To protect his feelings?”

“Yes,” I said, sharper than I meant.

Her eyes flashed as she looked at me. “He’s not a kid, Dave. He can handle it.”

“You don’t know that,” I shot back. “You haven’t seen him like I have.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. She hated when I said that—like I was hoarding some insight she didn’t get.

“I’m not trying to hurt him either,” she said, voice lower now. “But you have to pick, Dave. Him or us.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s the truth.”

The car felt smaller suddenly, the space between us filled with everything we weren’t saying. I ran a hand through my hair, staring out into the dark.

“I’ll tell him,” I said finally.

Kristen blinked. “When?”

“Tomorrow. First chance I get.”

“You will?” Her voice softened.

“I will,” I repeated, but this time it felt solid. Real.

She nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Okay.”

We sat there a while longer, neither of us talking, both of us caught in our own thoughts. I didn’t know how Kyle would take it. I didn’t know how I’d even start. But I knew I couldn’t keep dragging this out.

Tomorrow, I’d tell him.

And whatever happened next, I’d deal with it.

Chapter Fourteen

Pocket Change

Dave gasped as I unveiled the twelve treasures. Each hole I’d dug revealed mason jar after mason jar—each packed tight with old gold coins. The ground clung to them like it didn’t want to let go, like they belonged to the earth now. One by one, I pried them free, stacking them carefully in the morning light.

“No way,” Dave breathed. “Dude, no freaking way.”

He kneeled beside the first jar I’d opened, brushing dirt off the glass with a shaky hand before popping the lid. His fingers hovered for a second, like he was afraid the coins might vanish, then he pulled one out.

“Gold,” he muttered, turning it over. “This is real gold.”

I nodded my head, wiping sweat and dirt from my hands as he stared at it, then fumbled for his phone.

“Hang on—hang on, I’ve seen something like this before,” he said, thumbing through his screen. “I think it’s one of those… old coins… from when people actually used gold coins. Let me—”

He trailed off as he browsed the internet.

While he searched, I opened another jar. More gold, slightly different faces stamped on them, but it didn’t matter. The weight, the color, the feel—they were exactly what I expected. What I needed.

“Okay, here,” Dave said, holding up the coin next to a picture on his phone. “I think this is a… Saint-Gaudens? Yeah, a $20 gold piece. Dude, this is worth a ton. They’re like two grand each now. Some are worth way more depending on the year or mint or whatever.”

I looked at him, but didn’t say anything. Not yet.

He grabbed another coin from the jar, comparing it, flipping it over. “This one’s different. Liberty something. Still gold. Still old. Holy crap, you’ve got a mix here.”

I moved to the next jar, pulling off the lid. The gold inside caught the last rays of light, dull but undeniable.

Dave was still going, his voice picking up speed. “Okay, okay—just rough math, alright? If each jar has, what, forty coins? Twelve jars, that’s… four hundred and eighty coins. Even if they’re all just the two-thousand-dollar ones, that’s like…” His fingers tapped the screen again. “Nine hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

He looked up at me, eyes wide.

“But some of these—if they’re rare? Some could be worth tens of thousands. You could be sitting on like four, five million dollars. Maybe more.”

I gave a small nod, watching him process it.

“All of this,” he said, quieter now, like he was almost afraid to ask. “It’s all yours?”

“Yeah,” I said simply, tightening one of the lids. “Every coin.”

He shook his head, still staring at the jars. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t,” I replied, standing. “There’s nothing to say right now.”

Staring at the dirt covered jars, I reflected on Dave's varying estimations of their worth. This wasn’t just about money. It was about what came next. Four hundred and eighty gold coins. Enough to pay off the bills, get my parents a new house, and use the rest as seed money.

I’m going to need so much more.

“Pocket change,” slipped from my mouth.

Dave looked over sharply. “Did you just call it pocket change? While looking like you meant it?”

He wasn’t just my best friend; he was like a brother. Most of all, he had earned the truth—or at least enough of it.

“Yes, and yes.” I met his eyes. “Dave, this is just the start. I’m hopefully using half of this as start-up money. When I’m done, this—” I gestured to the jars, to millions of dollars in gold sitting in the dirt, “—this will look like pocket change.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He just stared, trying to gauge how serious I was. Trying to understand.

“You’ve got some master plan to become a trillionaire, I take it?” he said with a note of amusement.

“Yeah,” I replied, crouching down to place the last lid back on. “I’ve got a plan.”

“You know, if this was a week ago, I would call you crazy,” he paused. He didn’t need to say anything else. He didn’t need to. I’d seen it in his eyes all week. It had been showing more and more every day. He would stare at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. A look of concern, maybe sadness on his face. He had to know I was keeping things from him.

“But not now, not after watching me dig up a fortune all week.” Breathing in deeply, I continued, “Dave, something did happen to me and it's time I told you. I’d left your house that night heading home, that’s when.” Dave interrupted me before I could finish. His words came out in a rush.

“Kristen and me have been seeing each other. I’m sorry. I’m a shitty friend… It’s all my fault. We didn’t mean for it to happen. We just kept leaning on each other while you were out and it just sort of happened. I’m sorry Kyle. Damn it, I suck as a friend.” He looked awful as he vomited forth his confession. Like a man about to swing from the noose confessing his crimes at lightning speed.

And all I could do was barely hold back laughing. “Dave, it’s okay. It’s more than okay. I think it’s great. The truth is, I’ve been over her for a while.”

Dave stared at me, still coming down from his confession. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah, I need to tell you the rest.” I took a slow breath.

Dave frowned, confused. “The rest of what?”

Meeting his eyes, I answered, “Everything. What really happened. Why I’m different.”

He paused, his brow furrowing. “Different how?”

I didn’t answer right away. Just walked over to the nearest tree, leaning against it for support—not because I was tired, but because what I was about to say felt heavier than any secret I’d ever carried.

“You remember the night I disappeared, right?”

“Yeah. You left my place. No one saw you after that until—” He gestured vaguely, “—until you turned up in that field.”

I nodded. “Except I didn’t just disappear. I was taken.”

Dave blinked. “Like… kidnapped?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Like literally taken. To another world. Another reality. I don’t even know how to explain it in a way that makes sense, but it happened.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes narrowing. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Silence stretched for a few heartbeats—the only sound the rustle of leaves in the wind.

“I was gone for about ten years,” I said. “Longer really. If you count the time I spent in a demon realm, time passed differently there, but that’s another story. I lived an entire life while I was gone. Fought in wars. Built cities. Led armies. Saved a world. I was… someone else, for a long time.”

Dave laughed—short, sharp. “Come on, man. You almost had me.”

I didn’t flinch. Just stared at him.

“You’ve seen how fast I recovered. How I knew where this gold was. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That I’m not the same.”

He didn’t laugh again.

“I’m not seventeen—haven't been for a long time,” I said quietly. “Not really. I’m twenty-seven or so in here.” I tapped my temple. “I’ve been through things I can’t even begin to describe. And when I came back home… it stripped everything away. My powers. My strength. But not the memories. Not who I became.”

Dave stepped back like he needed distance to think. He paced once, twice, then turned back.

“Prove it.”

I nodded. “I can’t show you everything. But I can show you this.”

Dave staggered, then spun as he called out, “Kyle! What the—Kyle!”

With a flick of will, the magic of legendary stealth stopped, causing me to appear back in front of him.

“What the hell?”

“Magic exists,” I said. “Not like it did there. But it… sort of followed me. Although technically, disappearing just now was a skill. It gets a little murky when you’ve mastered skills to such a degree they become like magical abilities.”

“Do it again.” He commanded. I did.

Appearing again, he stared, breathing hard, trying to find the ground beneath him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I trust you. Because you’re my friend—my family. And because I need someone who knows. Someone who can help me with what I’m planning. And someone who can help me stay grounded.”

Dave sat down hard on a nearby stump. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” I sat beside him. “It’s a lot to take in.”

For a long minute, he didn’t move. The forest was quiet, the gold at our feet forgotten for now. Then he looked at me, eyes wide—but no longer doubting. Slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

****

“Sounds like this hot nature goddess really liked you. Can’t imagine coming back here was easy, having lived there so many years.” Dave asked, a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow.

"Unbelievable," I thought, my mind reeling from the sheer strangeness of it all. "Not dragons, demon invasions, me nearly becoming a demigod—no, it's the thought of a hot goddess that stands out to you?" I replied, a mixture of amusement and disbelief coloring my tone.

Dave grinned like he’d just won something. “Hey, priorities, man. You’re over here living a fantasy novel and dating literal goddesses while I’m stuck passing trig and hoping Kristen’s mom doesn’t hate me.”

I shook my head, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it,” he said, nudging me. “If the roles were reversed, you’d be stuck on that too.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, smirking. “But I’d at least ask about the dragons first.”

“Alright, alright,” he held up his hands. “Tell me later. For now—what’s the next move? You’ve got a pile of gold, you’ve got secrets, and apparently, a resume that includes saving entire worlds. What now?”

I crouched next to one of the jars, tapping the glass lightly. The dull clink of metal inside reminded me just how heavy each one was.

“This is the foundation,” I said, while pointing to the collection of jars. “It’s not the end goal. From my perspective, these are a few copper pieces, and I need platinum.”

“Right. So… no gold-plated Xbox?”

“Not unless you want to paint one yourself.”

He chuckled. “Okay, okay. Serious talk. Hit me.”

I stood, brushing off my hands. “First, I’m forming an LLC—Limited Liability Company. But it’s going to be owned by a trust.”

Dave blinked. “A trust? Like, rich people stuff?”

“Exactly. It keeps my name off everything. The LLC handles the land deals, bank accounts, all of it. On paper, it’s just some company. I’m nowhere.”

“Smart,” he said, nodding. “So, no one can trace it back to you.” His face contorted as realization hit him. “Between the coma and finding treasure, it would be too much attention. You need ambiguity.”

“Right. Once that’s set, I buy land. Not just any land—places with history. Old mines, forgotten trails, backwoods plots no one’s looked at in decades. Anywhere I can use my skill.”

Dave tilted his head. “Your mining thing. How’s that work, again?”

“Ten-foot radius. Constant scan. Ores, metals, gems—I sort of just know something’s there and what it's made of.”

He gave a low whistle. “You’re like a walking metal detector. But better.”

“Way better. I’ve already found a few things. This town, the whole county, probably has veins of old wealth just waiting. Modern equipment can’t do what I do.”

“And you’re gonna dig it up yourself?”

“Whatever I can. Nuggets, old coins, small gem clusters—stuff I can pull and sell quietly. Anything bigger, I sell the rights. Let the mining companies think they struck gold, literally.”

Dave leaned back, impressed. “So you find the spot, they pay you to tear it up, and you walk away richer?”

“Exactly. No risk to me, all reward.”

He laughed. “Man, I thought you’d just sell stuff you found online or something.”

“It was one of the ideas I dismissed early on. Too messy. Too traceable. And not near enough capital.”

Dave’s eyes lit up with something between awe and excitement. “And you need me to keep you grounded when you get rich?”

Laughing, I replied, “Not exactly. I’ve been the emperor of a world… and managed to let it not go to my head. First and foremost, I want my best friend with me. Secondly, if you technically work for me, you get paid an insane amount of money that covers your college tuition. Becoming a doctor isn’t cheap. And there is a third thing.”

Eyebrows raising, he asked, “Third thing?”

“Yeah, I sort of suck at typing and you're both crazy fast at it and I can trust you to look stuff up for me.”

Scoffing, he stated, “Wait… the mighty magical emperor can’t type? But I’ve seen you type. You’re as fast as me.”

With a sheepish look I replied, “No one types back there, I sort of, well, I lost the skill.”

Dave stared at me, then burst out laughing. “Oh man, that’s perfect. You can slay demons, command armies—but can’t send an email.”

“Exactly,” I said, grinning. “That’s why I’ve got you.”

He stood, brushing off his jeans. “Well, boss, first order of business—let’s get this gold out of here. Before someone else with a metal detector wanders by.”

Grinning, I reminded him, “They can’t. Hilly and scrubby as it may be, I own all this land.”

Chapter Fifteen

Becoming Legal

The office smelled like leather and old money, though it was probably just the polish they used on the massive walnut desk. Papers were spread out in neat, intimidating stacks, and a fountain pen sat perfectly centered in front of the man I’d been told was the best small-firm attorney in Grayton Creek.

James R. Truman, Esq. Lean, sharp-eyed, dressed like he stepped out of a courtroom drama. He tapped one of the folders lightly, then looked up over his glasses at me, then at my parents.

“So, let’s start with the basics,” he said, his voice smooth but with just enough weight to remind you he didn’t waste time. “The trust is already drafted and in place, pending your signatures. It’s a blind trust, which means Kyle here,”—he nodded toward me— “is the sole beneficiary, but his name is not publicly tied to any of the assets it holds. That includes the LLC we’ve established under the trust.”

My mom shifted slightly in her seat, eyes flicking between me and the lawyer. Dad leaned back, arms crossed, watching quietly.

Truman continued. “The LLC—Creekstone Holdings—is now legally set up to purchase property, open bank accounts, and manage contracts. Any land, resources, or business ventures Kyle wants to pursue will go through that entity.”

“Will it really keep his name out of it?” Mom asked, not hiding the concern in her voice.

Truman nodded. “Completely. On paper, the trust owns the LLC, and the trustee is a third-party professional I vetted personally. They follow Kyle’s directives, but no one outside this room knows that. He’s insulated. Legally, it’s solid.”

I nodded, calm on the outside, but every word was just fuel to keep going.

“And the coins?” Dad asked. “What’s happening with those?”

Truman gestured to a folder on the side. “We’ve had an initial evaluation by our in-house appraiser and verified the historical significance. They’re real, they’re valuable, and they’re legal to sell. One of my associates is handling discreet offers. The first one came in yesterday.”

He flipped open the folder, revealing a typed summary. “Four point two million.”

Mom gasped. Dad’s eyebrows shot up.

Dave, sitting quietly in the corner, gave a low whistle. “Told you.”

Truman glanced at him, then back at us. “It’s a strong offer. Could go higher if we push, but the buyer’s reputable and wants a fast deal.”

I leaned forward. “I want it done clean. Fast is fine if everything checks out.”

Truman smiled slightly, approving. “That’s what I like to hear. As agreed, we will remove our payment from the sell as well as the retainer we discussed.”

My parents looked both happy and sad all at once. Much like they did when I told them the first part of my long-term plans. They didn’t need to know everything and if they ever found out about me being gone, they would only lose me all over again. They hadn’t believed me fully at first. I couldn’t blame them, but the pull of both wanting to trust me and there being enough media mysticism surrounding waking up from a coma won out.

We sat at the worn, wooden kitchen table, the same one where we’d shared a thousand normal conversations—the clatter of mugs, the scrape of chairs, the murmur of everyday life. Normal stuff that seemed ages ago. And now I was telling them I’d found gold. Mixing both the truth and a lie.

“Buried?” Dad asked, like he was trying to figure out if this was a joke, or maybe part of some weird therapy exercise no one told him about.

“Twelve mason jars,” I said. “Old coins. Real gold.”

Mom’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked like she didn’t know whether to be worried or proud. “And you just… found them?”

I hesitated. This was the part I’d practiced in my head.

“After I woke up,” I said slowly, “things were different. I just… know things now. About the ground. About metal. It’s hard to explain.”

Dad frowned, leaning in. “Know things how?”

“It’s like… if I’m close to something, I can feel it. Like a pressure, or a pull. I can’t tell you how, but I just know when there’s something there. Metal, coins, even veins in rocks.”

Mom looked at me carefully, searching my face. “That’s the feeling you talked about before?” she asked, leaning forward. “The reason why you bought that land, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I knew something was there. I didn’t know it was gold, not exactly, but I could feel it.”

She reached across the table, placing her hand gently over mine. “You’ve always been smart, special, Kyle. But this…” She paused, looking at Dad, then back at me. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Dad leaned back, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing, not in anger but thought. “And this isn’t just a onetime thing?”

“No. It’s… constant. I can feel things all the time now, if I’m close enough.”

Mom bit her lip, her thumb lightly rubbing against my hand. “Does it hurt? The feeling?”

“No. It’s just there. Like knowing there’s rain coming.”

They didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat with it.

Then Dad exhaled slowly. “Putting this feeling ability, whatever it is aside for now, the trust is a good idea. Having an attorney is a necessity just for dealing with that much money. Speaking of which, the sooner we get it out of the house, the better.”

Looking at dad, mom softly asked, “And he needs a company to keep doing this?”

My father's eyes moved from my mother to me, his eyebrow rising in a questioning manner, his gaze lingering on my face. He wanted me to answer. "Doing this right matters. I want to avoid shady deals and steer clear of any legal risks. I’ve already put in a lot of time researching mineral rights and the legal side of things. The coins can be sold out in the open, but that creates the problem of putting my name out there and a sale this size will get attention. A trust keeps me from being put on display, and the business adds more value than just cover."

Dad looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “We’ll help.”

Mom squeezed my hand. “We believe in you.”

Dad and I spent the last couple of days getting things ready after we talked, and today we finished the final paperwork. In many ways, it made miss the Altlandia… there everything was simpler and held together by contract magic. That and being seventeen meant you already had a profession.

Refocusing on the here and now, I watched as Truman folded his hands as he spoke. “Now, regarding Kyle’s legal status—under Tennessee law — he’s still a minor. But given the assets, and with parental approval, we can file for a court-ordered emancipation specifically for business affairs. He won’t be an adult in all things, but he’ll have legal authority over the trust, the LLC, and financial matters.”

Mom’s face tightened. “Is that… safe?”

“It’s structured,” Truman said. “He can’t be reckless, and we have safeguards in place. But it lets him act when needed, without red tape, but you need to remember at the end of the day it’s still his money. He will also have his own bank accounts once the money comes in, so personal spending can come from those if he chooses. Though there are many tax breaks you can avail yourself, I’ll be having one of my people go with you later.”

Dad nodded slowly. “If this is what he wants, we’ll support it.”

Truman slid a new document forward. “Then all I need are your signatures.”

Mom looked at me, searching for any hesitation, but I gave her the smallest nod. She sighed, her hand already moving toward the pen. Dad signed first, his signature sharp and steady. Like this was just another contract. Like he hadn’t just handed over the keys to something massive. Mom’s signature followed, a little slower, but just as final.

Truman gathered the papers, tucking them neatly into the folder. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice still all business. “We’ll submit this to the court today. Expect confirmation by early next week at the latest.”

Dave let out a low whistle. “You’re official now. What’s that make you, Kyle? Like, a quarter of an adult?”

“Quarter?” I asked, smirking.

“Okay, fine, half. You still can’t vote or rent a car.”

I shook my head, laughing. “Remind me not to make you CFO.”

“No worries, I’ll still be eighteen before you… by a whole month.” A look of pure joy spread across his face, as though he'd seen something breathtaking. He added, “I think I’ll rent a car and buy a beer.”

“You have to be twenty-one to do both of those.” I deadpan replied.

Keeping his bit going Dave replied, “Sheesh, it’s my fantasy, and the year is still 1961 as the wind whips through my hair while Audrey, sweet Audrey, rides shotgun in my cherry-red, newly rented Chevrolet Impala convertible, the engine purring like a contented cat.”

Grinning, I replied. “Your ongoing obsession with Audrey Hepburn is duly noted and not remotely weird.” Dave really did have a thing for her, sadly he was born nearly a century too late to stand a chance. Come to think of it, Kristen looks fairly similar to the famous movie star. Note to self: give him crap about it later.

Truman remained unfazed, already flipping to the next file. “Once the funds from the coin sale clear, we can proceed with the property acquisitions we discussed.”

Mom shifted in her seat. “This land… it’s important to you?”

I nodded. “It is. And I’m going to keep it simple for now. No attention, no headlines.”

Truman looked between us. “As agreed. Everything moves through the LLC. Your name stays off the records.”

Dad leaned in. “And the land is all in the trust’s name?”

“Correct,” Truman replied. “By the time anyone’s curious, it’ll be too late to matter.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Missing

The pencil snapped somewhere around problem five.

I wasn’t even pressing that hard, but apparently graphite had joined my brain in deciding calculus was a personal attack. I used to wield spell matrices and battlefield enchantments with one hand while issuing tactical orders with the other. Now? I couldn’t remember the difference between a derivative and a death wish.

The dining table was a battlefield in its own right—schoolbooks, highlighters, a half-eaten protein bar, and a steaming cup of betrayal disguised as coffee. The worst part? I knew I used to be good at this. Not just “pass the test” good. Weaponized mathematics good. But that was back then. Back when my brain didn’t feel like it had been downgraded to “above average mortal.”

Now I was just a guy with a pencil, a deadline, and a deep hatred for the unit circle.

“You okay over there?” Mom asked as she walked by, holding a basket of laundry like a small shield.

“I’ve declared war on integrals. The pencil was a casualty.”

She gave me a look over her shoulder—the patient, motherly version of “you’re dramatic and I love you anyway.” Then she set the basket down, untangled a pair of socks, and nodded toward my coffee. “Do you want more? It might bring your IQ up enough to get through problem six.”

Glancing dubiously at the cooling coffee, I replied, “I’m pretty sure it’s decaf.”

She gasped like I’d insulted the family name. “How dare you?”

“So, it’s not decaf?”

Smiling warmly, she replied, “Of course it is. I don’t want you up all night.”

I grinned despite the headache forming behind my left eye. She dropped a kiss to the top of my head as she passed back toward the kitchen.

“Oh, I have to stop by the bank tomorrow,” she said casually, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through old envelopes. “Just the usual boring grown up stuff.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Should I bring a priest?”

“Only if he can exorcise Tabbetha.”

“Pretty sure they’d have to call the Vatican.”

She snorted and flicked on the radio like it was an afterthought, humming as she moved to rinse out a mug. The room filled with soft country music and the warm crackle of AM static. It wasn’t loud, just background noise—something to keep the silence from feeling too big.

The song faded, and a new voice took over, brighter, a little too chipper for the topic it introduced.

“…and coming up next, we’ll check in with local authorities regarding the ongoing search near Pine Hollow Trail, where a second hiker has gone missing this week.”

That got my attention.

I didn’t even look up—just let my pencil hover over the notebook as the radio anchor’s tone shifted into something too careful to be casual.

“Officials say search efforts are continuing this morning and that no evidence of animal activity has been found. Pine Hollow remains closed to visitors, and residents are encouraged to report any unusual behavior in the area.”

Unusual behavior. That was cop speak for “we have no idea what’s going on.”

Mom slowed a bit, her hands stilling over the dish towel. “That’s near where you and Dave used to hike, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Couple miles past the east fork.”

She nodded, her expression somewhere between concern and distant memory. She didn’t push it. Everyone that grew up here knew about the wildlife. Every year people disappeared or got mauled, usually because they thought they could go up to the cute little Winnie the Pooh only to find out too late black bears could outrun you and bite your arm off. They generally chose to ignore you. Unless you give them a reason not to.

She rinsed the mug and dried her hands. “Your Dad’s going to be home late. Got called out again for that drainage issue near Chattanooga.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The one where the developers built half a neighborhood on an actual floodplain?”

“That’s the one. Turns out ignoring topography doesn’t make it go away.”

I let out a small laugh. “Civil engineers—heroes with mud on their boots.”

“He’d like that. Might put it on a t-shirt.”

She leaned on the counter, shaking her head. “He says half the projects lately feel like fixing problems nobody wants to admit they caused. Roads, culverts, retaining walls—everything crumbling because someone ticked the wrong box on a form twenty years ago.”

“Bet he loves that.”

“He does, actually. He likes the puzzle of it. Just doesn’t like cleaning up after people who think cement and concrete are the same thing.”

I chuckled, reaching for the coffee I’d been pretending not to drink. “I’m convinced that one's Dad’s biggest pet peeve.”

“Oh, it certainly is. The stories he used to tell me about the wrong one being used could fill a novel,” she said, then glanced out the window. “It’s warm for fall. Maybe we’ll get one more weekend before the leaves fully drop.”

The radio hummed quietly behind her. No more missing hikers. No more warnings. Just soft fiddle music and the sound of mom washing dishes.

Dinner came late with mom and me waiting until Dad got home to eat. School work went well once I stopped pouting. Dad regaled us with stories about misuses of building materials and poorly dug out drainage systems. But he made it sound like a summer action movie in his telling. The best part was watching the loving way they stared at each other, and at me. My younger self would never have appreciated these moments.

Like every other night since I got back, or as the world saw it, woke up from a coma, I went to bed early. Thankfully, my need for massive amounts of sleep disappeared with my negative status effects. One of the wonderful fringe benefits of high mental stats was needing less sleep. Four hours might as well have been eight.

After ensuring no one was awake, I went full stealth mode and slipped away.

The door closed silently as I stepped out into the pre-dawn hush. The sky was still more night than morning, that deep indigo between stars and sunrise. A low fog clung to the streets like the town was still sleeping under it. Damp leaves lined the gutters. A single porch light flickered two houses down.

I jogged quietly past the neighborhood sign, past the mailbox clusters and cracked sidewalks, breathing in that cool, clean Tennessee air.

Grayton Creek might’ve been small, but its woods were real. Old. Patient. The town curved into the hills and mountains like it had grown up alongside them, not on top of them. Caves ran under the high ridges. The trees changed slower here. I’d forgotten how much I missed the smell of the wet earth and moss here.

By the time I made it to the back trail behind the school, I was already warm. My breath came in steady clouds, shoes crunching softly against gravel and root. I pushed uphill into the first switchback, just for the burn.

Every step reminded me I was here. I was home. Not just breathing, but alive.

It didn’t erase what I’d lost—what Altlandia had made me—but I could still move. Still run. Still push.

At the top of the ridge, I paused under a clearing framed by tall oaks. The sky was just starting to brighten at the edges, casting silver light over the treetops. It was beautiful. Quiet.

I dropped into a series of exercises—push-ups, squats, footwork drills. I struck the air like it was watching, practiced forms that had once been part of battle dances. Between sets, I paced the edge of the clearing, mind drifting.

I needed a class. I needed something more. But the system here was stingy. Or maybe cautious. I hadn’t earned anything yet, not really. Killing something just for XP was out of the question.

Maybe Dad could take me hunting. Make it a day out with Dave and his dad like we used to do. Then we would be harvesting and eating the meat. It wouldn’t just be me testing to see if I got experience.

My plan was working so far—The realtor was willing to sign an NDA and had a list of properties ready. The legal structure was laid out, the paperwork done. The money would clear tomorrow—or technically today, since it was well past midnight. I couldn’t wait to see my mom’s face.

Muscles tightened as I dropped into a lower stance, flowing through the final sequence—pivot, strike, reset. The movements were clean, grounded, real. Not magic. Not skill points. Just muscle and repetition. Muscle memory hadn’t been built into this younger body—I had to earn it again. I wondered how far I could push it. How close to the edge of human limits I could get without spells or stats. Maybe far enough. Maybe not.

Then something slammed into the side of my head.

No warning. No sound.

Just a jolt of agony that snapped the world sideways and sent me sprawling.

I didn’t fall—I collapsed.

The forest floor tore into my shoulder. Cold dirt filled my mouth. My brain rang like a bell hit too hard. I tried to move, but my limbs weren’t obeying.

Pain came a breath later. Sharp. Radiating from the side of my skull.

What—

Another hit—ribs this time. I gasped and rolled on instinct, dragging myself up onto one knee. My balance was gone. My vision blurred. Something flickered through the fog—humanoid, small, and fast.

I lashed out. Hit nothing. Another blow came low, knocking my leg out from under me. I fell again, shoulder first, skidding through dead leaves and mud.

No growl. No sound. Just the sense of being hunted.

This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a warning.

It was trying to kill me.

I tried to focus, to pull myself together enough for True Sight—but pain flared across my jaw before I could even breathe. My head snapped to the side. I tasted blood.

Everything was spinning.

I didn’t have a weapon. No armor. No magic. Just fists and a seventeen-year-old body.

And that wasn’t enough.

I turned and ran.

The forest erupted around me—branches slashing my arms, roots threatening to trip me. My lungs burned. My vision swam. I could hear it behind me—fast, deliberate, closing in.

This wasn’t survival. This was escape.

It followed.

Every step I took, it took faster. I heard its breath now—steady, cold. The rhythm of someone—or something—focused on one thing: killing me.

I sprinted downhill, skidding over rocks, vaulting fallen limbs. The trail curved. I cut through it, lungs heaving.

The thing behind me didn’t stumble. Didn’t hesitate.

It wanted me dead.

I could feel it. Not instinct—certainty.

A branch tore across my face. Blood welled, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

The trees began to thin. Light—dim, orange streetlight—cut through the fog.

A fence. A cracked sidewalk. Civilization.

I pushed harder, burning everything I had left in my legs. The sounds behind me grew louder—closer.

It was seconds away. I could feel it at my back.

I broke through the treeline and hit pavement.

The thing stopped.

I didn’t hear it crash. Didn’t hear it slide. It just… stopped. Like there was an invisible line it couldn’t cross.

I didn’t turn around.

I ran the last block, nearly blind, blood dripping from my temple, one leg barely holding up. I reached the house and collapsed against the door, chest heaving.

My hands shook as I eased the door open. Stealth didn’t matter now. I crept inside. Locked the door behind me. The house was still. The hallway dim. My parents were blessedly still asleep.

I walked to the bathroom on aching feet, turned the faucet, and let the cold water run. Pulling my clothes off turned into a herculean feat. But I needed to assess the damage and start coming up with a cover story.

When I looked in the mirror, a bruised, bloodied, dirt-covered stranger looked back. Minor abrasions on the arms could be covered with a long sleeve shirt. While not ideal, a knit hat would cover the cut on my head. Somehow my chin managed to only be red, something I could chalk up to bad shaving, or just not shave and hope it hides it. My torso took most of the damage.

I hadn’t been this close to death in years.

But that’s not what scared me the most.

It was not knowing what attacked me.

And where it came from.

Chapter Seventeen

Millionaire

The ride to the bank was quiet and mostly comfortable. We both knew where we were going, but neither of us brought it up. Like saying it out loud might make it feel too real. The money was a means to an end for me, a way to pay my parents back… and start setting up something I hoped wouldn’t be needed. Although the idea of having FU money seemed prudent given recent events.

Mom drove with the same calm she used for doctor’s appointments and grocery runs, but I could see the way her fingers tapped the steering wheel—slow, rhythmic, thoughtful. Like she was mentally sorting receipts or reminding herself to take chicken out of the freezer.

She hadn’t asked questions this morning. Just glanced at me, still in my hoodie and cap, and said, “You ready?”

I’d nodded. I was.

Even if my ribs still ached and I had to keep my cap tilted to hide the bruise near my temple. The hit had caught just below the edge—hard enough to make my teeth rattle. It didn’t show much, but I could feel it. A dull, pulsing reminder.

One more thing I hadn’t told them.

Mom turned off Main Street and headed down toward the smaller bank near the edge of town. Not Barrington First. Not the smug marble giant with its five locations and glass-walled trophy room in Chattanooga.

This place was quieter. Smaller. Just three branches. But clean. Friendly. The kind of bank that didn’t put your family in a chokehold just because it could.

She pulled into the lot and stared at the building a moment before shifting into park. She opened her mouth, then closed it before opening it again. “Do you want me to come inside or wait out here?”

I fought back a Cheshire grin as I answered, “You have to come with me, at least this time.”

A carpet of fallen leaves covered the ground, except for the meticulously swept parking lot, a detail that hinted at their dedication. Stepping ahead of her, I opened the door like a proper gentleman as she said, “Thank you.”

There were several tellers, two without current lines, but they still looked busy.

“Hello, Mr. Sangster. We were told to expect you today. I’m so sorry Madeline is out to lunch, or she would have greeted you already.” She went to leave her booth, but I stopped her with a gesture before she could move away.

Swiftly moving up to her, I quickly spoke, “No worries, we can get to me in a bit. I believe my mom, Bel Sangster, needs to check her and my dad’s account.”

With a warm smile, she greeted my mother while typing on her computer. “Of course, good afternoon Mrs. Sangster. Your account is all ready, your current balance is exactly one million dollars.”

“One… one million dollars,” her face went pale.

“Yes, one million, Mrs. Sangster.”

“One million dollars?” Mom’s eyes had hit a level of large I didn’t think was humanly possible.

“Try saying it with your pinky to the edge of your mouth next,” I gleefully explained.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry.” My mother apologized as she dragged me away from the teller. “Kyle, how did you do this? You can’t just open accounts in other people's names.”

Still smiling, I replied, “I didn’t. You and dad did when you signed all those papers. And by the way, shame on you for not reading them all.”

Her stare lost any hint of amusement. The full weight of mom stare said everything.

“How dare you trick your poor mother! I only want what's best for you.”

But I was ready.

I countered with my own silent stare.

“I know, mom, and I wasn’t trying to trick you but surprise you.”

But she wasn’t done yet. Her left eyebrow raised subtlety. Her weight shifted as she stood taller.

“And that’s a wonderful gesture, son, but that money is yours. Nothing could make me and your father happier than knowing you’re financially secure for the future.”

Then she slumped her shoulders, casting her face down before looking gently up at me.

“Please son, give your mom this one thing.”

My god the brutality. Did she have any mercy in her? Apparently not. It would have worked too if she had been dealing with a real seventeen-year-old me. Hell, it almost did work. Giving her a half grin, I cast my eyes to the teller, tilted my head, then gave her the full grin of a capricious and grateful son.

“I hear you, mom, but I need you to do this one thing for me. Let me pay you back… besides, dad already knows. I couldn’t have done this without him.”

“Your father is toast when he gets home.” She tried—and failed—to look angry.

“It just made sense to get you both an account here since my accounts, personal and business, are here. This way it’s easy to do any necessary transfers. It takes longer between banks. As for the money, mom, it’s not as generous as it seems. I have a million in my personal account too, then two million in my new business. It’s more than enough to go around—and still do everything I plan to do, and then some.” For now, I left off that my future ventures could yield hundreds of times more.

Putting her hand to my face, she gave into the smile she had been fighting back, which in turn allowed her eyes to tear up. Glancing to my head and back to my eyes, she said, “You shouldn’t wear a cap in doors.”

She just had to get a mom win in there.

Inhaling and exhaling sharply, she added, “Now let’s go get the bank to draft me a cashier's check. I’m going to go pay off our soon-to-be former bank.”

We spent the rest of the day together running errands, doing some shopping—mostly window shopping. After extensive prodding and then using Dad’s love of seeing her in new outfits, mom caved and tried on some clothes at a local boutique. While she spent the seemingly endless ages all women do in dressing rooms, I did some shopping of my own.

It’s amazing what you can custom order online.

Chapter Eighteen

Tabbetha Barrington

The morning sun filtered through the full-length windows of my office, catching the high-gloss polish of imported Brazilian cherry wood and the soft shimmer of my tailored silk blouse. I turned my wrist slightly to admire the cufflinks—vintage Cartier—then reached for my coffee. It was still hot, the mug bone-white and hand-painted with my initials in gold leaf.

Of course it was.

I didn’t tolerate mediocrity. Not in staff. Not in decor. And certainly not in myself. That was why I was adored. I was a beacon. A lighthouse in an ocean of failures.

I sipped my coffee slowly—black, no sugar—and signed off on another denial letter. Poor woman barely had a car worth repossessing, let alone any real equity. Still, she had the nerve to ask for a business loan. Selling handmade soaps out of a rented trailer wasn’t a business—it was a hobby, and a cheap one at that. My staff knew which loans to put on my desks, which ones I required a just hand like my own. I’d barely started to pull out the next one when the intercom buzzed.

Twice.

I let it.

Three times. I sighed.

“Yes?” I said, already annoyed.

Helen’s voice cracked through the line. “You’re going to want to see this.”

I rolled my eyes. She always thought she had news. The girl was like a nervous dog, constantly begging for approval she hadn’t earned. “I doubt that,” I muttered, and hit the call-through anyway.

A pause.

Then: “The Sangsters just paid off their mortgage. Entire balance. Cashed out in full.”

I blinked. Slowly. The room felt like it tilted, just slightly.

Two hundred and sixteen thousand, their debt to me gone in a breath. Cleared without warning. Without permission.

I stared at the screen. For once, I had no clever quip.

I rose from the chair slowly—deliberately. The heels of my patent leather pumps clicked against the marble inlay, echoing like applause in a cathedral. The hem of my pencil skirt, black and impossibly sleek, whispered against my calves as I crossed to the windows and stared out over Grayton Creek like it was a stage.

Which, of course, it was.

And I owned it.

Barrington First Trust wasn’t just a bank—it was a statement. Five branches, one of them in Chattanooga, and my office the largest in each one. Not because I needed them. But because others needed to know who was in charge.

I didn’t manage the day-to-day. That was for underlings. I oversaw. I curated. I appeared, like sunlight through stained glass—beautiful, selective, and not to be looked at directly.

Everyone in town knew it. And if they didn’t, they were reminded the moment they stepped into my space.

My office was cathedral-like in its precision. Mahogany bookshelves lined with finance volumes I never read. An espresso bar gleaming in chrome and obsidian. Every surface spotless, every chair carefully chosen to be lower to the ground, to be less comfortable than mine.

Power wasn’t just held—it had to be seen.

And now… the Sangsters?

They were supposed to be broken. Cautious. Quiet. Henry with his stubborn humility. That child of his—Kyle? The one always in the hospital? The one who never played sports? Who never mattered? The one that dared stare me in the eyes and smirk. He probably woke up wrong in the head. Eugenics got a bad rap. They didn’t understand branding back then. Today, with our control on media, people would rush to sign up.

Then there was her.

Belinda.

Bel.

With her soft laugh and her perfect skin and that ridiculous way people liked her. She hadn’t earned that smile, that family, that husband, that life.

And Henry had rejected me.

Even after I’d practically handed him a future. And now they had money?

Real money?

My lip twitched. I didn’t let it show.

They didn’t earn that. Not the way I had. I built this empire from scratch. From ashes. From tragedy.

Marrying William Barrington had been my sacrifice. My contribution to this town’s financial legacy. And yes, he may have owned the bank when I met him—but I was the one who kept it alive after his death. I was the one who gave it a face.

My face.

I turned slightly and caught my reflection in the mirrored liquor cabinet. Sharp lines. Immaculate makeup. Hair that hadn’t dared turn gray. I looked like wealth incarnate. A monument to victory.

And yet I could feel something gnawing behind my teeth.

How?

Where did they get that kind of money?

Something was going on. Something illegal, most likely. Or immoral. Or both.

And I would find out.

Because people like them didn’t deserve to win, people like them needed to know their place.

I returned to my chair and sank into it slowly, letting the leather creak just loud enough to remind me I was still above it all. Above them. I picked up my private phone—silver-trimmed, anonymous, untraceable. The number I only gave to people who understood value without needing it explained.

It rang once.

Then: “Yes, ma’am?”

I smiled slowly. “The Sangsters. I want everything. Who they owe, what they own, where it came from. Deep. Discreet. Off the books.”

A pause. “Of course. Any particular angle?”

I stared out the window, eyes locked on the horizon where Belinda Sangster probably thought sunlight made her safe.

“Every angle,” I said. “Find the crack. We’ll widen it.”

Chapter Nineteen

Changes

Two weeks. That’s how long it had been since the fight—or, more accurately, since I’d run like a half-trained rookie through the woods with blood in my mouth and death at my back. Humbling stuff. And exactly the kind of motivation I needed.

Since then, I’d burned through half a year of coma-missed schoolwork and tested out of most of what the current year was offering. My school liaison, who just turned out to be the school's guidance counselor, used the word “prodigy.” I preferred “motivated.” Let them think I was chasing scholarships or some tragic redemption arc.

My intelligence might be well below what it had been, but it was still top tier human, even if I internally whined about it. Outside of higher math, every other subject had been an easy formula to ace. Read textbook, book stays in memory, regurgitate information from book when tested.

During the day, I scouted properties with the realtor. The ones she showed me were the kind no one else wanted—abandoned fixer-uppers, overgrown lots, large parcels of land, houses with more mold than drywall. She didn’t ask many questions. I didn’t offer many answers. We had an understanding: she made commission, I got access.

At night—or on weekends like today—I went back with Dave.

The realtor gave me full access to revisit anything on her “hopeless” list. Technically, I was just “reviewing my options.” In reality, I was sweeping the land for gold, silver, gems, old coins—anything with a glimmer. My mining skill was getting more work than it had during my entire last year.

Today, we were at one of the worst of the worst. The roof sagged. The floor creaked. The back porch had collapsed inward like it gave up in the middle of a sentence.

“Place smells like despair and pickles,” Dave said, flashlight slicing through the dim. “Like someone tried to bottle disappointment and forgot to seal the lid.”

“Remind me to get that line copyrighted,” I muttered as I followed him inside.

The boards groaned under our steps. Dust clung to the air like it had nowhere else to go. My boots stuck to something I didn’t want to identify.

Sensing through everything in a ten-foot radius came easy, finding anything to turn into money didn’t.

Nothing in the walls. Nothing in the floor. Curious about the old building, I used True Sight to learn more about it. Most were just old houses, but some had been used for other things.

[General Store]

[Status: Dilapidated]

General store, that’s kind of cool and explains why I keep picking up on rusted tin everywhere. Just as I was about to turn it off, something flickered nearby—not metal.

Dave.

He had a glow.

The same quiet shimmer I’d seen around Maddie’s heart, but different. Maddie had been a surprise, Ty even more so, but now Dave? And he had no more idea than them. I focused on him.

[David Engel]

[Awakening Human Male]

[Weaknesses: None]

[Strengths: Elevating physical attributes]

[Status: Curious, undergoing cultivation metamorphosis]

“Dave, how do you feel about sitting in dangerous places while focusing on your heart?” Might as well rip the band aid off fast. “Let’s go outside. There are some wonderful rocks we can sit on while we talk.”

Dave gave his limestone chunk a dubious look before sitting down. “So what exactly are we doing?” he asked, glancing around the surrounding field. “Is this where you summon your treasure-sniffing aura or whatever?”

Crossing my arms, I answered, “Actually, we’re here for you.”

Dave blinked. “Me?”

“You’re awakening. It could have started today or days ago, but it’s happening.” I said, calm but direct.

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “And that means…?”

I tilted my head. “You’ve been imbued, chosen, becoming one with the cosmos. You can walk the paths of progression. It’s called a lot of different things depending on the culture. It means you’ll be gaining some serious mojo.”

He stared at me. “You mean, like… I’ve got magic?”

“Kind of… It’s more internal. You’re not about to start summoning dragons, but you could end up strong enough to lift a car or fast enough to dodge one, maybe more, a lot more.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So I’m not a wizard—I’m a superhero.”

I smirked. “Only if you don’t get yourself killed before your second limit. You’re showing a glow of color as well.”

“Wait, hold up. Start over. Glow—what are you even talking about?”

I gestured around him. “It’s like a shimmer in the air, barely visible. Not with normal eyes. I used True Sight earlier and saw it. Yours has a calm green energy, like healing. It’s faint but there.”

“Healing?” He echoed with excitement. “Seriously?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. People that awaken often have powers based around their developed skills or affinities. You’ve always wanted to be a doctor. It makes sense you’d have healing. At least it did back in Altlandia. Earth is proving to be changing in similar but subtly different ways so far.” That was a whole other topic I wanted to avoid for now.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean… yeah, I like helping people, but that doesn’t mean I’m magic. I’m not even sure I believe anyone but you can do this magic stuff.”

“You don’t have to believe in gravity for it to drop a rock on your head.”

He gave me a long look. “Okay, fine. Let’s pretend I am one of these… progression-types. What does that mean, exactly?”

“Back in Altlandia, they were everywhere. Like I said, they are called a lot of names, from cultivators to the marked ones. They didn’t start strong by training—they started strong by being chosen. Their bodies begin refining themselves, purifying, like sharpening a blade from the inside out. Strength, speed, endurance—even mental clarity, sometimes. Affinities for all kinds of powers and abilities. It’s all part of it.”

“And this is free?”

“Yeah. Up to a point.”

“Too good to be true,” he muttered.

“Exactly. The first limit hits hard. Some break it by continuing to cultivate. Most don’t, since they can live an amazing life without the years of cultivating their power. The second limit?” I shook my head. “Unbreakable. That’s the ceiling.”

“So I get to be a super version of myself for a while, and then I hit a wall?”

“Pretty much. But even the base level’s insanely impressive by human standards.”

He was quiet for a beat, digesting that. “And you?”

“Different. I’m an experience-type, a leveler.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“I don’t get free growth. I have to fight for it. Survive, earn power inch by inch. But there are no caps. No built-in walls. But it’s a grind and back home it’s a serious grind.”

“Of course it is,” he said, smirking. “You get the long, hard road with the hidden jackpot. I get the free trial with a hard stop.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay…” He took a breath. “So what now? You gonna teach me to punch trees and meditate under waterfalls?”

“Close. I’ll show you how to feel your internal channels—kind of like a wiring diagram for your body’s energy. It’ll make you stronger. Not cartoon-style, but you’ll feel the difference.”

He eyed me. “You realize this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Then you need weirder friends.”

“Not possible. You’re officially the weirdest person on the planet now.”

“Damn, and I didn’t even get a trophy or a ceremony.” Switching to my serious face, I continued, “Do you want to wait until the process completes on its own or to speed it up?”

“Speed it up, I guess.” He didn’t look at all certain.

“Alright,” I said, settling onto my own chunk of stone. “Close your eyes.”

Dave gave me a look. “You’re not going to chant anything, are you? Because if this turns into a drum circle, I’m out.”

“No chanting. No sage. No tribal drums,” I said. “Just breathing.”

He rolled his shoulders and obeyed, exhaling as he closed his eyes. “This better not end with me floating.”

“Not unless gas station burritos unlock air affinity. In which case, we’re all doomed.”

He huffed a laugh. “That’s fair.”

I shifted slightly, keeping my focus steady. “Now, bring your attention to your chest. Find your heartbeat. Don’t imagine it—feel it. Let it be the loudest thing in the world.”

His forehead creased. “Okay…”

I allowed time to pass quietly for a few minutes before moving to the next step.

“That pulse is the key. It’s like your core tapping on the door. You want to follow it. Every time it beats, let the sensation travel outward through your arms, your legs, your spine. Look for resistance. Any spot where the rhythm fades or gets quiet—that’s a blocked channel.”

A long pause.

Then: “Okay. I feel something. My arms. Kinda tingly. And my back. It’s… weird. Like a garden hose with kinks in it. It’s hard to describe. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s like I can feel my body in ways that are…”

“That’s normal. Those kinks are where the energy’s trying to flow but can’t yet. Now picture that pulse pushing gently against those kinks. Don’t force it—ease it open. Imagine those pulses are gently nudging the door open.”

His breathing shifted. Slowed.

“Whoa.”

I watched his heart’s energy shimmer again—clearer this time. What had been a haze was now a thread of light weaving from his heart throughout his body.

Then came the shift.

Dave’s body tightened. His spine straightened. Shoulders pulled back. Not like he was flexing—more like something inside him was reorganizing. Over the next quarter hour, he spasmed, contorted, and groaned.

“Oh—ow—wow! What was that?”

“Pain,” I said calmly. “Your body’s upgrading.”

He opened his eyes, blinking fast. “That felt bad. Then good. Then horrible. Then really good. And I’m sweaty now.”

“That’s normal. You just activated your first channels. Your body’s adjusting to handle more power. Muscles reshape. Ligaments tighten. You’re going from ‘lazy mortal’ to ‘starter tier supernatural.’”

He looked down at himself. “Dude… I think I just got abs.”

I laughed. “You probably did. Your frame just upgraded to Olympic hopeful.”

Dave flexed experimentally, then flinched. “Why does my rib cage feel like it got in a fistfight with a rabid gorilla?”

“Because it did. Internally. And without anesthesia.”

Then his eyes narrowed.

“You’re hurt.”

I froze mid-thought, posture tightening before I could stop it.

Dave leaned forward, frowning. “I can feel it. It’s subtle, but there’s tension in you. A few spots—like fading bruises. One in your ribs. Another near your shoulder.” Excitement flared in his eyes and voice. “I can sense your body, see some kind of… I don’t know what to call it. It’s like an overlay showing your wounds.”

“You can already see my aura and pick out injuries. That’s what I mean by instant power upgrade.”

However, instead of grilling me on his new powers, he gave an intense waiting stare.

Sighing, I added. “They’re healing.”

“But not healed.”

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Tough,” he said. “You’re my friend. I worry by default. You really downplayed how much damage you took from whoever attacked you. You may not have full-on regeneration, but you do heal faster than normal and yet you’re showing minor physical trauma. I still say it was Ty.”

There was a beat of silence. Just the wind in the trees and the distant groan of the old house behind us. We’d already spoken about it not being Ty. And I wasn’t sure what attacked me. Time to change the subject.

“You really are a healer,” I said, half smiling.

“Yeah, I did. But this opens up a whole new can of worms, doesn’t it? Will I be able to heal people? How much can I heal? Do I still go to medical school? And what about the world—will it be full of people like me? If so, will we be fighting each other anime style? Are monsters next? What will happen?” He finished his litany of calmly worded questions with an intense glare.

“You’ll have to find out the first few of those on your own. As for the world?” Shrugging my shoulders, I told him what I’d already figured out day one. “We don’t know, and there is nothing we can do about it. So we go on living our lives—until something comes along we can do something about.”

“That’s it? That can’t be it, can it?” He looked downward and shook his head slowly. Then abruptly raised it, grinning. “Oh, you’re good. You almost had me. Ha! Magical lands and decade older and I’m still as smart as you.”

Smiling back, I said, “Go on.”

“The insane exercise regime, the hunting trip this weekend. The land, the trust, the business.” His eyes widened a bit. “How far are you taking it? Regional, state, global?”

Answering honestly, I said, “I'm crossing my fingers that it won't happen… but if it does, I hope I have time. Right now, there just isn’t enough to go on.”

“Fair enough. So, what do we do now?”

Pulling out my phone to call Maddie, I answered. “I think it’s time you met someone else like you.”

Chapter Twenty
Maddie

There’s something sacred about a well-made dress.

Not expensive—just well-made. The kind with clean seams and fabric that moves with you, not against you. A dress that doesn’t wear you, but answers to your hands, your body, your eye. One that fits because it’s been built—not bought.

That was my afternoon.

The final hem on a deep burgundy chemise dress had taken longer than expected. I patterned it after a 1957 Balenciaga silhouette—classic, but modernized with a softer neckline and a simplified waist seam. I’d used a brushed cotton blend that draped like a whisper and held its shape without scaffolding. The kind of dress that says, I’m here, without raising its voice.

I wasn’t making it for anyone. I wasn’t even making it for a specific event. Some clothes earn their place just by existing.

Kyle said he might stop by today. Possibly with Dave.

He hadn’t said why. During our brief talks and texts, Kyle rarely gave details unless asked three different ways—and even then, he seemed like he was holding back. I didn’t mind. He wasn’t the only one who liked to keep things close.

Still, I figured it was a good time to tidy up. Not for them—just because the room needed it. The old circle rug got a quick vacuum pass. Candles were trimmed and replaced. The desk mirror, which had gathered a layer of dust too thick to ignore, finally got polished. I opened the windows to let the afternoon in for a while, then lit a vanilla candle—mostly for the scent, not the aesthetic. Okay, maybe a little of both.

My room always felt like mine. But today it felt especially me.

In one corner, the dress form stood like a quiet sentinel, draped in muslin and half-pinned designs. Bookshelves lined the far wall—half ancient brittle books, half vintage pattern guides. The bed was covered in a mismatched but intentional quilt. A pair of scissors gleamed on the desk like surgical tools. And in the far left corner, tucked near the window where the light came in best, my most-used book lay open.

Lucentia Minor: The Calling of First Light.
The ink on the title faded from age, the binding quickly going to ruin thanks to repeated use. I didn’t need it open to cast anymore, but I liked having it there. Something about the weight of it, the scent of old pages—it felt earned. Like it wanted to be useful. My casting time had shrunk to a half hour—the light staying for almost a full five seconds before blinking out.

I wasn’t expecting to cast anything today. Especially not in front of company. Kyle knew what I was working on, more or less, but we hadn’t talked specifics since the first time. Dave? I wasn’t even sure if he knew magic was real. Kyle seemed trustworthy, but he was still a teenage boy, even if he does speak like an old soul and Dave is his best friend. Kyle said he was coming by. That was all I needed to know.

Thinking about the spellbook always pulled me back to her.

Nana.

She never needed to cast spells. She was one herself.

The kind of woman who could cut through a board meeting—or a bake sale—with the same look. Who understood the quiet, elegant violence of a well-placed “bless her heart” and how a single “please” said at the right moment could do more than a tank.

She didn’t demand respect. She radiated it.

Before she was mine, she was everywhere. A print model in New York before anyone had filters. A pin-up face for returning soldiers. Then a nurse in places where the air tasted like bleach and adrenaline. There was always some quiet steel under the silk. A kind of posture you couldn’t fake.

And when everything fell apart—when the rockslide took my parents—she didn’t break. She brewed tea, sat beside me on the old couch with the velvet trim, and said, “You’re not alone, darling. We’ll go on together.”

And we did.

She filled the silence with books. Real ones—stitched spines, gold leaf, paper that remembered the hands that turned it. She showed me how to sew, not because it was quaint, but because it was empowering. A woman who could clothe herself was a woman who couldn’t be easily dismissed.

She taught me the difference between wearing a dress and inhabiting it.

Taught me the importance of posture, of kindness, of strategic silence. Taught me that the most dangerous woman in the room was often the one smiling while everyone else talked.

One of my favorite memories—strangely enough—was a yarn festival in Chattanooga. Rows and rows of color, texture, chaos. I was maybe eleven, still learning the difference between merino and mohair. Nana wore a tailored jacket and gloves, not for attention, but because self-respect didn’t take days off. One of the vendors tried to upsell her a basket of cheap synthetic blends—called them “indistinguishable from silk.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t frown. She just said, “Oh, sweet girl, bless your heart. I’m sure someone will find these useful. But I like my lies a little less itchy.”

And walked away smiling.

We got a free skein of the real thing before we reached the end of the row.

I never saw her flustered. Never heard her raise her voice. But somehow, she made space for me to be all the things I hadn’t figured out yet. I was never too much with her. I was never a project. Just a work in progress—one she believed in without question.

I didn’t try to become her.

But piece by piece, stitch by stitch, I did.

The knock came mid-song—two measured raps, then a pause, like someone following a rhythm only they could hear.

I muted the record player, smoothed my dress (pointless, but instinctual), and walked to the door.

Kyle stood just outside, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other resting casually by his side. Behind him was Dave—half-leaning on the porch railing, dressed like he wasn’t sure if this was a social call or a field trip.

“Hey,” I said, opening the door. “Come on in.”

“Thanks,” Kyle replied, stepping inside with the quiet confidence of someone who’d been invited into stranger places. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t have to.

Dave followed, giving me a quick nod. “Cool place. Smells like books and sugar cookies.”

“Vanilla candle,” I said. “And probably my shampoo.”

“Well,” he replied, grinning, “both are working.”

I led them through the house, hearing the shift in their footsteps on each floorboard I knew by heart. Kyle didn’t say much—not that I expected him to. His eyes tracked everything once we reached my room: the dress form, the bookshelf, the open spellbook in the corner. He didn’t stop to comment—he just took it in, the way a builder might admire a structure before speaking a word.

Dave, on the other hand, stopped just past the doorway.

“Okay, I need to say this out loud—your room looks like someone let Audrey Hepburn design a magic shop.”

I glanced back at him. “I get that a lot.”

“No really. Like, I’m expecting a floating teacup to whisper life advice.”

“If it starts doing that,” I said, “run.”

He laughed, but didn’t touch anything—points for that. Most people fidget when they’re surrounded by books and breakables. Dave just stood there, hands at his sides, eyes flicking from bookshelf to dress form to candle. Respectful, in his own chaotic way.

Kyle, meanwhile, moved to the edge of the room and glanced at the chalk circle near the window. His gaze settled briefly on the spellbook.

“You’ve been practicing,” he said.

“Every day,” I replied. “Got the prep time down to thirty minutes. The light lasts close to five seconds now.”

Dave raised his eyebrows, head looking between us. “Wait—you cast that spell?”

Glancing at Kyle first, I then gave him a look. “You sound surprised.”

“No! I mean—yeah, kind of?” he admitted, sheepish. “Kyle told me magic’s real. He just didn’t say you were part of that conversation.”

“That’s because it wasn’t his conversation to have,” I said, with just enough sharpness to make the point land gently.

Dave held up both hands. “Fair enough. Still… that’s awesome.”

Kyle didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, his gaze resting on the spellbook like it had asked him a question he hadn’t quite decided how to answer.

Then he turned to me, tone steady. “I wanted to take this slow. Let you adjust on your own time. But things have changed.”

Something passed silently between the two friends before he addressed me again.

“On the way here, we caught a radio update. Two more hikers are missing. Same area. Same vague statement from officials—no signs of animal activity. No leads.”

That got my attention.

“I don’t know if it’s connected,” he added. “But I’ve seen what happens when people wait too long to act.”

I studied his face. He didn’t look rattled. He never did. But there was a weight behind his words that didn’t feel like performance.

“That’s why I’m moving the timeline up,” he said. “And why I’m taking a chance on you.”

I nodded, cautiously. “Alright. I’m listening.”

He didn’t pace. Didn’t build up. Just looked me straight in the eye.

“While everyone here thought I was in a coma… I wasn’t. I spent years in another universe.”

I blinked. “You what?”

“It’s a very long story, but it’s why I know about what you can do and a lot more. There, magic is real, monsters, demons, almost everything you’ve ever heard of in a fairy tale.”

He said it plainly, like a weather report. Like he wasn’t trying to convince me—just inform me.

“That’s a big claim,” I said carefully.

Kyle just nodded. “It is.”

“I mean… I’ve seen the light spell work. I know something’s going on. But ten years in another world? That’s not casting a glow orb. That’s…”

I trailed off, not even sure how to finish that sentence.

“You haven’t seen proof yet,” he said.

And then, without warning—he vanished.

No shimmer. No wind. No fade-to-black.

Just here—then not.

My breath hitched. My eyes darted to the space where he’d been, like my brain needed to double-check it had seen what it saw.

Dave didn’t even react. “Yeah, that never gets old.”

I spun—Kyle was behind me. Standing exactly where he hadn’t been, silent and steady, hands in his pockets like the laws of physics had never applied to him at all.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just said, “You don’t have to believe me about being gone for ten years. You don’t have to believe me about another world. But I do need you to believe I know what I’m talking about right here and now.”

“In short, you need me to trust you?”

Kyle gave a slow nod, confirming what I already knew but hadn’t said aloud.

“You’ve been waking up,” he said. “That spell you’ve been casting? It’s instinct guiding you. Your body reaching for something your mind hasn’t fully mapped yet.”

“I thought it was just the book,” I said. “I mean… the rituals, the chant, the focus—it felt like learning a language, not discovering one.”

“It’s both,” he said. “The ritual helped you touch something real. But the reason it worked at all is because you’re what Altlan.. the place I’ve been would call a progression-type.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, going to need that in English.”

He gestured to me. “You’ve been changing. Not because of effort or training, but because your body’s responding to internal energy. Refining itself. Strength, awareness, reaction time—subtle things first. Later, not so subtle.”

Dave leaned in from the side. “Think of it like unlocking cheat codes. But the catch is, the codes were already inside you.”

I looked at him. “That made no sense and somehow explained everything.”

Kyle continued. “Progression-types or awakened, as I prefer, grow by being chosen, not by grinding. Their bodies start reshaping themselves to better handle power—muscles, nerves, even the way their mind processes information. You didn’t just learn a spell. You're doing something that is part of you now.” Looking almost sheepish for a split second, he added, “The ritual was never needed. It was simply you focusing on creating light. The truth is, what you're doing is nearly the same as a basic light spell where I’ve been. You cast it with a thought and it lasts hours.”

I folded my arms again, letting it all sink in. “So that’s the benefit? Free upgrades?”

Dave chimed in this time. “Up to a point. You’ll hit a ceiling, eventually. The first one you can break—if you train, focus, really push. The second? That one’s permanent. At least that’s what he told me about it. I’m also awakened.”

That sobered me more than I wanted to admit.

Looking over at Kyle, I asked, “And you?”

“I’m not an awakened,” he said. “I’m what they call an experience-type. No head start. I earn every inch the hard way.”

Dave added, “Which, apparently, also means no limit. Just a long, brutal road to get there.”

“Exactly,” Kyle said. “Progression is easier at first, and gives a lot of power, but it caps out. Experience is slow, painful, and requires constant risk—but it keeps going.”

I stared at both of them—my mind darting all over the place. “So, what now?”

Kyle actually smiled—just slightly. “Now we move forward. If you want to.”

Kyle tilted his head, gaze sharpening like he was seeing something just beneath the surface. Then, just as quickly, he blinked and refocused.

“What?” I asked. “Did I grow a second head or something?”

“No,” he said. “Your energy just… shifted.”

“My what now?”

He hesitated—classic Kyle, deciding just how much to say.

“Fine,” I said. “Use your old-man voice and explain it.”

“You’ve got dual affinity,” he said finally. “Light and shadow.”

I gave him a look. “Okay, that's specific. And weird.”

“Back where I was, they’d call it Luxumbra. It’s rare. You’re bonded to opposing forces—radiance and obscurity.”

“Where you were?” I repeated. “You mean that other world?”

Kyle nodded. “Altlandia.”

My eyebrows narrowed in thought. “Hold up. Altlandia? That’s the name?” I blinked. “You’re kidding. That sounds like a discount fantasy park between a gas station and a Bass Pro.”

Kyle exhaled like he’d been waiting for this. “I didn’t choose it for elegance. When I was summoned, the gods told me I could name the world. Said it would give me domain-level privileges—let me exceed the world’s limits. I was sixteen. The first thing that popped into my head was… I was in an alternate land.”

“Altlandia,” I said flatly.

“Yeah.”

Dave grinned. “So technically, you’re not the Chosen One—you’re the Guy Who Named The Planet Badly.”

“Do you know how many things I had to fight before breakfast?” Kyle muttered.

“Oh no, we get it,” I said, holding back a smirk. “Hero. Legend. Ruler of Isekaidia.”

Dave doubled over. “Isekaidia! Stop. I can’t breathe.”

Kyle gave us both a look, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

When things finally settled, he continued, “That dual affinity of yours—it’s powerful, but unstable right now. You’ve been forcing magic through closed channels. It’s working, but it’s costing you.”

“And you’re going to unlock me like I’m some magical version of Bluetooth?”

He gave a faint nod. “If you’re willing.”

Dave added, “It stings, but it’s worth it. Like mystical chiropractic.”

I sighed, shaking my head. “I just went from learning I’m not a wizard to learning I’m a Saiyan.”

“Sort of both. Unless something changes for Earth, you will have a tougher body… and be able to cast spells.” Looking me in the eye, he asked, “Are you ready?”

Then I stepped forward and offered my hands. “Alright. Let’s see what happens.”

Kyle didn’t reach for them.

He just stood a few feet away, voice steady. “You’ll have to guide yourself. I can talk you through it, but this part is yours.”

Dave, with a serious tone, broke in, “You’ll want to sit in the middle of your bed.” Cutting his eyes to Kyle, he added, “It’ll be better doing it there than on a hard rock.”

I nodded, bracing myself.

Kyle’s voice stayed even, calm. “Start with your breath. Focus. Listen to your heartbeat. Let it be the only sound in the world.”

Dave’s sardonic voice broke my concentration. “This seems familiar.”

He replied quickly to the glares both Kyle and I threw at him. “Sorry, shutting up.”

We went back to my heartbeat with Kyle guiding me calmly, quietly—his voice like a metronome. My mind’s eye could see darkness and light swirling around my heart, almost desperate to explore yet seemingly blocked from moving any further.

Kyle’s voice came again.

“Trace the current of energy within you. When you find where it stalls… open the way.”

Simple instructions with potentially terrifying implications.

What followed wasn’t graceful.

The energy inside me didn’t flow—it bucked. Like a live wire had been buried under my skin and someone finally turned the voltage up. Five channels, now obvious to me, spread out like a star—each one blocked… or perhaps just unused. Pathways from my heart to my arms, my legs, and my head. Could it be as simple as willing them—open up.

It hurt.

Not like a wound. Like being unraveled and rewoven—tighter, cleaner, stronger.

My joints ached. Muscles clenched. Something inside my chest cracked—not broken, but freed. Gritting my teeth, I held the line, sweat beading at my temple. Twice I nearly fell over.

And then… Relief.

The friction eased. The current flowed.

Not just through me—but as me.

A fleeting chill, a shiver that whispered across my skin, left me with eyes still closed, but a newfound calm. Breathing slower. Deeper.

I felt my body shifting. Old tension gone. Muscles longer. Tighter. Like I’d spent the last six months training for an Olympic triathlon in my sleep.

When I opened my eyes, the world was clearer.

Kyle was watching. Not smiling. Just nodding like this was exactly what he expected.

I lifted one hand. No chant. No ritual.

Just intent.

The glow formed instantly—silver-white at the center, faint shadows curling around the edges. It hovered an inch above my palm, weightless but alive.

I moved my hand—and it moved with it. No flicker. No strain.

It circled once, danced above my shoulder, then returned to rest above my fingertips.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t need to.

Chapter Twenty-One
Hunting Trip

“Practice alone only if you have no other option,” I said. “And even then, don’t push it. Bad things happen when power meets ego.”

Maddie raised an eyebrow. “That a proverb or a confession?”

“Both.”

We were still in her room. The light she’d summoned hovered near the ceiling now, pulsing slowly like it had its own breath. She didn’t even seem to notice it anymore. That was a good sign—and a dangerous one.

“I’m serious,” I continued. “Your body’s still adjusting. Think of it like testing out a high-performance engine after building it by hand. You want someone around when it redlines.”

Dave nodded. “No solo magic marathons. Got it.”

Maddie gave a thoughtful hum, folding her arms. “So… supervised spellcasting and no public displays of glowy doom. You’re basically telling us to train like vigilantes.”

“Preferably in remote areas,” I said. “Somewhere quiet. Hidden. You have to remember both of you also received massive biological upgrades. If you hit someone, even by accident, they could end up seriously injured. If I’m not available, the two of you should test out what you can do at one of my properties.”

“Properties?” Maddie asked.

“Yeah, that’s a long story.” I replied.

“He’s low-level rich now,” Dave quickly added.

Staring hard at Dave, I added, “Okay, maybe it’s a short story.”

Looking confused, Maddie asked, “Not to pry but…”

Putting up a hand to stop her, I gave her a quick and dirty version of the past few weeks. Keeping it to only the pertinent details. There was no reason to hide it from her and telling her would build trust. When I finished, she smiled warmly.

“Thank you for sharing everything and for including me in on all of… well… everything. You could have kept quiet. Taken off with your folks and be a millionaire anywhere. It says a lot you’re trying to help us.” Her smile widening, she added, “Without you, I wouldn’t know I have real magical power.”

Dave perked up. “Speaking of power, Kyle and I have the hunting trip this weekend. Hopefully, he will get to power up as well.”

Maddie tilted her head. “I thought deer season didn’t start for a few more weeks?”

“Gun season doesn’t,” Dave said. “Bow hunting’s already legal.”

“It’s not about hunting, well, not entirely.” I added. “It’s about experience. The system doesn’t trigger unless I’m actively challenging myself. My own physical attributes keep growing only because I keep pushing myself until I nearly drop. Even then, I’ll be behind both of you for a while.”

“So… deer hunting is like farming experience in a video game,” Maddie said flatly.

“Essentially yeah, except I can’t just go around wiping out whole species—no respawning I’m aware of. Honestly, right now it’s all hypothetical until I try. Earth is proving very similar so far, with just a dash of differences.”

I hesitated.

There was one more thing I hadn’t said. Something I’d been turning over since the car ride here.

“I wasn’t going to bring this part up yet,” I said, “but I think you need to hear it, Maddie.” It took me about two minutes to cover the attempt on my life. To her credit, she took all in with only a couple of clarifying questions. Then it was time for the scarier part.

“There’s more. I did some checking after the first news report.”

Both of them focused in immediately.

“The hiker disappearances?” Maddie asked.

I nodded. “Six people in the past couple of weeks. All near the same stretch of wilderness. No bodies. No gear found. No blood. Just… gone.”

Dave’s expression tightened. “You think it’s a bear?”

“I hope it’s a bear,” I said. “Or a big cat. Something natural. But add in whatever attacked me…”

“Dude, I’m telling you, it had to be Ty.” Dave’s tone was imploring.

Repressing a sigh, I softly replied, “We’ve been through this—it wasn’t him.” He didn’t look convinced.

“You think something followed you back?” Maddie asked.

“I don’t know. But if something did—if something somehow slipped through behind me or got carried along with me…” shaking my head slowly, I went on, “There are plenty of things back there—things that won’t stop unless someone stops them.”

“And you think that might have to be us,” she replied. It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded. “It might.”

****

Gary was out on the porch when we pulled in, coffee mug in hand, leaning on the rail like he’d been there for hours—or like he’d just stepped out and wanted us to think he had. As soon as the truck door opened, he called out, “Well, look what the Tennessee wind blew in!”

Henry climbed out of the driver’s seat with a chuckle. “I thought we’d be fashionably late.”

“Fashionably late, huh?” Gary grinned. “You haven’t been fashionable since mullets were cool.”

Laughing, dad shot back, “As I recall, you were the one with a mullet.”

I dropped down from the passenger side, stretching my legs. “We stopped for gas and food—and some snacks.” Grabbing two large bags out of four from the back, I added, “I kind of went overboard.”

Dave leaned out the front door, grinning. “Don’t let him lie. He went a lot overboard.”

Gary raised his mug. “Fuel’s fuel.”

He stepped down off the porch and met dad in the yard with a handshake that turned into a half-hug. “It’s good to see you, man.”

“Same,” Dad said. “I’ve been stuck working a mountain of overtime on that project in Georgia. Dave, want to help me carry this stuff inside?” Turning back, dad grabbed our oversized cooler from the truck bed.

Gary turned to me, giving me that quick hunter’s scan—head to toe. Not judging. Just measuring.

“You look good,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He patted my shoulder, smiling, as he grabbed one of the bags out of my hands. “Let’s get these empty calories inside.”

The cabin stood solid and weatherworn, tucked just off the ridgeline like it had grown there. Two full stories of rough-cut timber and stone, built by hand and it showed—in the best way. The place was fully off-grid, but you’d never know it at a glance. Solar panels on the south-facing slope fed the battery array in the back room, and the kitchen’s water came straight from a natural spring so clean you could bottle it.

Inside, it smelled like wood-smoke, coffee, and old pine cleaner. The stove was already going, crackling low, and the chipped mugs still hung above the sink like trophies from some quiet war against modern convenience. Everything looked the same—worn, warm, and waiting.

With a sigh of relief, Dad set down the cooler, the ice clinking softly inside. “Ah, it even smells the same.”

“Because we haven’t been here since… well, that doesn’t matter. We’re here now,” Gary said, walking in after us.

Dave casually grabbed more gear than a normal person should, hauling it like it weighed nothing. Thankfully, neither of our dads noticed. We’d have to fix that soon—maybe remind Dave that subtlety was part of the job description now.

Gary poured coffee for the adults and handed us bottled water and beef jerky from the kitchen counter. “Make sure you boys mix in some protein with all the junk.”

“We will,” I said. “There’s some porterhouse steaks in the cooler.”

With faux outrage, Dave asked. “You brought steak. Is this an indictment of our collective hunting skills?”

“Nope. It’s purely medical. Doctors, orders. I must eat amazing food at every opportunity.”

We stashed our gear and sorted through the bows. There was no ceremony, no big emotional moment—just that quiet rhythm families fall into when they’ve known each other for years. The sun dipped low, casting golden hues across the clearing behind the cabin. Dave and I stepped out, bows in hand, leaving our dads inside to catch up over coffee and stories that probably hadn't changed in years.

Dave carried his favored compound bow. I carried my new Hoyt Satori, a top-tier recurve bow renowned for its precision and craftsmanship. Its sleek design and balanced weight felt familiar, though it lacked the magical enhancements of my old Altlandian bow. Still, it was a masterpiece by Earth standards.

Dad had been kind enough to drive me to Chattanooga to pick it up. He also kept any comments about its price to himself. He truly lived by the “It's their money” standard. I’m sure the recent windfall didn’t hurt.

Dave set up a few targets at varying distances, from 20 to 60 yards. He glanced at me, a mischievous grin on his face. "Think you can still hit the bullseye, or has that coma made you rusty?"

I smirked, nocking an arrow. "Only one way to find out."

Drawing the string felt natural, the tension a welcome resistance. I released, and the arrow thudded into the center of the farthest target. Dave let out a low whistle.

"Show-off," he muttered, taking his position.

We spent the next hour in friendly competition, arrows slicing through the air, each shot a testament to muscle memory and countless hours of practice. Dave was good—better than most—his new physical attributes no doubt aiding him.

As twilight settled, I kept pace with him, never exceeding his skill by much. Finally, Dave looked at me, curiosity in his eyes. "Seriously, how good are you?"

I shrugged, offering a half-smile. "Do you really want to know?"

Glancing inside the cabin, he answered, “Yeah, show me what you got.”

In the span of seconds, twelve arrows flew from my bow, each one hitting my previous volleys of arrows dead center.

“Damn dude. That’s impressive. Are you the world’s greatest archer ‘back you know where?’”

“It would have been a tie between me and a few others. But since I was deskilled coming back, I’m nowhere as good as I used to be.”

“You were better than this?”

“Legendary, now I’m just an expert archer. I can’t even split one arrow into three mid-flight anymore.”

“Oh, poor thing, not being able to break the laws of physics with arrows. Could you really do that? Make an arrow become three just with skill? No magic?”

“Yeah, kind of like the way I can effectively become invisible with my stealth skill. Reaching legendary… it’s hard to explain without reaching it. You just understand things differently… it’s intuitive.”

He nodded slowly, accepting the answer for now. We headed back to the cabin, the warmth of the fire beckoning, and the promise of stories and laughter awaiting inside.

By the time we finished dinner, the warmth from the fire had settled deep into the cabin. Dishes clinked in the sink as Gary rinsed out the cast iron pan, and the smell of seared steak still lingered like a promise. The four of us had spread out around the main room—boots off, coffee poured, laughter just a little easier than it had been a few hours ago.

Gary dropped onto the couch beside Henry and passed him a fresh mug. “I don’t care how good the steak was—next time, someone else cooks.”

“You say that every trip,” Henry replied. “And then you hover the whole time muttering about grill temperature and pan seasoning.”

“It’s called accountability,” Gary said. “Or maybe pride. Hard to tell the difference at our age.”

Dave leaned back in the old recliner, feet up, hands behind his head. “You guys ever notice how all your stories sound like you were raised in the wilderness by wolves?”

“We were,” Henry said without missing a beat. “They called it the eighties. Helmets were optional, lawn darts weren’t.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “That explains so much.”

Gary pointed at me with his mug. “Hey now, you’re not off the hook. I still remember the year you couldn’t string a bow without giving yourself a fat lip.”

“That bow was warped,” I said. “You bought it off a guy named Moose who sold bait out of his truck bed.”

“It had character,” he said. “And it still shot straighter than Dave’s first compound.”

“Lies,” Dave muttered. “Slander. I demand a retrial.”

Henry grinned. “Only if we get to bring up the squirrel incident.”

“Nope,” Dave said quickly. “That story is legally sealed.”

We all laughed, and for a while, the only sounds were the fire and the occasional clink of mugs. No tension. No big conversations. Just four people who knew each other well enough not to fill every silence.

Gary eventually leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Y’know, it’s good having all of us here again. Feels… right.”

Henry nodded. “Been too long since we did something that wasn’t work or worry.”

He looked over at me. “Glad you’re here, son.”

I met his gaze and nodded. “Me too.”

There wasn’t a speech. No swelling music or lingering pause. Just a quiet understanding.

Dave raised his mug. “To clear skies, steady hands, and nobody getting stuck in a tree stand this year.”

Gary raised his in reply. “To not having to carry your dad out again because he forgot to hydrate.”

“Hey,” Henry said, mock offense in full swing. “That was one time.”

We toasted, clinked mugs, and drank. Alarms were set. Bows leaned near beds. And one by one, we turned in—each of us carrying different hopes for what the morning might bring.

Chapter Twenty-Two
The Hunt

The forest was still, but not silent. A breeze passed over the ridgeline, light enough to stir leaves but not spook anything bigger than a squirrel. A woodpecker drummed somewhere off to the east. The air smelled like loam and cool bark. The normal chill of an October morning pressing on our exposed faces. Not uncomfortable, just a reminder of the season.

Dave walked a few paces behind me, bow in hand, moving light for someone his size. We hadn’t said much since leaving the cabin. Hunting wasn’t about noise. It was about rhythm. About watching the trail until it told you something. I crouched and ran my fingers along a faint pair of tracks crossing the path. Broad hoofprints, fresh edges clean.

“Buck,” I said.

Dave stepped up beside me and leaned down to get a look. “How fresh?”

“Maybe thirty minutes,” I replied. “He’s not far.”

He nodded. No jokes this time. We both knew when to shut up and move.

The tracks curved east, toward a thinner patch of underbrush. I kept low and led us into it, letting instinct guide my pace. I was no longer an unparalleled hunter—my tracking and perception may have been drastically lowered—but I knew enough to follow signs and keep the wind in our favor.

Ten minutes later, I spotted it.

The flick of an ear. A flash of antler. Then the full form of the buck, head lowered near a patch of fallen acorns, broad chest rising and falling with quiet breaths.

Raising my bow, I inhaled deeply once. Drew back the string. Then released. The arrow struck clean, just behind the shoulder. The buck staggered a few steps and fell.

[Deer Slain]
[Experience Gained: 250]

A smile playing upon my lips, I exhaled as the message appeared—my first true gain since the recovery quests stopped.

Dave clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Textbook shot and the other thing…”

“Thank you, and yeah, I got experience for the kill. No level up yet. Makes me wish I could just ask questions or have a guidebook.”

“How’d it work back there?” He asked as we approached the deer, our footsteps muffled, remembering Dad's lessons on quiet respect for wildlife.

“For one, it wasn’t called a system, interface, or any of the modern terms we would use. Your class was just you and whatever you called yourself, or depending on what abilities you chose. Like necromancers were usually awakened with necromantic affinities and the rare leveler that chose necromantic abilities. Leveling allowed you to raise your skills, attributes, and gain abilities from the great wheels.”

“Wheels?”

Reaching the downed buck, I replied, “Later, let's focus on this right now.”

Dave kneeled near the front legs and began checking the position. “Lungs, probably the heart. He didn’t feel much, if anything.”

We worked in quiet sync. I drew my field knife and began dressing the buck, careful and steady. Dave laid out the tarp and gloves, catching the organs as I worked through the cuts. It was messy, like always, but necessary. The kind of messy you didn’t mind if you knew what it meant.

We talked a little while we worked—soft stuff. Plans for dinner, whether the dads had fallen asleep in the blind, whether Dave was going to brag to Kristen about his excellent organ-handling technique. I told him to please never phrase it that way again.

The forest stayed calm around us.

Until it didn’t.

I noticed it first—not by sight, but by sound, or rather, the lack of it. No birds. No squirrels. The wind seemed to catch and hold still, as if the trees were waiting for something.

Dave slowly stood up and glanced around. “You hear that?”

I nodded slowly, wiping my hands and sheathing the blade.

That’s when I saw it.

A huge, dark shape, impossibly quiet, shifted slowly between the ancient trees.

A black bear stepped into the clearing, its movement deliberate and slow, muscles shifting like ropes beneath its hide. Its head was low, eyes fixed somewhere between us and the deer.

Dave muttered, “Okay. Time to stay cool.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I activated True Sight.

The forest took on a slight shimmer—edges crisper, magic more present than before. A reminder things were still changing. And in the bear’s chest, just under the sternum, a dull red-orange glow pulsed softly.

[Awakening Black Bear]

[Male]

[Weaknesses: None]

[Strengths: Elevated physical attributes]

[Status: Alert, hungry, undergoing cultivation metamorphosis]

[New Quest]
[Slay Awakening Black Bear]

I kept my voice even. “That’s not a normal bear.”

Dave’s grip on his bow tightened. “Not normal how?”

“It’s awakening.”

He gave me a quick glance. “You mean, like me?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect.”

The bear took one more step into the clearing, slow and certain. With a chilling intensity, it stared straight at me, then its gaze shifted to Dave. Before I could speak, it launched itself at him.

The bear moved faster than it should have. Not with a predator’s sprint, but with something more deliberate—like it already knew it had to go all out.

Dave barely had time to react. He rolled to the side as the bear charged through where he’d been crouching seconds earlier, claws churning up earth and brush like it was paper. I dropped low, grabbing the bow I’d laid aside, and sprinted three steps wide to avoid lining up behind Dave.

The bear skidded and turned, snorting once—short and sharp—then came again.

Not for the first time I wanted to cast a spell, take off flying straight into it or do a thousand other things I used to be able to do. Instead, I fired.

The arrow struck its shoulder, but it barely flinched. No blood. Not much resistance either. Just impact and motion. Its hide was tougher than anything I'd seen outside Altlandia, and thicker than a black bear had any right to be.

Dave scrambled to his feet and ducked behind a fallen log, grabbing for a broken branch as a makeshift spear.

“Seriously?” he shouted. “I’m not equipped for this!”

“Keep it distracted!” I called. “Don’t try to outrun it!”

“I wasn’t planning to. I’ve seen what happens to runners in movies!”

The bear came around again, claws gouging bark and dirt. I circled wide, trying to angle toward its blind side. My next shot buried itself near the spine—shallow, but enough to slow its turn.

It roared this time. Low. Wrong. Something behind the sound had weight, like the air didn’t want to carry it. The bear, looking for its attacker, turned toward me.

Dave threw the branch—his awakened physique giving the makeshift weapon actual power. The impact elicited another roar, bringing the beast’s attention back to Dave. Again, it started to charge him.

Drawing another arrow, I quickly fired. A sharp impact against its rear leg sent the animal stumbling; for a single, agonizing second, its momentum faltered, the weight of its body shifting precariously.

That’s all I needed. I lunged from the side, drawing my knife as I came in low. The blade found flesh behind the foreleg—thick, corded, and hot to the touch—but I didn’t get deep. The bear bucked hard, slamming me sideways into a tree.

I hit the ground, vision flashing. My ribs lit up with pain—not sharp, not broken, but enough to tell me I’d regret it later.

“Hey!” Dave shouted, this time throwing a fist sized rock. “Ugly! Over here!”

The bear turned toward him again.

Dave didn’t run.

He stood his ground as the bear came, feet set, jaw clenched, hands up like he planned to wrestle it.

I forced myself upright, gasping. My bow was gone, but the knife was still in hand. My shoulder burned where bark had torn the jacket. Nothing deep. Nothing that mattered.

The bear swiped at Dave—claws barely missing as he ducked and rammed into the thing’s shoulder with everything he had. It staggered. Not much. But enough. Awakened human versus awakening bear.

He grunted as it clipped his side with a backhand, sending him sprawling through leaves and into a rock. He stayed down, groaning.

I didn’t wait.

Knife forward, I charged in behind it.

This time, I went for the neck—just behind the ear, where the skull dipped into muscle. The blade slid in a full inch deeper than I expected, the hide weaker there. The bear reared, bellowing, twisting as I yanked back and stumbled away.

It turned—but slower now.

I saw blood. Real blood this time.

It roared again, but there was hesitation in the sound.

Dave sat up, one arm cradled against his ribs, face pale but determined.

“You good?” I shouted.

“Define good!”

I raised the knife again. “Still breathing?”

“Barely!”

“Then stay down.”

The bear turned once more, but not with confidence. It looked between us, pawed at the ground, and let out one final huff. Then it lowered its head, lunged—

And dropped.

It hit the ground hard. The body twitched once, then stilled.

A small notification symbol popped up in the lower left corner of my vision. It would have to wait a minute.

I didn’t move right away.

Neither did Dave.

We just listened—to our own breathing, to the surrounding forest.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. Just empty. As if the woods hadn’t decided yet whether they were done with us.

I limped over to Dave, knife still in hand, though my fingers were numb from the fight. He was sitting upright now, grimacing as he tested his side.

“Arm?” I asked.

“Bruised. Maybe a hairline fracture. Feels like a stack of bricks gave me a hug.”

“Anything else?”

“Knee’s twisted. And I bit my tongue.”

“Tragic.”

“You’re limping.”

I looked down. My right ankle was starting to swell. “Yeah. Might’ve twisted it.”

“Fantastic,” he muttered. “We’re a pair.”

I dropped to one knee beside him and exhaled, letting my eyes settle on the bear’s body. It wasn’t moving. The glow in its chest had faded, dimming to nothing.

“Stay still a second,” he said.

I turned. “Why?”

“I…” He reached toward me, unsure. “Just… let me try something.”

I nodded, more curious than anything else.

He placed a hand against my ankle—where the worst of my injuries lay—and closed his eyes. Warmth spread from his palm. Not a burning heat, more like a heated blanket on a cold night. The pain eased. Not completely, but noticeably.

He opened his eyes slowly. “Huh.”

The swelling had faded along with the pain. “You did it.”

He looked down at his hand, like it wasn’t quite his anymore.

“My head hurts now. Is that because I just healed you?”

“Most likely. Imagine working out for the first time. It’s sort of the same. You’ll be sore at first, then it goes away, and you’ll be able to do more. Rinse, repeat until you’re potentially curing diseases and regrowing lost appendages.” I said, sitting back and groaning. “And no, I will not be getting hurt just so you can heal me.”

Dave sat against a stump, watching his hand like it might do something unexpected. “Did you get more experience?”

“Pretty sure I did. Give me a minute.” Focusing on the miniature symbol, the notification opened up.

[Awakening Bear Slain]
[Experience Gained: 1050]

Something told me it would have been higher if I’d been alone in the fight. Well, that was expected. The next part—not so much.

[Level Up Achieved]
[Status Updated: Human → Level 1]
[Class Selection Unlocked]

There was no light show, no sound. Just the messages and four choices. The four archetypes of Earth based gaming mixed with the magic of the spheres.

[Controller]

[Adapt, disrupt, enhance. In combat, Controllers manipulate the battlefield—applying debuffs, buffs, and terrain effects to shape how fights unfold. Outside of combat, they gain heightened perception, multitasking ability, and fast pattern recognition. Their minds naturally analyze variables, making them exceptional at tactics, planning, and improvisation.]

[Affinities: Controllers have a broad affinity for all skills, making them versatile. They rarely master any single skill but are competent across many.]

[Damage]

[Strike first. Strike hard. In combat, Damage-types rely on speed, precision, or overwhelming power to eliminate threats fast. In daily life, they gain improved reflexes, reaction time, hand-eye coordination, and motor control—often excelling at sports, trades, or fine work requiring finesse.]

[Affinities: Weaponsmithing, bow-making, metallurgy, projectile design, precision tools. Anything that cuts, pierces, or explodes fits their instincts.]

[Healer]

[Mend and protect. In combat, Healers restore health, remove afflictions, and shield allies from harm. Off the field, they develop high emotional sensitivity, keen energy awareness, and faster natural recovery. They’re drawn toward caretaking roles—even when they don’t realize it.]

[Affinities: Herbalism, potion brewing, regenerative enchantments, medicine, nutrition, and recovery-based gear. They see the link between the body and the world.]

[Tank]

[Stand firm. Hold the line. In combat, Tanks absorb punishment and protect others through endurance and control. Beyond combat, they enjoy enhanced stamina, resistance to fatigue, and higher pain thresholds. They thrive in harsh environments, long shifts, and physically demanding work.]

[Affinities: Armor forging, structural engineering, heavy tools, construction, defensive enchantments. They instinctively understand how to reinforce what matters.]

I read each one twice. Then again. Then once more.

Damage was always the favorite for people chasing a sense of power. If I was still seventeen, I would have chosen it immediately. Maddie’s affinities put her squarely in the damage dealer section. Tank offered protection, not just for me, but for my friends, family, and anyone I wanted to protect. But only if I was with them all the time.

Healer? If Dave hadn’t awakened with healing affinities, then I’d have been sorely tempted. It was like I told Dave, cure diseases, regenerate lost tissue of any kind. You could make billions just offering to cure the incurable to the rich. 

Controller was the only one that didn’t promise direct action. What it did offer was options. Options that fit very nicely into my current and future plans. The obvious caveat being it all depended on where the class took me.

[Class Confirmed: Controller]
[You’ve chosen the path of subtlety, foresight, and indirect dominance. You do not overpower the world—you reshape it.]
[Class subspecialties unlock at higher levels.]
[3 Attribute Points Earned]

[Controller Awareness: Enhanced perception during combat—greater sensitivity to positioning, momentum shifts, and enemy focus.]

[Skill Affinity: Generalist]
[All non-unique skills may be freely acquired through study and use. Time to improve skills reduced by 1%. No class-based restrictions.]

[Basic Controller Spells Granted]
[Slow: Briefly impairs enemy movement.]

[Speed: Temporarily enhances target's movement speed.]

[Mark Target: Highlights selected enemy for allied focus. — True Sight Conjunction: Reveals visible weak points to allies when active.]

Not bad, not bad at all. Strong combat potential, useful in everyday life, and a bump to learning. No new stat popped up for magic points. That was different. Altlandia class types like me ran off of MP. I just happen to have developed an insane amount of them that regenerated faster than I used them. Most spells would be endurance based.

Speaking of endurance, I have three points to spend. My mental attributes sat well above the human norm while my physical, even with all the training, sat just above average. No need to agonize over a decision I’d already made before. But first, “Dave?”

Dave looked over. “Something happen?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Got a level. System unlocked class selection.” I gave him a quick rundown on what had just silently transpired.

He raised an eyebrow. “So what’d you pick?”

“Controller.”

Dave snorted. “How Machiavellian.”

“That’s me, maligned figure of the Renaissance,” I said.

He laughed—then winced as his ribs reminded him he wasn’t invincible yet. “The Medici did him dirtier than a Renaissance soap opera.”

I handed him a canteen, eyes drifting back to the still bear. “Yeah… yeah, they sure did. I’m about to add my attribute points. It may hurt me while my body changes or might not. I just wanted to warn you.”

“No calling 911 if you start convulsing, got it… Good luck.”

“Here goes,” I replied, before willing the points into place.

There was… discomfort, but nothing like I expected. Even a cursory glance and pat down showed the results of raising all three. Tighter abs, larger, more defined muscles. The best part was the instant heal that came with raising endurance. Instant heal, oh how I missed you.

Dave stared at me, studying me up and down. “Your wounds are all healed, is that from leveling?”

Reflecting, I answered, “From raising endurance, most likely. It’s one of the few things that seems to be completely the same. Once upon a time I used to keep a half dozen points in reserve just for the instant heal. It saved my life a few times.”

“Seems wise. I think we should finish up here and start heading back before the smell draws in anything else.” Pointing to the Deer and Bear remains he continued, “I’d say we could both carry one a piece but after you chastising me this morning about not showing off my new strength it seems like a bad idea.”

“Yep. Let me just check one more thing and we’ll head back.” With a determined glance, I checked my improved stats.

[Class: Controller]

[Level: 1]

[Strength: 4.7]    

[Endurance: 4.9]   

[Agility: 4.7]

[Intelligence: 16]

[Charisma: 16]

[Health: 490 (Endurance X 100)]

[Skills]

[Alchemy: journeyman, Archery: expert, Armed Combat (Blades, Improvised, Polearms): legendary, Blacksmithing: journeyman, Cooking: journeyman, Disarm Trap: legendary, Gymnastics: legendary, Legerdemain: journeyman, Mining: legendary, Perception: journeyman, Stealth: legendary, Swimming: legendary, Tailoring: journeyman, Tracking: journeyman, Unarmed Combat: legendary]

[Titles: Harbinger (Grants: True Sight)]

[True Sight: Allows Kyle to see information about anything he focuses on, such as names, titles, special abilities, weaknesses, etcetera.]

[Controller Awareness: Enhanced perception during combat—greater sensitivity to positioning, momentum shifts, and enemy focus.]

[Skill Affinity: Generalist]
[All non-unique skills may be freely acquired through study and use. Time to improve skills reduced by 1%. No class-based restrictions.]

[Basic Controller Spells Granted]
[Slow: Briefly impairs enemy movement.]

[Speed: Temporarily enhances target's movement speed.]

[Mark Target: Highlights selected enemy for allied focus. — True Sight Conjunction: Reveals visible weak points to allies when active.]

Still weaker than I’d been in many years, but only a small step away from reaching the height of known human limits. It would have to be enough.

Chapter Twenty-Three
Maddie

Kyle’s property wasn’t what I expected.

I’d pictured some sprawling estate, or maybe a half-finished cabin with more plans than walls. What I found was quieter. Tucked away past old logging roads, it felt more like a forgotten orchard than a training ground. Trees lined the edges, younger pines mixing with stubborn oaks, and the grass had that defiant wildness that came from being left alone. Nestled near the middle… a dilapidated house or shed barely stood as a reflection of a past era.

It was perfect.

No neighbors. No hikers. No prying eyes. Just us.

“Alright, spill,” I said, hands on hips. “How’d you two explain the bear situation to your dads without ending up in a padded room?”

Dave flopped onto a low boulder like he’d been waiting for that question. “We didn’t. We gave them the truth, diet version. Deer spooked a bear, bear charged, we got lucky. End of story.”

Kyle leaned against a tree, arms crossed. “Not a lie. Just… left out the glowing heart part.”

“And the part where you nearly got turned into mulch,” I added, raising an eyebrow.

He gave the faintest shrug. Classic Kyle. Minimal words, maximum meaning.

Dave grinned. “To be fair, he did the heavy lifting. I mostly distracted it with my face.”

I snorted. “Heroic.”

“Exactly,” Dave said, beaming like a kid who’d survived his first roller coaster.

Kyle’s eyes flicked to me, sharp as ever. “We got lucky. It won’t always be that way. That’s why we’re here.”

Nodding, I already felt the faint pulse of energy under my skin. Since Kyle unlocked my channels, the world had… shifted. I wasn’t throwing lightning bolts or anything, but light and shadow didn’t ignore me anymore. They moved when I wanted—small reactions, but real.

“Alright then,” I said, rolling my shoulders. “What’s first? Creating shadow people? Explosive blasts?”

Kyle smiled—not smug, but pleased. “Control. Focus. Mastery. You’re a Luxumbra Sage. Dual affinity is uncommon when it’s the four elements. It’s rare when it's light and dark. You’ll be able to blind, cloak, or even create illusions once you’re fluent. Energy blasts might be out for now, but other things are on the menu.”

Dave stretched, yawning slightly. “And I’m supposed to practice healing. But someone losing a limb is beyond me, so… I vote we don’t test that today.”

“Appreciated,” I said dryly.

Kyle straightened. “We’ll run basic exercises. Maddie, start with moving your light construct. No rituals. Just will and gesture.”

I inhaled slowly, extending my hand.

The orb flickered into being—no candles, no chalk circles. Just me.

It hovered obediently, brighter than before, waiting.

And when I thought move, it did. Not swiftly. But it moved. Up—down-flying circles—then shifting between the primary colors.

“That’s new,” I said, grinning despite myself.

“Progress,” Kyle said simply.

Dave gave a low whistle. “Next thing you know, she’ll be conjuring disco balls.”

I shot him a look. “Careful, or you’ll be my first test subject for blinding spells.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning. “Could be good practice. You blind me, I heal me.”

“Right, you’re the group healer. Probably better not to get on your bad side,” I laughed.

For a moment, it felt easy. Simple. Three friends in the woods, messing around with new toys. But beneath that ease was a thread of tension. Kyle hadn’t said it, but we all knew. If bears were awakening, other things might follow. And when they did, we wouldn’t get to practice first.

Kyle’s focus shifted to me again, his posture straightening with that subtle shift he always had when things turned serious. He didn’t bark orders. Didn’t need to. His way of teaching was more like laying out a challenge and letting you decide how much you wanted it. It was in these moments, when a sudden wisdom would shine through his eyes, that I saw the man trapped within the teenage shell.

“You’ve got the orb down. Now it’s time to weaponize it,” he said, tone steady. “Hard light. Focused. If it helps, think of the light as incredibly thin pieces of paper compressing to form something solid.”

A laser, then. That much was obvious. But he didn’t call it that. Probably on purpose.

Again, my hand went up, and the light answered with less resistance, the warmth of the magic growing stronger with each call. It bloomed into existence, already familiar to me in such a short time. It took effort to push back my desire to just play with the small orb. This was about control.

Kyle didn’t hover, but he was there. A steady presence, just enough to remind me this wasn’t a parlor trick anymore. His advice was good, but not exactly what worked best for me. Instead, I pictured the light compressing, pulling tight like the threads in a needlepoint hoop. Not spreading thin, but narrowing, until it stopped being a sphere and started being a hair-thin line. Then another and another. Each thread wrapping, combining with the rest until it had become like yarn—a short piece of thick radiant yarn. The air seemed to tighten with it, my breath slowing as the glow obeyed—not smoothly, but enough.

When it finally snapped into shape—a thin, quivering line of concentrated light—I picked a knot in the trunk of a nearby tree and exhaled.

The beam lashed out, quick and sharp. It wasn’t loud. There was no crackle, no flash. Just a hiss as the bark seared, leaving a clean, shallow line where the light had passed. My head throbbed from the effort, but I’d been forewarned that was a result of growing my new power.

“How’s that?” I asked, lowering my hand, satisfied with the result.

From his spot lounging against a rock, Dave clapped slowly. “So, you’re officially a human laser pointer. Proud moment.”

I shot him a look, but couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Kyle strolled over to the tree, placing his hand just under the scorch mark. “Looks like you pierced about halfway through the tree.” Turning, he gave me a hard stare. “You are officially walking around with a loaded weapon that never jams, never runs dry—and you can’t put it down.”

That hit me like a truck. “I’m not violent, Kyle. I’ve never hit anyone out of anger. And believe me, I’ve had plenty of girls give me every reason to deck them.”

Sighing, he approached me, placing his hand comfortingly on my shoulder. “You may not think so now, but you will eventually come across something or someone that pushes your buttons… you’ll destroy it or kill them if you don’t also exercise self-control on a level you’ve never known.” His eyes bore into mine, almost terrifying in their intensity. “Maddie, we were in school together. I know how cruel those clique girls were about your parents. I also know the second you found you could lift a grown man, you thought about beating the lot of them up.”

He just stood there. Peering into my mind—into my soul. “Is that one of your powers? You can hear my thoughts?” I hadn’t even admitted how much I wanted revenge to myself.

“Nope, no powers for this one. Just age, my true age, and the life experience that goes with it. When I first gained powers, I would fantasize about coming home with them and beating up my bullies, forcing people to be good, and about a dozen other fantasies that ultimately were empty and shallow.” Softly gripping both my shoulders, he added, “It’s normal to feel this way. It’s normal to want to use power to do good. The problem is when you use it for what you—and I mean y-o-u—you decide is good. Most of the worst evil ever done has been by people thinking they’re the good guys.”

He didn’t say anything more, just gave me a small smile and turned to watch Dave. While I caught my breath, Dave had flipped open that folding knife he carried like it was an old habit. Kyle didn’t say a word. Whatever guidance Dave had gotten was between the two of them, out of earshot, or most likely, while the two of them hung out.

He drew the blade across his forearm with careful precision. Not deep, but deliberate. I flinched anyway, even knowing it was controlled. He hissed as blood welled to the surface, but there was no panic. Just focus.

Dave hovered his hand over the wound, eyes narrowing. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the faintest glow began to gather—pale green, subtle, almost fragile. It wasn’t flashy, and it wasn’t fast, but it was steady. Under his hand, the cut began to close, the skin knitting itself together as if time had lost its grip.

When he pulled his hand back, only a faint line remained. Fading with each breath.

Dave flexed his arm, inspecting his work like a mechanic checking a patch job. “Still cool,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Kyle said nothing, but the slight nod was approval enough.

I watched them both, everything sinking in. This wasn’t training for the sake of novelty. We weren’t testing powers because it was fun. Every flicker of light, every healed cut, was a step toward something heavier. Because if a bear could awaken, so could something worse.

The light drills had left my head pounding, but we were supposed to push past our limits, so I kept my mouth shut. If they could fight a magic bear, I could handle a headache. “I’m going to try using shadow magic now.” I called out. Hopefully, Kyle had some tips, as my last attempt scared me. “Last time I tried, I swear I felt like someone was in the room with me.”

Kyle stepped in, not with instructions, but with context. “Shadow’s not like light. Light’s just energy. You shape it, use it, move it. Same with fire, earth, wind—any of the usual affinities. They’re part of the sphere. Part of the universe. Shadow isn’t.”

He gestured toward the ground, where the trees cast long patches of cool darkness. “We’ve always seen shadows as blocked light, darkness as absence of light.. and here that was true.” He paused, something in his mind must have changed because his tone and demeanor changed. “It doesn’t just exist. It listens. Sometimes, it plays. You’ll feel it. The larger the shadow, the more alive it feels.”

“That’s comforting,” I said, not entirely joking.

Kyle gave the smallest shrug, eyes distant. “It obeys. But it remembers where it came from.”

Not from here then. Somewhere deeper and darker, like another dimension? Okay, I wanted to ask, but I’m not sure I want the answer. If it was dangerous, he would tell me, right?

Still, it was time to try.

I lifted my hand, mirroring the light technique. But where the orb had resisted being compressed, shadow seemed eager. Like a dog excited for a command but barely holding back. It gathered along my fingers, wrapping them in a cool sensation—not cold, but dense.

Focusing, I narrowed my intent, picturing the shadow coiling into a thin line, a beam. It responded instantly, almost too fast, stretching from my hand toward a nearby stone.

The beam wasn’t clean like light. Its edges wavered, like heat haze, and as it struck the stone, it didn’t slice or burn. Instead, it bludgeoned, then clung to the surface, seeping in, leaving a stain of darkness that lingered after I released my hold.

It didn’t want to let go.

I pulled back, mentally pushing it away, and the shadow reluctantly slipped free.

“That’s different,” I said, flexing my fingers while fighting the urge to vomit from my oncoming migraine.

Kyle nodded. “It’s not a tool. It’s a leash. You direct it, but it wants to run.”

Dave, sitting nearby, leaned back on his elbows. “So Maddie got a clingy affinity. Figures.”

I ignored him, focusing on the lingering weight at my fingertips. Shadow felt heavier than light. Not in mass—but in attention. Like it was always watching for the next opportunity to spread.

“Keep it small, keep it sharp,” Kyle added. “Let it know who's in control, and it'll stay obedient. Let it wander, and it'll start making choices for you.”

“Good to know,” I said, not entirely reassured.

But even with the unease, there was something… satisfying about it.

Before I could think much more, Dave pushed off the rock and wandered over, that usual grin in place. But there was a glimmer of something else behind it. He didn’t ask if I was alright.

“You’ve got that look,” he said, tapping his temple lightly. “Same one you had after the light drills. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone but yourself.” Quietly, with a quick glance at Kyle, he added, “I wish I had someone to heal me when I overdid it yesterday.”

I opened my mouth to brush it off, but he was already raising his hand, the faint green glow gathering without fanfare. Warmth spread across my scalp—not hot, not intrusive—just steady. The tension eased, the dull throb fading like someone had turned down the volume from ten to two.

“You’re getting better at that,” I said.

Dave gave a mock bow. “What can I say? I’m a fast learner. Plus, can’t have you getting cranky. You’re dangerous enough with your new pet shadow.”

I snorted. “You’re one to talk. Don’t think I missed how proud you were healing your own arm earlier.”

“Hey, credit where it’s due. We’re all improving. Teamwork and all that.”

Kyle, watching from his spot near the tree line, said nothing, but the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The air had settled. The training was done—for today, at least. But none of us fooled ourselves into thinking we were finished. Kyle broke the quiet first.

“We’ll need to set up regular sessions. Fit them in where we can. I know you both have lives, school, work—this doesn’t get a free pass on our schedules.”

Dave flopped back onto the grass, arms behind his head. “So, we’re basically starting our own Justice League. Should we be shopping for matching costumes, or are we going with the rugged outlaw vibe?”

“Definitely outlaw,” I said dryly. “Can’t see us pulling off the tights-and-capes look.”

“I don’t know,” Dave said, grinning. “You could rock the cape. Might go well with your whole ‘shadow queen’ aesthetic.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I’ll add it to my buy list for the fiber festival this weekend.”

That got his attention.

“I’m sorry, the what now?”

“Fiber festival,” I repeated. “Spinning, weaving, dyeing. Alpacas, probably. Nana insists we go every year.”

Dave sat up, mock-serious. “So it’s like Comic-Con, but for yarn?”

“Exactly like that. Except with fewer cosplayers and more sheep.”

“I don’t know, Maddie. I’m picturing you leading a rebellion of knitters. Yarn grenades. Crochet hook daggers. Very underground.”

“I’ll be sure to pass your suggestions along,” I said, smirking.

Kyle, standing a few feet away, listened without interrupting. But as the jokes faded, his tone cut back in—calm, but focused.

“I’ve got something in the works. But there’s a lot of what ifs before we get there.” For a brief moment, his eyes cut to Dave before he added, “For now, we train where we can, when we can. Quietly.”

The way he said it left no room for debate. Plans were moving, but he was holding the cards close. Dave certainly knew far more than me, but then the two were essentially brothers, so fair enough.

“Got it,” Dave said, flopping back again. “Mysterious hero base. Training montages. Got the gist.”

“Montages would be great,” Kyle added. “We could just play some eighties metal and be done in one power anthem.”

Chapter Twenty-Four
Dave

The bench outside Kristen’s house hadn’t gotten any more stable since last time. Still leaned to one side, still made me feel like I was sitting in a funhouse. But she liked it. Said it had character. I called it a liability.

She dropped down beside me without the usual pleasantries. That was fine. We’d been past small talk for months.

“I want to see him,” she said.

Straight to it.

“I told you—he’s not mad,” I said. “Kyle’s good with us. Really.”

Kristen nodded, but it wasn’t in agreement. “I know. You’ve said. And I believe you. But believing it and… feeling okay with it? Different things.”

She tugged at the sleeve of her cardigan, staring ahead. “It’s not that I want him to be mad. It’s that him not being mad feels… distant. Like he's hiding the depth of his hurt.”

I didn’t say anything. She wasn’t exactly wrong. Kyle hadn’t been avoiding her, but he hadn’t reached out, either.

“I keep thinking about walking up to him and it’s like… what do I even say? ‘Hey, glad you’re not dead. Sorry life moved on here while you were asleep for a year.’” She huffed, frustrated. I fought the urge to explain—again—that comas weren’t just long naps. “It’s stupid. But it’s there.”

“It’s not stupid,” I said. “You’re allowed to want your friend back.”

Kristen gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite settle. “I guess I’m just not ready for him to feel done with me. Even if that’s not fair.”

That hit home more than she probably knew. I’m no expert on women, but it seemed to me she was just upset he wasn’t brooding over her on some castle rampart.

“You should talk to him,” I said. “No big reunion scene. Just you and him. He’s not going to push you away, Kristen. He’s still Kyle. Just… different. Like coming back to a house after a remodel. Still home—but the rooms are rearranged, and none of the light switches are where you remember.”

That got a snort. “That was almost poetic, Dave. Proud of you.”

“I have my moments.”

We sat for a while, letting the quiet settle. It wasn’t tense—just full of things we hadn’t found words for yet.

“When you do talk to him,” I added, “maybe don’t lead with the ‘are you still my friend’ angle.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Good thing I have you for moral support.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Her smile this time was genuine, even if it was small.

“Also, try not to expect anything from him, other than how he feels now.” I almost said ‘other than the truth.’ That was one thing she wouldn’t be getting right now.

Kristen pulled her cardigan tighter as the breeze picked up. October had a way of sneaking up on us—one minute it was still summer, the next you were wondering if you should’ve brought a heavier jacket.

“You know what’s next, right?” she said, glancing at me sideways.

“Midterms and seasonal depression?”

She huffed. “Halloween, genius. The festival. Nightmare in the Woods. All of it.”

I groaned, but it was mostly for show. “You volunteering again this year?”

“Of course. Mom’s running the costume booth, and you know how she gets when there’s a chance to dress kids up like tiny monsters.”

“That woman’s a menace.”

“She’s efficient,” Kristen corrected. “Besides, it’s tradition. Half the town shows up. Hayrides, candy, haunted trails—not the bloodbath stuff. More ‘spook the kids, not scar them for life.’”

“Yeah, I remember. That corn maze still haunts my dreams.”

Kristen smiled, and this time it stuck. “You should come help. Might even be good for you.”

“Define ‘good.’”

“Gets you out of your own head.” Her tone stayed casual. “Hang out with me and some of your other friends.”

She meant her friends, but she was right. I had abandoned everyone but her and Kyle for weeks now. I shrugged, keeping it light. “Fine. But if I end up in a scarecrow costume again, we’re renegotiating our friendship.”

“Deal.”

We sat in companionable silence as the wind rustled through the trees. Normal. Familiar. But even as I joked, the back of my mind kept circling back. This year’s Nightmare in the Woods might live up to its name. Upgraded wildlife, more people disappearing each week, and all we’ve got is a Scooby Gang of teens to handle it.

Kyle, I really hope you know what you're doing.

Chapter Twenty-Five
Empire Building

The last days of October rushed by. Every day bled too quickly into the next, the hours snapping past like they owed someone a debt. Mornings started the same—stealth escape followed by workouts to keep my body sharp, then homeschool to keep the parents satisfied.

It wasn’t hard. The hardest part was how slow my hands moved compared to my thoughts. Typing assignments should’ve taken half the time, but muscle memory didn’t come back overnight. I’d been faster with a quill in Altlandia. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Two hours every morning. It was efficient, but not perfect. Perfect would be getting out of the unneeded school crap all together. But at least I didn’t have to spend all day in classrooms so glass half-full. Next came business.

James Truman’s office had become familiar, but not comfortable. He was a sharp man, precise in his words, always looking three moves ahead. Until otherwise proven, I would continue to believe the back story I created for him—he was hatched and raised in a New York high-power law firm.

“This company wants to negotiate on the Westridge parcel,” Truman said, sliding a file across the table. “Standard play—delay payments, promise the moon.”

“They want access by next quarter?” I asked.

“They do.”

“Upfront cash. Environmental restrictions. Lease terms capped at five years with performance clauses. No promises, no delays. If they want the yield, they pay now.”

Truman’s mouth twitched. That was his version of a grin.

“That’ll thin the herd,” he said.

“Good. I don’t need fifty clients. I need five who move fast and don’t make me babysit them. As word spreads of a new player with guaranteed returns, they will fight each other just for the chance to do business on our terms.”

And they were lining up. Mid-tier firms, the hungry ones, willing to play by my rules because the ground I pointed them to was guaranteed. They paid for the privilege. Sure, I spent a few long hours mining several sites, so there was something to show, but it was barely an inconvenience. One teenager with legendary mining did the work of a full crew with modern equipment. Dave nearly burst when one swing of a pickaxe felled a section of rock wall.

Dave’s face was incredulous as he muttered, “It’s insane that you can cut through a ton of hard rock with a swipe but can’t lift more than me.”

Silver veins. Rare earth minerals. Oil pockets. Nothing that would let them destroy the land. Directional drilling. Clean methods. My terms weren’t flexible.

By the week’s end, Creekstone Holdings had locked in eighteen million in liquid assets. Far more was projected. The loop had begun—profits reinvested into more land became more profits, each purchase calculated for maximum efficiency of growing wealth.

Morgan Alvarez became part of that rhythm. He’d been my regular Uber driver off and on for a couple of weeks. Former sheriff’s deputy, early sixties, ex-military posture without the attitude. He never asked stupid questions. Never pushed for conversation.

Every so often, he’d offer a piece of advice, usually wrapped in casual observation. He only raised an eyebrow at my teenage status during our first meeting. I was fairly certain Truman had handpicked the man to low-key watch over me or keep me safe—maybe both. I fully approved if he did.

Alvarez became Creekstone Holdings’ first official employee. He also became quite useful whenever I had business to do, like renting a self-storage unit. Or picking up packages for me and putting them in said unit. Not once did he ask about their weight or shape—not even when he helped me set up some tables inside and transfer my many online purchases into two large equipment bags.

****

The Sangster Estate. That’s what Truman had called it when the paperwork was finalized. I hadn’t corrected him.

The place wasn’t a mansion in the showy, nouveau riche sense. No gaudy columns or faux-classical nonsense. This was a proper stone manor—three stories of hand-cut limestone, quarried locally a century ago. Thick walls, built to endure Tennessee’s worst weather and probably a few civil wars. The locals called it “The Castle” for a reason.

The front facade was simple but imposing. Arched windows with aged copper trim, steep-pitched slate roofing, and twin stone towers flanking the main structure—not decorative. Functional. Thick enough to stop a small war.

It fit the man who had it built.

Jonas Levington, a name nearly lost to time, had been a titan of industry in his day. Mining and timber—two of the bloodiest businesses to build fortunes from, and he’d done it with both hands. Levington didn’t play by polite society’s rules. Society bent, molded itself to men like him. Wherever there was a mountain rich in ore or a forest dense with lumber, he carved out his claim with iron, sweat, and a fair bit of legal gray area.

By the early 1900s, Levington controlled more of the region’s resources than state governments. He didn’t flaunt it with city mansions or East Coast summer homes. Instead, he built this: a stone fortress at the edge of civilization. It was a show of power—meant to stand as a monument. To remind everyone that his legacy was carved into the very bones of the earth.

Locals called it “The Castle.” Levington called it insurance. Something that would stand long after markets crashed, wars came and went, and lesser men’s fortunes crumbled. But no man can predict his offspring would waste their inheritance, lose their fortune, and then sell what’s left one parcel at a time.

The grounds spanned just over a hundred acres. Rolling pastures, dense hilly tree lines screened the property from the road, and the remnants of an old carriage path that could double as a driveway with minimal work. There was even a small pond near the western treeline, half-choked with cattails, but still reflecting the sky like polished glass.

Inside, the bones were just as solid. Large open rooms with twelve-foot ceilings. Exposed beams, real timber, not decorative planks. A grand hall straight out of medieval Europe, complete with an oversized stone fireplace you could stand in.

The second floor held six bedrooms, each with its own fireplace and balcony access. The third floor was unfinished—probably an attic once, but the space could easily be converted into whatever we needed.

Dad was already scribbling measurements into a notebook, muttering about structural reinforcements, while mom glided from room to room, trailing her fingers along the stone as if she could read its history.

“Hey dad, I want this place solid,” I said, breaking the quiet. “Not just fixed up. Reinforced. Tornado, earthquake, flood—whatever happens, this house stands.”

He nodded without looking up. “Steel frame core retrofit. Reinforced joists. Impact-resistant glass for the windows. Not cheap, but doable.”

“It’s an investment,” I said. “In our future. This place is big enough for all of us and any future family I might have—unless you want me to move out?”

Mom laughed softly. “Oh, no. My baby boy wants to live with us forever. Please, make it stop.”

“Not just me, any possible future family. That would mean little grandkids running around.”

Positively beaming, she hugged me. “Okay, you convinced me.”

Henry snorted. “You’ll be insisting on paying for the upgrades, I assume?”

“Every penny.”

They didn’t argue. They understood how important it is for me to do this.

Mom paused at the far end of the grand hall, eyes fixed on the light streaming through a tall, arched window. “You know, this place was built before the world went crazy with speed. People used to take their time. Build things to last.” Looking back, she asked, “Henry, how thick are these walls?”

Without looking up from his notes, he casually answered, “First and second floor are about three feet—third floor… about two feet.”

“Three feet thick?” I echoed, eyebrows raised. “That’s… perfect.”

Dad finally looked up, giving me a half-grin. “It’s why it’s still standing.”

Mom gave the solid walnut paneling a little pat, pleased. “The walls are beautiful, a bit grungy, but beautiful.” She turned toward the south wing. “And what do we have down here?”

She led us through a side corridor to a long-forgotten structure attached to the main house. Half-swallowed by ivy, its iron framework still clung to the stone walls, though most of the glass was cracked or missing entirely. The skeletal remains of an elegant greenhouse stretched along the south face, bathed in soft afternoon light.

“This,” she said, eyes lighting up, “is an orangery.”

“A what now?”

“Orangery,” she repeated, clearly enjoying the small teaching moment. “It’s like a greenhouse, but sturdier. Originally used to grow citrus trees in the winter. Very fashionable a hundred years ago.”

I gave the structure a critical look. “Looks like it’s one hard snowstorm away from collapse.”

“Exactly why we’re going to bring it back,” Mom said, clasping her hands. “It’ll make a perfect space for year-round plants. Maybe even a little reading nook. Imagine the light.”

Dad was already muttering about structural supports, jotting notes in the margins of his ever-growing notebook. Cutting his eyes to mom, he said, “A little reading nook? This runs the length of the house here. You could fit a small forest.”

We moved back inside, into what had once been the estate’s private library. The kind of room that made you want to lower your voice out of respect. Two stories tall, with wraparound balconies, and a carved wooden ladder that by some miracle still rolled smoothly along its track. The shelves were empty now, but their presence filled the room.

“Guess I know where you’ll be hiding when the world gets loud,” Dad said, giving me a sideways glance.

“I’ve always loved personal libraries like this when I saw them in movies—never thought I’d own one.” I lied. My library back in Altlandia dwarfed the whole mansion.

“I’ll make sure the new cabling doesn’t ruin the aesthetic,” he added, tapping a pencil against the stone wall. “Fiber optics, redundant power. Might as well do it right.”

The next room was a study—actually, two of them. Across the hall from each other, mirror images. Heavy oak doors, floor-to-ceiling windows, fireplaces in each. Perfect offices for my parents.

“Which one’s yours?” I asked, glancing between them.

Dad didn’t hesitate. “Whichever one your mother doesn’t claim first.”

“Oh, I’m not fighting over desks,” Mom said airily. “I’ll take the one with the better view. The one with afternoon light, thank you.”

“That’d be east-facing. Figures.” Dad made another note.

We wound our way toward the kitchen next. Massive didn’t begin to cover it. Industrial-sized, but without feeling sterile. Stone floors, a pair of antique cast-iron stoves standing like sentinels at either end, and an enormous butcher block island scarred with decades of use.

Mom traced the island’s surface with her fingers. “This kitchen’s seen generations.”

Dad was already sketching out where modern appliances could be integrated without gutting the charm.

Finally, we descended into the cellar. Calling it a basement felt wrong. This was a full-height, vaulted stone space that ran the entire length of the house. Cool, dry, and built like a bunker.

“Cold storage, wine, storm shelter,” Dad listed off, his voice echoing faintly. “Hell, you could host a community meeting down here.”

Scrutinizing the space, I added, “I’m thinking we incorporate a full-size elevator somewhere for ease of transporting things—maybe a smaller one on the opposite end of where you place that one for backup.”

Dad smiled, “Good idea. How about a home theater, full size arcade—game room, and a wine cellar while we’re at it?”

My teenage body must be influencing me more than I thought, because excitement ran through me at the idea. “Seriously, that sounds amazing.”

“Son, you’re paying for all of this. Didn’t you think about what you might want?” Dad asked.

No dad. Actually I only thought about you, mom, and making this place a haven-meets-bunker. Instead, I answered, “Not much past having a bigger room.”

My parents looked at each and as one came over and hugged me. After a moment, my mom spoke, “We may never understand what happened to you or what you’ve been through, but we will always be here for you, no matter what. You’ve done more for us than we could imagine.” Pulling away, her eyes bore into mine. “Make sure you take time to do something for yourself.”

****

Most days ended in training out behind the shack. The clearing we’d been using was starting to wear in nicely. Not by design—just boots scuffing earth, footprints pressing a story into the dirt. Dave, Maddie, and I had fallen into a rhythm. No speeches. No hand-holding. Just practice.

Maddie’s light constructs had shifted from flickering blobs to razor-thin threads she could weave between her fingers. The precision was there, but she was still learning how much effort was too much. Push too hard, the whole thing collapsed. Too soft, it never formed. Too much, and Dave is curing her self-induced migraine.

“You know,” Dave said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say she enjoys showing us up.”

Maddie didn’t look up. “Correct form isn’t showing off, Dave. It’s efficiency.”

He gave me a look. “She’s been hanging around you too long.”

I shrugged. “Could be worse. You could be the target again.”

He winced. “Don’t remind me.”

“If it makes you feel better, your form is well ahead of the typical eight-year-old in Altlandia.” Since he hadn’t yet manifested some kind of long-range damage ability, Dave was learning how to use a telescoping baton along with my version of quick and dirty melee fighting.

Until he reached some level of competence with basic footing, I refused to spar him. He was faster, more durable, and stronger—he was also relying on his new ‘awakened’ status far too much. The exercises I gave him helped on every front, if he sticks to them. For my training, I cast each of my spells until fatigued, then went back to teacher mode until I recovered.

Raising my hand, I felt the familiar pulse of magic activating.

Slow

Maddie’s next step lagged. Enough to throw off her balance for half a heartbeat before she compensated, but she would move half speed for another ten seconds.

“Rude,” she said, resetting her stance.

“Effective,” I replied.

Next, Dave.

Speed

The effect hit instantly. His next movement was sharper, crisper, like someone had turned up his frame rate. He didn’t need a prompt to start testing it—he started weaving between old tree stumps with a grin.

“Alright, that’s addictive.”

One more.

Mark Target

A faint shimmer outlined Maddie. Nothing flashy. But to my team, her weak points—if she had any—would light up in faint overlays. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like I was just staring.

Casting all three spells in sequence wasn’t exhausting, but it left a weight behind. Like stacking bricks on my shoulders. Not overwhelming. Just… present. A reminder I wasn’t working with the bottomless reserves I once had. Rolling my shoulders, I exhaled.

“Feels like cheating,” Dave said, coming to a stop beside me. “You’re barely moving and still running the show.”

“Cheating’s just efficiency applied correctly.”

Maddie gave me a sidelong glance. “Says the man who literally slows time.”

“Yeah, but you can lift me over your head.” I replied.

“You can lift me over your head.” She fired back.

“Sure, but I have to say ‘oof’ and I can’t throw you.”

“That’s fair.” She grinned.

Dave slumped onto a stump, still grinning as he caught his breath. Maddie didn’t even glance up, her focus narrowed to the thin threads of light stretching between her fingers.

“Again?” Dave asked, already knowing the answer.

Maddie just nodded.

We kept going.

Chapter Twenty-Six

James R. Truman

My office wasn’t designed to intimidate. Not like the marble tombs corporate lawyers used to compensate for their insecurities. Mine was wood, leather, and quiet. A place for work, not theater.

Marissa Hale understood that. She was already at the conference table when I walked in, legal pad in hand, glasses pushed up just enough to signal business.

“Morning, James. You’re going to enjoy this one,” she said with a smile that meant the opposite.

“Barrington?” I asked, taking my seat.

Marissa’s surprise at me being ahead of the curve faded years ago. “Front and center. She’s filed for state landmark status on the Sangster estate. Full package—claims of historical significance, letters of community support. Though interestingly, the ‘Friends of Grayton Heritage’ group she’s citing didn’t exist until last week.”

I took the folder she slid over, flipping through pages designed to look official, but reading like desperation dressed up in stationery.

“She wants to freeze renovations. Delay through process, not merit,” I said.

“Exactly. If the state review board picks it up, it forces a hold. If not, she loses nothing but time. Meanwhile, she’s still pressing local zoning and building officials. Randall Pierce has suddenly taken an extended leave, inspectors are conveniently backlogged—standard playbook.”

“Blunt. Predictable,” I said, tapping the folder once, considering. “She’s pulling the same levers people like her always do. Slow permits, friendly pressure, red tape to outlast the competition. Her mistake is not knowing her target.”

Marissa gave a sharp nod. That was why she was sitting at this table. She knew the difference between big fish in a small pond and sharks.

“She thinks this is a visibility play. That if she gums up the works long enough, the Sangsters will lose momentum.”

“She’s not aiming at Kyle,” I said. “Not specifically. This may be as simple as territory. The Sangsters restoring an estate like that disrupts her image as Queen of Grayton Creek.” Mulling it over, I added, “It’s doubtful she knows Creekstone Holdings is owned by Kyle Sangster, but she could easily have gotten wind of the company buying up property. But I can’t see an angle where she leverages annoying the Sangsters into making money off Creekstone or the estate.”

Marissa’s smile was thin, professional. “Maybe she hopes to force them into selling the land to her at a loss. The Sangsters did have a previous account with her bank. After paying off the loan at Barrington’s bank, they sent over the paperwork for us to look over.”

Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “They or Kyle?”

“Kyle usually makes the calls.” She typed away on her laptop, “It came from Kyle’s email. Why?”

Why indeed.

“It tells me he thought there might be a problem or a problem might materialize.” I answered.

Her smile disappeared as she replied, “Meaning, this could all be some personal vendetta.”

Marissa stayed professional, but underneath, she seethed. She disliked bullies as much as I did. She just wasn’t raised and groomed by them like me. Despite her feelings, she didn’t waste time speculating.

“She’s got reach,” she said, flipping her legal pad to a fresh page. “Councilman Pierce, zoning clerks, and the county assessor are already leaning. Small-scale, but coordinated. Enough to stall for months if we let her.”

“Local muscle,” I said, leaning back. “Predictable. What about her lenders?”

“Overextended. Her primary bank’s exposure is manageable, but two of her secondary lenders are already nervous. They’ve got no appetite for risk if someone starts asking the right questions. One audit trigger would put her in scramble mode.”

I tapped a finger against the table, considering. Barrington might well be more smoke than fire. While she knew the art of manipulation, her tactics felt clumsy—ineffective compared to those who truly earned their rank. Inheritance from her husband, if I recall.

“And the state review board?”

“Process backlog as usual. If we file a procedural clarification request, even informally, it could be enough to pause her petition while they sort through their stack. Not a shutdown, but a slowdown.”

A classic move. We weren’t here to make waves. Just to remind certain players that the current was stronger than they remembered.

“And the Sangster permits?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Locked down. Everything above board. Third-party compliance audits on file. She can stall, but she can’t stop it outright.”

Good. That was the difference between maneuvering and gambling. Kyle hadn’t overreached. He’d simply moved faster than the locals were used to.

I leaned forward, folding my hands. “This isn’t about teaching her a lesson. It’s about clearing the path. Quietly.”

Marissa smiled. It wasn’t warm. “Of course.”

“Start with the lenders. Quiet inquiries. Let them come to their own conclusions. Meanwhile, get the review board a polite request for procedural clarity. No accusations. Just concern for efficiency.”

She made a note, her pen moving with deliberate strokes.

“Randall Pierce?” she asked.

“Not worth the powder. He’ll fold when the wind changes. Focus on the ones holding actual levers.”

Marissa closed the folder with a soft thud. “Consider it handled.”

That was why I valued her. Precision. No wasted motion.

But as much as Barrington’s antics demanded attention, there was a larger shadow stretching over Kyle’s empire. One that didn’t come with local accents and inherited grudges.

“How are we on external interest?” I asked.

Marissa’s lips thinned. “Developers are circling. Speculators. A few quiet inquiries from state-level advisors. Nothing formal yet, but it’s starting. They’re watching the pace he’s setting and wondering who’s bankrolling it.”

I nodded. The real players didn’t knock. They observed. Measured. Waited for an opening.

“Kyle’s pace is making them nervous. They’re not used to efficiency without politics.”

“Neither is his town,” she said.

“Which is why we stay ahead of it. Barrington’s a warm-up. The real game’s on the horizon.”

I stood, smoothing my cuffs. The path forward was clear. No grand gestures. No overt plays. Just the right pressure, applied precisely where needed.

“I’ll brief Kyle myself,” I said.

Marissa gathered her notes, already moving. “He’ll appreciate the update.” Uncharacteristically, she asked, “James, this client…”

“Nothing like him before.” It wasn't a question. I knew what she was thinking. Everyone on my staff had their conjectures shown through subtle glances and raised eyebrows. “Yes, our young Mister Kyle Sangster is an enigma… he is also our client. Focus on the work, Marissa. Answers have a way of appearing.”

Instantly, she was back to business. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll have a report ready by evening.”

As she left, I picked up my phone, scrolling to his name.

Kyle picked up on the second ring.

“Mr. Truman,” he said. No rush. No filler.

“Kyle. You’ve had a busy week.”

“Yes.” Dry, but unbothered.

No feigned surprise. No defensiveness. Just an acknowledgment and a wait for relevant information.

“Tabbetha Barrington’s latest maneuver involves filing for state landmark status on the Sangster estate. A thin attempt to stall your renovations under the guise of heritage preservation. She’s also leaning on zoning officials, the county assessor—standard small-town pressure points.”

“Do I need to be concerned?” he asked.

“Not in the long term. We’re handling it. Her lenders are overextended. A few subtle inquiries will shift her focus. Additionally, the state review board will receive a procedural clarification request to ensure their process remains… appropriately delayed. You shouldn’t see any impact on your timelines.”

“Appreciated,” he said, with the same steady tone. He didn’t thank me again. He understood this was how it worked.

“It’s possible she’s reacting to what she perceives as a disruption to her standing. This isn’t about you, Kyle. It’s about the optics of the Sangster estate becoming something more than a restoration project.”

“While that may be true, the larger issue is she made a move on my dad years ago—he flatly rejected her. She also hates my mom because people like her. My family reminds her of what she doesn’t have, can’t have, and will never have. It’s the way of people like her. They build their own hells—and blame everyone else for the heat. She’ll ultimately handle herself,” Kyle calmly stated.

He delivered with the calm adeptness of a much older man who'd seen it all a thousand times. I tapped my pen on the edge of the table as I replied, “That’s a very astute observation.”

“It is what it is.”

There was a pause on the line. Kyle never filled silence without purpose.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“A few things, actually. Your text mentioned additional properties?”

“Yes. I’ve been targeting parcels further out. The acquisition radius is up to forty-five miles now. Mostly more side mountain overgrowth, some with shallow mineral reports. Low visibility, but the yields are there. We’ll need to hire some people to come out and clear several parcels—at least of the undergrowth—It’s a fire hazard.”

His expansion wasn’t careless. It was deliberate. Controlled. The sort of pacing even seasoned developers struggled to maintain without overextending. Kyle moved like someone trying to prove himself—but without the bravado or failures.

“You’ve got a knack,” I said. “The kind of knack that draws magnitudes of attention. You might think about another layer or two of separation to keep your name from coming up. Find someone you trust that likes a bit of celebrity to be the face of the Creekstone Holdings.”

“I’m open to suggestion for a figurehead. More separation is fine as long as my word is law.” There it was again, a slight steel to his voice whenever control came up. It could be his age, but it didn’t feel right. More like he wanted to make sure no one could threaten what he built. Fair enough.

“At this scale, Kyle, you’re approaching a threshold. Land and minerals are a strong foundation, but diversification will keep your momentum from becoming vulnerability.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have an investment advisor I trust. Donald Halden. He specializes in scaling private portfolios for individuals who prefer efficiency to attention. Discreet. Effective. He could structure your assets for long-term growth while preserving the liquidity you’ll need to keep moving.”

“Do you think it’s time for that step?” Kyle asked.

“I think you’re close to the point where growth needs guidance as much as grit. Halden can help with the former, so you can focus on the latter.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

Another pause. Thoughtful, not hesitant.

“There’s another angle you should consider,” I continued. “As your profile grows, so will the attention from political and economic interests. Supporting the right people now—local officials, state-level candidates—builds goodwill. Practical alliances, not vanity projects. These aren’t backroom deals, Kyle. These are investments in the people who can ensure fair processes when larger players try to squeeze you out.”

“You’re suggesting donations.”

“I’m suggesting strategic backing. There are good people without the funding to compete against less ethical interests. Supporting them ensures a healthier playing field—for them and for you.”

Kyle’s answer was immediate. “Send me a list.”

Practical. No pretense. He wasn’t posturing, wasn’t seeking praise. He simply wanted the next actionable step. That, more than anything, set him apart.

“Consider it done,” I said.

The call ended, leaving the office in its usual stillness. But it didn’t feel quiet.

Kyle Sangster was moving faster than most men twice his age and ten times his experience. Not recklessly—intentionally. Every acquisition, every negotiation was a deliberate step in a pattern he hadn’t fully revealed.

I’d seen empires rise from nothing. Built them, protected them, dismantled them when necessary. But never had I seen one begin with such quiet precision from a source so unlikely. My initial impression of him had been incomplete—a young man, weary of the unwanted attention that followed his coma recovery, stumbled upon a windfall of ancient coins. Naturally, he would want to keep it out of the media. Now I believed he hadn’t lucked into anything. He knew exactly where those coins had been buried, the same way he knew what property to ignore or buy.

There was more going on here. More than land, minerals, and quiet investments. How far could he go? No, the real question wasn’t how far he could go. It was how far he intended to.

I closed the file, already drafting the next steps in my mind. The path was clear. For now. But the pieces kept shifting. And Kyle Sangster was very good at shifting pieces.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Halloween

Dave

There’s a particular kind of chill in the air when fall hits Grayton Creek just right. Not cold enough for heavy coats, but sharp enough to make your breath puff as you talk. Crisp and clean. The kind of weather that makes you feel alive, even if you’re just standing around eating fried dough.

The festival always looked better at night.

String lights crisscrossed the square, casting everything in that soft, golden glow that made even the rusted carnival booths look charming. The distant squeal of the tilt-a-whirl. Kids in makeshift costumes darted between stalls—ninjas with plastic swords, fairies with drooping wings, the occasional zombie whose makeup looked suspiciously like Mom’s lipstick.

Off by the BB guns, Ty and his gang of fellow yipping hyenas swaggered their way past stall after stall, being just enough of a nuisance to draw attention but not enough to draw reprimands. It was like watching a documentary on the behavior of the willfully ignorant and obnoxious. Tonight isn’t about that moron—it's about Kristen and me.

Kristen walked beside me, scarf tucked tight, eyes sparkling as she pointed out the usual attractions. Milk bottle toss. Ring toss. BB gun booths where the sights were always mysteriously off. All the classics. Same as last year. Same as every year.

But this year, I had a bit of an edge.

“Alright, Dave, your choice,” she said, nodding toward the row of rigged games. “You promised me an oversized stuffed animal.”

“Wow. Doubting me already? Harsh.” I grinned, but I was already sizing up the options. My senses were… sharper lately. Being superhuman would finally come in handy, if for just tonight—gotta keep the secret. This must be how superheroes felt when they were young. The way the milk bottles were stacked, the angle of the baseballs resting just a little too snug in their basket. Nothing screamed “rigged,” but to me, it was obvious.

Kristen’s hand slipped into mine as we walked. Casual. Comfortable. Like it was always supposed to be.

The ring toss booth was an old thing. Weathered wood darkened by years of grease and sweat, with faded red trim that had seen better decades. The rings themselves hung from a chipped metal hook, stacked like promises that never quite delivered. A hand-painted sign above it read “Test Your Aim, Win Big!”—the “B” in “Big” noticeably larger than the rest, subtle as a brick through a window.

The real hook, though, wasn’t the game.

It was the woman running it.

She leaned against the counter, arms pressed together just so, making sure her large chest stuck out—doing more advertising than the sign. Tight shirt, low cut, probably two sizes smaller than comfort allowed… and ridiculous given the weather. She smiled at every passerby like she knew a secret. To be fair, she probably did.

Kristen didn’t comment, but the quirk at the corner of her mouth said plenty.

“Ring toss?” I offered, deadpan.

“Might as well,” she said. “Let’s see who she smiles at harder.”

Dropping down a ticket, I grinned, taking the rings from their hook. Cheap, barely any weight. Designed to bounce off target, not settle. But with a little touch of awakened juice, that wouldn’t matter.

Kristen folded her arms, watching. The woman running the booth kept her smile steady, but her eyes had already labeled me as another donation to her nightly profits.

She wasn’t ready for me.

First toss, I let bounce wild. Can’t be too obvious. Gotta play the part—mostly.

The ring clattered off the bottle tops, skidding off the side just wide enough to earn a pity smile from Kristen and a slightly sharper one from the booth lady. She was already writing me off. Probably had a quota of boyfriends trying to impress their girls. I was another notch on the counter.

Second toss was different.

With a slow, steady hand, I lined it up, my focus entirely on the shot, ignoring any distractions. Focused on the subtle lean of the bottle stack. That half-inch sag from the front row. A breath, a flick of the wrist, and the ring slid over the neck with a soft, satisfying thunk.

Her smile faltered as she not-quite-playfully muttered, “Lucky shot, champ.”

Kristen’s didn’t.

Third and fourth toss, same result. Adjust for the slant, compensate for the cheap, ill-weighted plastic’s wobble. The rings settled like they belonged there.

By the fifth, the booth lady’s smile had gone professional. Still there, but hollow. Kristen pointed at her prize of choice. She, of the massive cleavage, turned, yanked the reward from the back wall, and handed it over with fingers that didn’t quite grip.

Kristen accepted the oversized stuffed bat with a grin. “You’re officially the carnival king.”

I gave her my best mock bow. “Thank you, thank you. Years of pointless hand-eye coordination finally paying off.” She laughed, and for a second, it was easy to forget everything else. No training. No missing hikers. Just her, me, and the bright pulse of festival life.

The town had turned out in force. Families milling around the cider stand, teenagers trying to impress each other with bravado and too-loud jokes. The Nightmare in the Woods trail loomed at the edge of the fairgrounds, all flickering lanterns and strategically placed fog machines. People went in laughing and came out running, screaming, still laughing.

Kristen glanced that way, pulling her scarf a little tighter. “Creepy, even when you know it’s fake.”

“Part of the charm,” I said, steering us away from the edge.

We weren’t done with the games yet. Kristen had that look—determined to win at least one thing herself, even if it took every booth on the square. We tried the balloon darts next. Old, brittle balloons that popped if you looked at them wrong… or bounced darts like they were made of rubber. She nailed two, missed four, and gave me a glare, daring me to say anything.

I didn’t.

The basketball hoop was worse. Bent rim, dead backboard, the whole thing a math problem designed to fail. I offered to give it a shot. She handed me the ball like she was giving me a weapon. First throw rattled in, because physics still worked when you paid attention. Second one, I missed on purpose. No one likes a showoff.

Her raised eyebrow said she suspected, but she let it go.

By the time we hit the lemonade stand, her cheeks were flushed from laughing and good-natured grumbling. The paper cup was cold enough to sting my fingers. We shared it as we wandered, sticky-sweet and tart enough to make you squint.

Cotton candy was next. One bag, big enough to look ridiculous, just as it should be. I watched her pluck a piece, twirl it between her fingers like she was appraising fine fabric, before popping it into her mouth.

“Worth every overpriced penny,” she declared, blue dye already painting her tongue.

We looped back toward the main path, the buzz of the festival still warm, still alive. But the closer we got to the woods, the more that edge returned. The carnival glow didn’t reach that far. Shadows pooled where the lights thinned, like they were waiting for the right moment.

Kristen tugged me to a stop near the cider stand, her eyes narrowing.

Across the crowd, near the edge where the lights thinned, we spotted Kyle. He was walking with his parents, hands in his jacket pockets, posture as relaxed as ever. They weren’t in any rush, just meandering through like a family taking it all in. His parents looked happy. They deserved happy.

Kristen’s fingers tightened on my arm. “I should go say hi.”

There it was. Not guilt, not regret—just that lingering thread she hadn’t quite cut yet. She wanted to see him. Not because she still loved him, but because she wanted to matter. To know she was missed.

But Kyle wasn’t that guy anymore.

“Sure,” I said, keeping my tone light. “You should.”

She didn’t notice the way I said it, or maybe she did and ignored it. Either way, she let go of my arm and threaded through the crowd toward him, Edgar the bat flopping along for the ride.

I watched her go, knowing exactly how that conversation would play out.

Part of me wanted to be annoyed. The other part—the smarter part—knew this was just… Kristen. She said it was closure. I said it too. We both knew better, but teenagers are nothing if not committed to bad ideas.

Kyle wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t be cruel. But he also wouldn’t give her what she wanted. That door had closed. She just didn’t see it yet. When she came back, she wouldn’t have what she wanted. Then she’d have a choice: accept it and move forward with me—or risk what we had because being wanted by Kyle mattered more.

I leaned against a lamppost, watching the swirl of festival life around me, and waited.

Kristen came back slower than she’d left. For a second, I thought she might not. She wasn’t dragging her feet, but the way she moved… you’d think she’d just finished a tough test and wasn’t sure how she did.

She spotted me, and something shifted. The tension in her shoulders eased. The not-quite-frown softened. By the time she reached me, she was smiling again. Real, this time.

“Okay,” she said, slipping her arm through mine like it had never left. “That’s done. Now—more games or food next?”

No long explanation. No drama. Just a quiet pivot back to us.

I didn’t need to ask what Kyle said. I could guess. He had a way of cutting through things without being cruel. Probably told her exactly what she needed to hear in that weirdly honest, detached way of his. And now, here she was, choosing us.

“Food,” I said, steering us toward the funnel cakes. “Gotta get you properly sugared up if we’re going to survive the haunted trail.” She laughed, the earlier weight gone, and just like that, we were back in step.

We didn’t make it halfway to the festival's version of a food court before we noticed the change. The festival didn’t stop all at once. It frayed at the edges first. Conversations quieted, turning from laughter to murmurs. People slowed, not because they wanted to, but because something in the air told them to.

Kristen had just finished pointing out a carved pumpkin that looked like it belonged in a museum when the crowd's mood shifted. At first, it was easy to dismiss. A group of kids running past—too fast, too focused. But then came the adult—moving with that quick, clipped walk that says “don’t panic” louder than screaming ever could.

Kristen caught it too. Her brow furrowed as she followed the motion toward the woods. “What’s going on?”

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t want to, but because my attention was already locking in. A different kind of focus. One I’d been trying not to lean on. That new edge to my hearing—subtle, but sharp—caught words the crowd missed.

Voices carried in snatches.

“—one of the football team—”

“—dragged him off—”

“—not part of the show—”

A tightening in my chest. Not fear, exactly. More like knowing the punch was coming and not being able to move in time. Kristen’s mom’s booth wasn’t far. Close enough for comfort. I touched Kristen’s arm. “Go stay with your mom. I’ll be right back.”

Her eyes flicked to mine. She wanted to argue. She didn’t. “Okay, be careful.”

“Always.”

I slipped into the moving crowd, angling toward the disturbance without making a show of it. The fairground lights still burned bright, but the shadows near the woods seemed to press in closer. Cops and EMTs were clustered by the trail entrance, radios buzzing, voices tense.

A flash of movement—Maddie coming in from the opposite side. Her face was set, eyes sharp. She saw me, gave a small nod.

Then Kyle appeared. Not suddenly, not dramatically, but with the same quiet certainty as always. He moved like someone who already knew more than the rest of us. His gaze passed over the scene, taking in details faster than most would notice.

We converged without needing to speak.

“What do we know?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

Kyle’s answer was just as quiet. “Ty Ransom’s missing. His friends are saying someone in a costume attacked them. One boy dead. Three more in bad shape.”

My stomach turned, but there wasn’t time to dwell.

“Not a prank, then.”

“No,” Kyle said simply.

Sirens wailed.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Halloween

Maddie

“Now that,” Nana said, pausing with a small, satisfied smile, “is how you decorate a lamppost.”

I followed her gaze. Cornstalks tied with orange burlap bows framed the post, while a carved pumpkin perched on a wrought iron bracket, its grin flickering with candlelight. The glow gave the garland a warm, almost magical aura.

“It’s the details,” I agreed. “Anyone can throw up plastic webs. This feels… earned.”

Nana gave my arm a gentle pat. “Our town may be small, but we have standards.”

We strolled past booths strung with more of those warm Edison bulbs, their soft light making everything feel like a postcard. Vendors hawked handmade scarves, local honey, and carved wooden toys. The scent of kettle corn and spiced cider drifted between stalls, blending into something perfectly autumn.

A small crowd had gathered around a pie-eating contest. The participants—mostly kids—were smeared with whipped cream, their faces buried in pumpkin filling. One little boy emerged triumphant, arms raised high, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. The applause was loud, genuine, and utterly charming.

“That one’s going to need a bath,” Nana observed, amused.

“Worth it,” I said, grinning.

Near the center square, a hay-bale maze twisted into clever paths. Children squealed as they rounded corners, parents following with phones held high, capturing every giggle. Scarecrows stood watch at each entrance, dressed in a patchwork of flannel shirts and denim overalls—some of which, I was certain, had belonged to real people in town.

We paused to admire a display of jack-o’-lanterns. Rows upon rows of them, each unique. Some simple and classic, others carved with intricate patterns—leaves, cats, even a haunted house scene etched in glowing orange.

“You’d think after all these years, someone would run out of ideas,” Nana said.

“Not around here,” I replied. “Grayton Creek takes Halloween seriously.”

“Mmm. As they should.”

That’s when Emma found us. She bounced up in her skeleton hoodie, bones glowing green in the dusk.

“There you are! You’re missing the apple cider slushies. Life-changing, Maddie. Nana, you gotta try one too.” All my friends called my grandmother Nana. She would brook no other moniker from them.

“I prefer my cider hot, dear, but thank you.” Nana’s tone was indulgent.

Emma’s eyes landed on me. “By the way, you look amazing. Classic witch, but elevated. You could hex someone and they’d say thank you.”

I laughed. “It’s just a dress.”

“Sure, and the Mona Lisa’s just a painting.”

We fell into step together, weaving through the square. Emma chattered about the haunted hayride (“Not scary, but the jump-scare guy in the ghillie suit almost got me”), while Nana made quiet, approving comments on the decor.

A familiar face from school—Jake Brewer, of all people—gave me a nod as he passed. Not flirty, not awkward. Just friendly.

“Great costume, Maddie.”

“Thanks, Jake. You clean up pretty well yourself.” He was dressed as a lumberjack. Plaid, of course.

“High effort,” Emma whispered with a smirk once he was out of earshot.

We stopped by a booth selling candied apples. I picked one, the kind coated in just the right amount of cinnamon glaze. Emma opted for caramel with peanuts, already making a mess of it before we reached the next corner.

“Zero regrets,” she said through a mouthful of sticky sweetness.

Nana, ever composed, purchased a small sachet of spiced potpourri, tucking it into her handbag like a secret weapon.

The moon’s light waned under cloudy skies, while the glow from the lanterns softened the edges of the world. Music floated from the bandstand—a local quartet playing bluegrass renditions of Halloween classics. It shouldn't have worked, yet it absolutely did.

“This,” Nana said, looping her arm through mine again, “is how you celebrate a season.”

I couldn’t have agreed more.

As we passed the crafts booths, a small commotion caught my attention.

Near a pumpkin-painting station, a little boy—maybe six—stood clutching a lopsided bat decoration. His face was crumpled, eyes shiny, while an older girl loomed over him with the unmistakable swagger of a playground tyrant.

“Bats are for babies,” she sneered, giving his prize a dismissive flick. “You should’ve painted a skeleton. Or a zombie. Something cool.”

The boy’s grip tightened. His chin wobbled.

I paused, fingers brushing the velvet ribbon at my throat. There was no malice in what I did next. Just… correction. The girl’s shadow stretched long beneath the booth’s warm lights. With the lightest touch of will, I nudged it. Subtle at first. Then more.

Her shadow peeled away from her feet, warping, twisting until it stood oddly bent, head cocked at an unnatural angle. It loomed toward her, exaggerated by the lantern glow, like something far too interested in her ankles.

She yelped. Spun around. Tripped over her own bravado before scrambling to her feet, then running away. The little boy watched it all with wide eyes, then beamed as the girl retreated. He looked down at his decorated pumpkin, now somehow more heroic. Good, let him think the painted-on bat scared her. He clutched his pumpkin tighter, this time with a smile, before darting back to his family.

Emma tugged my sleeve, already pointing out the next booth—something about her favorite food and a contest I apparently had no choice but to enter. I let her pull me along. Nana fell into step beside us, her expression unreadable but content.

Up on the bandstand, Dracula belted out ‘Monster Mash’ as we made another loop past the game booths. Emma was mid-rant about why caramel apples should be labeled as one of man’s greatest creations when I noticed it.

Not a sound, at first. A feeling. Like the way the air changes before a storm—except the sky was clear, and the stars were still out, scattered above us like spilled glitter. People weren’t screaming. Not yet. But the laughter—it had changed. Thinned out. Too many voices suddenly going quiet.

Then the siren.

It cut through the celebration noise from somewhere down the street. One of the emergency vehicles was wailing somewhere near the parking lot. I saw heads turn, parents straighten, some calling to their kids as they stepped off curbs or stopped pushing strollers. A ripple effect. Not panic—but unease was definitely starting to build.

I looked toward the road, then back at Emma and Nana. “I’m just going to check something,” I said quickly. “Be right back.”

Nana opened her mouth, but I was already gone.

Skirting around a family dressed like ghosts in matching sheets, I passed a pair of little witches comparing candy buckets. Dracula had stopped singing. A woman in a flannel jacket was walking quickly against the flow of people, her phone pressed tight to her ear.

Something was happening. Something real. Not just the haunted hayride kind of spooky.

That’s when I saw Dave.

He was halfway across the square, moving fast—too fast for someone just going to see what the noise was about. He brushed past a few people without seeming to notice them, and I caught a glimpse of Kristen behind him, standing stiffly with her arms crossed like she didn’t know what just happened.

I hesitated. Just for a second. Then I followed.

We curved around the last row of booths, away from the food and games, toward the darker edge where the town square met the tree line. The glow of the string lights faded with every step. I started seeing fewer people, more shadows.

Dave stood alone, staring down the trail. Sensing my approach, he gave me a glance. We nodded at each other, neither of us speaking. Kyle was there a second later—of course he was. We stood facing the woods for a few moments before Dave spoke up.

“What do we know?”

Kyle’s voice came out soft, just above a whisper. “Ty Ransom’s missing. His friends are saying someone in a costume attacked them. One boy dead. Three more in bad shape.”

“Not a prank, then?” Dave asked, his voice shaky.

“No,” Kyle answered, as he scanned the ground near the grass—eyes darting like he was piecing something together. The usual calmness he carried looked thinner now. Focused—but tense underneath. Like something was off, and he didn’t like it.

I looked past them toward the woods. Nothing. Just trees. And darkness. The kind that didn’t feel right this far into town.

Another siren, this one farther away.

Dave muttered, more to Kyle than to me. “Someone said one of them was dragged off, maybe?”

“Dragged?” My voice sounded too loud in my ears.

I stepped closer without thinking, suddenly cold despite the jacket I wore. The whole night had felt warm enough until now. I felt like we’d just stepped through some invisible curtain, like the festival was still going on behind us in one world—and we were now in another.

Kyle straightened. “I’ve got a trail.”

Just like that.

He looked at both of us. Not like a question. More like an invitation—or a challenge. No fear. Just certainty. I didn’t ask what he meant or how he could be so sure. I just nodded. Around us, a few families and couples hurried away from the forest, while others ran past—some calling names, others just running.

Flashlights cut across the ground in shaky beams, bouncing off fallen leaves and patches of dirt. A few adults—rangers maybe, or volunteers from the festival—were crouched near two boys, both on the football team. Both faces I saw daily. One of them sat slumped against a tree trunk, holding his arm like it was broken or worse. The other knelt in the grass, rocking back and forth, a hand clutched over his face as if trying to hold something in—but failing.

“They killed him!” the crying boy wailed. “Terrance is dead, I swear—oh God—they just…” His voice cracked hard, every word spilling out like it hurt to say.

The boy with the injured arm flinched as someone touched his shoulder. “It wasn’t just a guy,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “They were all wearing the same thing. Same mask. Big mouths. Teeth. Looked like monsters or something.”

One of the adults tried to calm him. “Probably just kids in costume, son—”

“They weren’t kids!” the boy snapped. “They weren’t right—!”

No one argued with him. Looks passed between the adults, followed quickly by flashlights hitting the surrounding tree lines.

A woman whispered something into a walkie-talkie. Another man stood between the teens and the woods, flashlight aimed low but steady. Just holding position. Like he knew something was out there and didn’t want to see it.

“They’ve been watching us,” Kyle muttered, his words filled with steel.

My skin prickled.

“Who?”

He didn’t respond. He moved forward. Not toward our injured classmates—but past. Toward the forest. His jaw was set. Focused again.

Dave followed.

So did I.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Halloween

The lights made everything look warmer than it really was. Strings of orange bulbs arched over booths and wrapped around trees like someone had tried to lasso fall itself and succeeded. Shadows flickered at the edge of everything—cast by jack-o’-lanterns, fire pits, moving people.

We walked slowly, the three of us, like we were trying not to wake the night too fast.

“This is nicer than I remember,” Dad said, sipping from a paper cup that smelled like cider and cinnamon.

“That’s because we didn’t come last year,” Mom said softly.

Dad nodded, the smile tugging at his mouth a little slower this time. “Yeah. Didn’t feel much like celebrating.”

She slipped her arm through his while pulling me into a side hug. “It does this year.” Smiling at their exchange, I returned the hug.

People kept passing by, most in costume—some elaborate, others clearly pieced together from whatever was in the closet that morning. A toddler in a bat suit squeaked as he passed us, a candy bucket twice the size of his head swinging wildly from one mittened hand. Two girls dressed as witches were arguing about which one was the “good” witch. An older couple shuffled past in matching scarecrow costumes, hay poking out at odd angles.

More than a few people did double takes when they saw me.

Some waved. Some hesitated. A few just stared, their faces caught somewhere between shock and awkward hope. I didn’t blame them. They hadn’t seen me like this since before—

“Is that—Kyle?” Someone murmured just behind us. A woman’s voice. Soft but surprised.

“It is,” Dad said easily, turning and offering a small wave to a middle-aged couple walking hand in hand. “Evening, Darla. Jim.”

“Henry,” the man said with a short nod, then looked at me. “Well, I’ll be. Look at you, son. You gave us all a scare.”

“The whole school prayed for you,” Darla said. “Even Principal Loomis.”

I blinked. “Loomis? I thought his only religion was yelling about tardy slips.”

They laughed, and so did Mom.

“He means thank you,” she said gently, giving my arm a squeeze.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Really.”

They moved on, and we moved with the crowd. Toward the cluster of arts and crafts booths near the library steps, tucked between the Ferris wheel and the row of food trucks.

A burst of laughter came from a tent ahead of us, where a woman was selling hand-carved wooden figurines—bears, owls, cats with pumpkin heads. One of the bears was wearing a tiny hoodie and had “GRAYTON CREEK STRONG” burned into its base.

“Tell me you don’t want that for your nightstand,” Dad said.

I tilted my head. “Tempting. But I’m holding out for a hand-carved wombat.”

Mom steered us toward a table covered in handmade candles. The scent of apple, clove, and something called “Mountain Meadow” clung to the air like perfume.

“I love these,” she said, picking up a squat orange candle in a ceramic skull. “This lady comes from Sweetwater every year.”

A woman behind the table smiled. “It’s good to see you out and about, Kyle.”

I nodded. “Thanks. It’s good to be… about.” Grayton Creek wasn’t perfect—but the people here? They meant it. Every word, every awkward smile, every too-long hug. You didn’t always get polish, but you always got sincerity. That counted for more than most people realized.

“Try the bonfire blend,” she said to Mom. “Smells like toasted marshmallow and salvation.”

“I’ll take one and a couple of the pumpkin spice,” Dad said immediately, pulling out his wallet. He knew the pumpkin spice was my favorite scent.

We kept moving. Past a booth where a man in suspenders was painting kid-sized pumpkins. Past a stand selling knitted scarves with tiny ghosts on the ends. Past people who smiled and nodded, clapping me on the back. A few called me a miracle.

It was weird. But not bad. It felt like… coming up for air. Mostly, I felt a bit guilty for not feeling guilty. They didn’t know I hadn’t suffered a moment in a coma, but they also didn’t know I suffered far worse for far longer in Altlandia. In the end, nothing would be gained from explaining anything, let alone feeling guilt for events I never controlled.

The carousel spun slowly to our right, lit with glowing horses and old-timey music. Kids shouted as they went around, and one little girl in a unicorn onesie waved at us like she’d known us forever. I waved back.

“Want to ride?” Mom asked, her voice just a touch too casual.

“I’ll pass. Pretty sure I’m over the height limit.”

“You’re not over the mom-is-nostalgic limit,” she said, but she let it go.

A man with a carved walking stick stepped out of the crowd just ahead of us. “Bel? Henry?”

Mom lit up. “Tom? Oh my goodness, I thought you were in Florida!”

“Just flew in this morning,” he said. “Couldn’t miss the festival. And this must be the miracle boy himself.” He turned to me. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

I squinted. “Tom, who taught me how to make a slingshot out of a clothespin?”

He barked a laugh. “That’s me! Still got the scar on my thumb to prove it.”

They talked for a bit—Tom and my parents catching up, swapping stories while I drifted just enough to watch the Ferris wheel make its slow, glowing turns. I could see the whole town from the top, or at least I remembered being able to. The square. The river bend. The edge of the woods curling like a sleeping thing around the festival’s glow.

Behind us, someone fired off a cork gun at the shooting gallery. It popped like a champagne cork, followed by a whoop of victory. Nearby, a girl in a cardboard robot costume accidentally bumped into a scarecrow and apologized in a robotic monotone that nearly made me snort.

We passed the food court—corn dogs, funnel cakes, and steaming cups of cider being passed hand to hand. Someone shoved a bag of candied almonds into my hand before I could protest. I looked up to see Mrs. Gordan, my former middle school teacher, already disappearing into the crowd.

“I think that was an ambush,” I said, holding the bag.

“She’s always thought the world of you,” Dad replied.

“Only because I used to help clean the classroom,” I replied, waving my thanks as she snuck a glance back.

Mom tiptoed up, kissing me on the cheek. “That’s for being so sweet you don’t even see why that’s such a big deal.”

The small petting zoo had drawn a decent crowd. A goat bleated somewhere nearby. I watched a group of toddlers try to feed a miniature cow who clearly had no intention of cooperating. A single camel stood like royalty in the corner, its expression unreadable.

“That’s Larry,” a teenage volunteer said, pointing. “He’s our philosophical anchor.”

Larry blinked slowly, unimpressed by the mortal realm.

I crouched to let a baby goat sniff my hand. It bumped my fingers, then trotted off as if it had done me a favor.

“I missed this,” I said. Far more than either of you know.

Dad stood behind me, silent for a beat. “Yeah,” he finally said. “So did we.”

I stood, brushing off my hands, just as someone else called my name. I didn’t recognize the man, but he gave me a hug like he’d helped build my crib. Maybe he had. Once again, the equally sincere, polite exchange of pleasantries took place, smiles and nods accompanying the words.

They all meant well. Every single one of them. But the truth was, none of them knew me anymore. Not really. Still. It was good to be remembered. Just beyond the hay-bale maze, Kristen was standing alone, pretending to scroll her phone while clearly watching me. Our eyes met before I could pretend otherwise.

She didn’t wave. Just adjusted her stride slightly, enough to make it clear she wasn’t heading anywhere else. Her steps were quick, yet measured. Like someone hurrying into a room they know by heart. I met her halfway, just beyond a line of picnic tables.

“Hey,” she said, voice even softer than I remembered.

“Hello, Kristen.” My tone stayed friendly, but had none of the excitement it once had when speaking to her. She stared at me, almost imploring. There were no emotions to fake. It was nice to see an old school friend, but that was all she was anymore.

“They said you’d changed,” she murmured. “I didn’t really believe it until I saw you again.”

There wasn’t much to offer in return. The person she remembered wasn’t standing here anymore. She remembered a phantom. I mentally crossed my fingers in hopes she didn’t drag this out or hurt Dave.

“You look more grown up now, but then everyone does to me,” I said replied. “Guess we both changed.” That’s it, Kyle, stick to the plan.

Her smile twitched—part apology, part reflex. “I rehearsed what I would say to you so many times. That maybe there’d be something for you to come back to. Not anything serious, just… a moment.”

She wasn’t being overly dramatic. Just her age.

“Some of the memory’s still there,” I said, meeting her eyes. “But not the feelings. That part didn’t make the trip back. I’m sorry if there was something more. I just don’t remember it.”

Her breath caught slightly, but she managed a smile. “Right. That makes sense.”

I gave her a softer look. “You’re with Dave now. He’s a good guy. The best kind, really. I’m genuinely happy for you both.” I paused for a moment before adding. “And I’m really glad you’re not the kind of girl who needs someone to pine over them. That’s rare.”

Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe. A little shame. But then relief.

“I think… I needed to hear that,” she said quietly. “Thanks, Kyle.” 

I nodded once, and that was all it took. She turned and walked back into the crowd without looking back. Breathing a sigh of relief, I checked dealing with Kristen off my mental to-do list.

“Are you okay, son?” It was my dad.

“Yep, very okay. And ready to get sugared up, ride a carousel so mom can get her pictures, and maybe decorate a pumpkin.” He put his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, smiling. “She’ll love that. Your mom won't be satisfied until she's captured every brightly colored corner of the festival with you in the frame.”

We kept making the rounds until … It was small at first. A ripple. Not a sound—just something in the air. The way the noise changed. Laughter thinning. Conversations trailing off too early. Kids who’d been darting in and out of legs now hung closer to their parents.

I stopped walking.

It hit me like the shift in wind before a storm.

Nothing loud. No screams. Just a subtle wrongness threading through the night air—something quiet pulling too tight. I straightened without realizing it, eyes scanning the edge of the square. The game booths were still buzzing. Laughter still drifted over from the hayride line. But it was off. Slightly hollow. Like everyone was smiling half a beat too late.

I didn’t wait.

“Hey,” I said casually, turning to Dad. “I’m gonna go catch up with Dave. Just want to check something.”

Mom looked over from the booth she was admiring. “Of course, we figured you’d want to spend some time with your friends, too.”

“Be safe, and not out too late,” Dad added.

“I’ve got my phone,” I said, already stepping back. “And I won’t be late.”

They both watched me for a second—reading me, like parents do. Not stopping me. Not yet.

Dad gave a small nod. “Text if anything changes, like staying at Dave’s house.”

“Will do.”

And then I was off, weaving through the crowd as the feeling thickened. I wasn’t sprinting, wasn’t drawing attention. But every part of me had shifted—posture, focus, pace. I moved like I was tracking something because, deep down, I was.

By the time I reached the edge of the main square, the murmurings cut through the air behind me. Still distant. Most people hadn’t even registered them yet. A few turned their heads, curious. No panic.

Not yet.

The perimeter was less crowded—just stragglers near the booths and a couple of teen volunteers standing by the trash bins, laughing about something one of them saw on his phone. But I wasn’t watching them.

Moving faster now, my boots fell silently over the hard earth as I skirted the line where civilization met forest. Ahead, shapes began to form—small clusters of people on the trail of Nightmare in the Woods. Two adults kneeling beside a boy on the ground. Another teen leaning against a tree, sobbing uncontrollably. I slowed, taking it in from a distance first.

Two of the boys from Ty’s clique. Meaning if it was his usual crew, Ty and one other were missing.

There, just past the tree line. Broken leaves. A scuff in the dirt. Bent grass. My eyes adjusted quickly—habit from early morning runs, not power—and picked out movement trails the average person would miss. Drag marks, blood, signs of an ambush—all further into the forest. The boys had probably been planning on scaring people when attacked.

Off to the side, Dave and Maddie had just beaten me to the trailhead. Their enhanced senses alerted them to far more than they probably were even aware of. Moving to them, we exchanged a few words. Their curiosity matching my own.

I kept my gaze on the surrounding flora. Behind us, more people arrived on the trail as sirens wailed in the distance. The two survivors were saying something, but my focus stayed on the woods.

While Dave and Maddie watched, I kept my senses focused. Leaned into every ounce of my tracking skill. Tracks—humanoid yet not human. Recently, while shifting. They had been watching the festival… impatiently. No shoe prints, clawed feet.

The boys cried, implored the adults to listen to what happened—only to be treated as hysterical. This isn’t your fault, Kyle, don’t blame yourself. Stay focused.

“They’ve been watching us,” I muttered, my words filled with anger.

“Who?” Maddie asked.

Moving forward, they followed behind me. We’d made it to the edge of the bend of the trail, out of sight from anyone else, before I answered her.

“Goblins… there are goblins on Earth.”

Chapter Thirty

Nightmare in the Woods

Night pressed in the moment the lights from town vanished behind us. Trees closed ranks, swallowing the last echoes of the festival—no music, no voices, just the crunch of leaf litter and the sharp hiss of breath held too long. We moved without speaking, a trio pulled forward not by confidence, but by necessity.

Ty was somewhere ahead. Hurt. Maybe dying. That was all that mattered.

Maddie stayed just off my right shoulder, steps sure, but tighter than usual. She didn’t say anything, but the way she hovered closer keeping me inches from her side, and the tension in her jaw said enough. She was scared—but not backing down. Dave veered left, stepping lightly, years of deer hunting showing in every stride—his eyes scanning with surprising sharpness. No joking now. No commentary. Just quiet resolve.

We wound deeper into the woods, and the signs of passage were everywhere. Twisted grass. Crushed ferns. A low branch torn where something too tall—or aggressive—had barreled through. A few small droplets of blood clung to the edges of a young spicebush, trembling on its broad green leaves before slipping free. Ty’s maybe. Terrance’s. Or one of the goblins. Someone had bled here, and not long ago. But there was no sign of Terrence. No trail. No bodies. Just… nothing. As if he’d been taken somewhere else—pulled away from the others for a different purpose. Or maybe just gone.

No attempt had been made to hide their path. That alone said more than I liked. Goblins that don’t cover their trail either don’t fear pursuit… or want to be followed. The thought curled in the back of my skull and refused to leave.

We followed, but not blindly. Each new blind spot was approached with care. Natural bottlenecks were noted. Choke points, blind spots, alternate paths. This wasn’t a rescue yet. It was reconnaissance. Every heartbeat spent tracking them told us more—about how they moved, how they thought, and most important of all, where they were holed up.

Beneath the quiet, something buzzed in my chest. Not panic. Focus. The kind that narrows vision and slows the world just enough to notice everything. A snapped twig. The sudden hush of night insects. The faint heat rising off disturbed soil. No spell needed to read it. This was the kind of awareness drilled into me over years in Altlandia—earned one brutal step at a time.

Half a mile in, their path curved down through an old ravine. Here the air cooled sharply, shadows stretching wider. The forest floor held more signs—drag marks now, fresher. The shape and depth suggested weight, unevenly distributed. Someone resisting. Ty. Still conscious then, at least for a while.

Nothing about this resembled a clean snatch and run. These creatures weren’t being cautious. The pace changed often—quick sprints, then lulls. Confident. Erratic. Yet purposeful.

They knew where they were going.

Overhead, a branch creaked faintly. Maddie glanced up, then kept moving without a word. Instinctively, she nearly clung to me, before stopping herself. With a side glance, her posture shifted subtly, became more guarded while giving a few more inches of space between us. Dave adjusted course slightly to avoid a rise in the path, stepping through a natural break in the rocks.

At a small clearing, we paused.

Ty had fought back here. The signs weren’t dramatic, but clear enough to those who knew how to read them. A blood smear along a tree trunk, high enough to suggest someone taller than a goblin. Scrapes along the bark showed where something sharp had been drawn—and dropped. A broken stick nearby showed signs of impact, not weather.

Maddie knelt beside it, brushing away a few fallen leaves.

“Someone swung this,” she said, voice low but even.

Dave studied the spot for a moment before nodding. “Ty?”

“Most likely,” I replied, stepping around them both to get a better angle.

The tracks continued on the far side of the clearing, sharper now, more deliberate. Less sign of dragging, more footsteps grouped close together. That didn’t ease anything. It made it worse.

They’d adjusted how they were carrying him.

They weren’t slowing down.

The trees thinned just ahead, revealing the beginning of an old game trail I hadn’t seen since childhood. Deer used to cut through this way, especially in cooler months. It ran alongside a creek-bed just deep enough to offer cover from casual view. Not a place you stumbled into. You chose it. Caves of varying sizes littered the ancient mountain range. One of the larger, less accessible ones lay a short distance ahead.

Movement caught in the corner of my vision—Maddie, shifting position again. Nervous energy morphing into the overwhelming need to go full flight or fight. Every few steps, her fingers flexed slightly, ready to cast. She’d soon have to choose.

Dave mirrored the rhythm, but with his hands hovering near his weapons. Even now, he didn’t fully grasp how strong he’d become. That would change soon enough.

If we made it out.

The pace of their path increased again, pressing deeper into terrain no local would hike after dark. We passed an old campfire ring carefully placed between two rises near another ravine. Broken beer bottles still glittered in the dirt—memories of teenagers who thought these woods were empty of threats to man. As if bears, coyotes, bobcats, and wolves didn’t exist.

Considering everything, I couldn't find it in myself to criticize them. Back on Earth mere months and even I had started forgetting nowhere was truly safe.

We paused again, this time out of necessity. A fresh indentation lay ahead—half-splay. The tracks left behind showed a wide-set three-toed print with a deep impression at the heel. Definitely goblin.

“Four of them, at least. Judging by the spread, two walked clean. One was dragging a leg. Another compensated with its torso—favoring one side. Injured, but still moving fast.” Keeping my voice low as possible, I added, “The fourth—heavier. Leading or dragging.”

The trail narrowed again, cutting between two old stone outcrops blanketed in moss and shadow. Every step from there felt sharper, the forest thinner somehow—less like wilderness and more like something watching us back. We moved in silence, breaths measured, footfalls light. Just ahead, past a crooked pine and the remnants of a fallen log, the ground dipped. That’s where the scent shifted—earth, sweat, blood. And then we saw them.

There they were.

Four goblins, crouched at the edge of a shallow cave, almost invisible in the low light if you didn’t know how to look. Their bodies blended into the earthen tones of the ravine—clay-brown, moss-dappled skin, armor made from stitched scraps of leather and what looked like aluminum cans. One limped as he shifted position, favoring his right leg. Another stood with its left arm hanging stiff at its side. The other two moved easily, one sniffing the air while the other kept lookout.

Ty was slumped near the center of the group, half-draped over a broken log. His shirt was torn, face bruised, and his wrists were bound with some kind of vine or cord. But he was breathing. More than that—he twitched. Not random. Intentional. A groggy hand slid toward a rock, fingers weakly grasping, failing to lift it.

Still fighting. Good.

The goblins hadn’t seen us yet, but they would soon. Their confidence made them sloppy. Their spacing was lazy—three in a rough arc around Ty, the last one drifting ahead like a scout. Arrogant. Unafraid.

Time to fix that.

Keeping my eyes on the goblins, I Whispered, “Think of them as video game monsters. Don’t play. Kill fast.” Motivational speech over, both Dave and Maddie moved into position. Now it was time to do my part.

Mark Target. A flicker of violet light snapped into place across the largest, healthiest of the goblins. My spell locked them visually, tagging their positions and letting my team's awareness track their movement in real time. It also showed every weakness of the goblin, thanks to True Sight.

Next I cast Speed. Maddie and Dave were already in place—Maddie to the right, just above the cave’s slope; Dave hidden to the left behind a blackened tree. The moment the spell rippled through Dave, I saw the shift—posture sharpening, breathing syncing. Muscles primed. If he noticed the boost, he didn’t show it. No nods. No whispers.

Just motion.

Maddie struck first.

A lance of white-hot light speared the clearing, aimed for the goblin nearest Ty. It hit square in the side of its face, sending it sprawling backward with a scream that echoed across the trees. The others jerked up, confused—but not for long.

Slow. The spell dropped across the unmarked and uninjured goblin like a weighted net. Its reactions dulled. That hesitation between seeing danger and moving? Stretched to painful levels.

Dave came in low from the left. His batons flicked outward mid-run, one leading the strike, the other tucked near his ribs. He didn’t shout. Didn’t roar. Just moved—and hit. The first goblin he reached had just enough time to raise its arm before Dave’s baton cracked it hard across the jaw, followed by a spin and a second blow to the ribs.

Maddie hit the second goblin next—this one the limper—before it could fully stand. Her second spell wasn’t light—it was darkness. A shadow bolt that pulsed with violet sparks, thudding into the creature’s thigh and dropping it mid-turn.

Ty rolled.

It was a slow, clumsy movement, but it told me everything. He was conscious. He knew what was happening. He was trying to get out of the way.

The goblin with the bad arm snarled and lunged toward him anyway, teeth bared and twisted, knife raised high.

I didn’t hesitate.

“Here,” I yelled fast and loud enough to draw the goblin’s attention.

It turned.

Maddie’s bolt caught it in the neck before it could fully pivot.

The thing collapsed in a heap beside Ty, limbs twitching. He flinched away, still bound, still groggy, but safe—for now.

The scout was the last to react—half-hidden near the far tree line. It bolted straight into the cave. Which made no sense. That cave only went twenty yards deep and had no other exit. Every kid in Grayton knew that.

Dave met the final goblin—the one still standing—in a straight rush. It slashed wildly with a bone-shard blade, but Dave ducked under the swing, struck the creature’s knee, and then came up with an elbow that sent it stumbling. He didn’t give it time to recover.

A sharp spin. Two baton strikes to the ribs. Then a rising crack to the skull that dropped it flat.

Silence followed. Not dramatic silence—just the kind that felt earned.

Maddie lowered her hand slowly, her breathing just beginning to quicken. Dave stood still, batons dripping with goblin blood, posture tight, watching for a twitch that never came. She and Dave both began to smile.

Ty groaned, bringing them back. Neither made it two feet before a tall form dwarfing Ty stepped from the cave, wrapping him in enormous arms before stepping back and disappearing. The three of us ran as one—stopping abruptly just feet from the dungeon.

[Dungeon Break Culled]

[Experience reward: 250]

The notification blinked out—and then another hit.

[New Quest]

[Clear F-Ranked Dungeon]

[Bonus: Save Natives]

[Time Limit: 72 hours]

[Time Limit: 71:59]

[Time Limit: 71:58]

Chapter Thirty-One

Breaking

The last of the goblins dissolved into a swirl of fading light, its form unraveling the moment Dave pried the core from its chest. Tiny, warm, faintly glowing—a pulse of purpose packed into something barely the size of a marble.

He turned it over in his hand with a frown. “This thing’s alive, right? Feels… not dead.”

“It’s a core,” I said. “F-ranked. Don’t worry, it’s not going to hatch.”

Maddie pulled a matching one from the goblin she’d taken down. “I didn’t expect them to vanish after we touched them.”

“Loot trigger,” I said. “When you pull the core, the body dissolves. Cleaner than leaving corpses lying around, I guess.”

Dave wiped his fingers on the grass. “So, whatever brought them here handles body disposal too. Efficient.”

I stayed quiet, thinking.

Each goblin had something. The cores were the only consistent item, but Maddie also found a small, tarnished ring tucked into one’s pouch—plain, silver-colored, slightly bent. Dave found a strip of copper wrapped in what looked like insulation wire. Not the coins I had been used to, but still copper.

Even here, rewards were part of the things. Just changed to suit Earth.

They didn’t get a notification. No text boxes. No pings. But they still got something… sensory, a feeling there was more. It’s how they instinctively knew where the goblin’s cores were. Normal for progression types.

“I don’t get pop-ups like you, Kyle,” Maddie said after a moment, as if reading my thoughts. “But this still feels… system-ish. Like the game stuff.”

I exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“That’s because it is.”

They both looked at me.

“There’s a dungeon here now. That cave isn’t just a cave anymore. It’s classified. F-rank, but official. I’ve got a quest to deal with it.” Shifting my gaze to the cave, I added, “Dungeon-spawned monsters disappear when killed. Monsters born in the world don’t.”

Dave nodded his head in understanding.

Maddie’s hand tightened around the ring. “Is there a dungeon here because of what took Ty?”

“Maybe. It either triggered a dungeon event the moment it crossed whatever threshold the system considers breach-worthy, or the dungeon already existed.”

Dave’s expression turned grim. “Let me guess—Ty.”

I nodded. “Seventy-two-hour limit. Save him or lose him. And it’s not just a failure—it’s death.”

Neither of them moved. I let the silence sit long enough for it to weigh.

“Dungeons,” I continued, “have to be cleared. If you don’t, they eventually reach critical pressure. Monsters inside break free. They spread. Multiply. It’s not theory—it’s what happened in Altlandia. And now it’s happening here.”

“Break free,” Maddie said slowly. “You mean they escape into the world?”

“Exactly. The system tries to contain them by creating self-contained spaces. Temporary dimensions. Think of it like sealing a disease behind a glass wall. But if you don’t neutralize the source, the wall cracks.”

“Dungeon break,” Dave murmured.

I nodded. “And this feels close. I got the ‘dungeon break culled’ notice right after the goblins were killed. I think we barely made it in time before something worse got out.”

Maddie looked toward where the cave would be, though it was out of sight. “What do we do?”

“We prep,” I said. “We don’t go in blind. We’re going to need gear, food, water, lights. And weapons that won’t shatter if we face something bigger than goblins. You both did great tonight, but this? This was just the warm-up. Keep those cores hidden, we can investigate them more when we have the time. As for the other items, you could probably pawn them or sell them somewhere. Copper sells for pretty good money, if you have enough of it.”

Dave looked down at the core in his hand again. “The weird part is… none of this feels surprising. Just messed up.”

He said it casually, but something deeper rode under the words.

Then he looked at me. “You ever think it’s weird how many of Earth’s stories line up with this stuff? Like… leveling systems, Isekai stories, games, dungeon mechanics. It’s everywhere. Feels like half the anime made in the last ten years predicted this.”

I didn’t answer right away. Because he wasn’t wrong. The truth behind that feeling? It was worse than they knew.

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” I said finally. “And you’re not wrong.”

Maddie stepped a little closer. “Kyle… how much do you remember from before? Like—before Altlandia? The world before you were summoned away?”

“All of it,” I said. “But it doesn’t match.”

Dave raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, none of this sort of stuff existed. Not before I was summoned. No gamer worlds. No fantasy tropes. No Isekai. No hit by a truck anime. At least not like this. We had games, war games, fighter games, sci-fi novels, but nothing like you are used to. Everyone keeps telling me about all the role-playing games we used to play. I remember them being based on TV shows, historic stuff, the military, space battles—not dragons and unicorns.”

Maddie’s voice lowered. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s everywhere.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s what scared me most when I woke up. It wasn’t just that I was back on Earth waking from a coma I never experienced—it was that Earth was… different. Not just updated. Rewritten.”

Dave crossed his arms. “And you think you did this?”

“No, even on Altlandia, I didn’t have that kind of power. Whoever runs the cosmos didn’t just give Earth magic. I think he rewrote reality so the world would accept it. Like slipping a new program into an old machine and rewriting the documentation so no one questions it.”

Maddie looked shaken now. “So, we’re living in… someone else’s patch notes?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Who’s he? Do you mean like he?” Dave asked, pointing to the sky.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t met the being or beings over the Earth sphere. Altlandia had dozens of deities. Other spheres and realms I visited had their own. The nine hells had nine kings and hundreds of princes with their own small realms. The cosmos is far beyond anything we think of here.”

An unnerving silence hung in the air before Dave broke it.

“Wow, I don’t think it occurred to me until now just how much you’ve been through.” He gave me a thoughtful look, “You’re still my best friend, you look like him, still act like him in all the ways that count, but you… you’ve been through things I can’t even begin to wrap my head around.” Dave paused before continuing. “You’ve been to hell and back. You actually get to say that and mean it.”

“If it helps, the shift back home really did rob a lot more than just my skills and power. There’s a lot I went through that’s more like the memory of a long-forgotten movie. In a way, I’m thankful my mental attributes were reduced. My Intelligence stat was so high I had perfect recall of every moment I ever experienced… there are a lot of things I’d prefer to not remember that well.”

No one said anything for a while after that. The wind moved again through the trees. No new alerts came, no more quests. The night just… waited.

“Well, we kicked Goblin butt—so go team.” Dave tried to lighten the mood. I brought it back down.

“Yeah, because they were unprepared, injured, and weak. We were lucky.” They both looked at each other, then back to the ground, taking my words in.

Maddie finally exhaled. “Alright. So, step one is gear up.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Step two is go in smart. No heroics. We take it section by section, just like a real dungeon crawl.”

Dave’s jaw set. “And step three?”

“We bring Ty home.”

“And Terrence?” Maddie hesitantly asked.

“Whatever took Ty… I think it took Terrence first. Given the amount of blood back at the cave—”
I didn’t finish. I didn’t need to. We all knew.

Maddie didn’t speak for a long time. She stood just off the path where we’d fought, arms folded, gaze aimed at the place the creature had vanished with Ty. The ring she’d looted was still in her palm, edges catching moonlight as she turned it over absently.

When she finally spoke, it was quiet. Not afraid. Just… unsettled.

“If everything can be rewritten—memories, culture, what people believe they’ve always known… how do we know what’s real anymore?”

The question wasn’t aimed at me directly, but it landed like it was. Dave looked over, but didn’t interrupt.

I stepped closer, not quite beside her. “We don’t. Not completely.”

“That’s terrifying,” she said. “We’re taught to trust what we remember. What we’re told. But if that’s all changed, if it was never true…”

“It doesn’t have to be terrifying,” I said. “You still choose what to hold on to. Even before all this,” I swept my hands around the battlefield, “You made choices about what was real, what you could trust. You’re just now more aware of that choice.”

She glanced down at the ring again, then pocketed it. “So, we trust what matters to us?”

“Until you find something better,” I said. “Or until you’re forced to rebuild it from scratch.”

Dave let out a low whistle. “Well. Now I’m existential and cold.”

The tension eased slightly, not gone but softer. Enough for us to move again.

The trail wound back beneath our feet, crushed leaves and broken twigs marking the path we’d carved. On the breeze ahead, music and laughter drifted in faint waves—echoes of a town still celebrating, unaware of the horrors at their door.

The closer we got, the more lights flickered between the trees. Not overhead—low ones. Flashlights. Patrol beams. A few squad car bars rolling slowly through the lower parking trails. Cops, search volunteers, maybe rangers.

We stopped just inside the last thicket before the open field.

“We’re going to skirt them,” I said quietly. “Dave, stay low. Stick to my pace. Maddie…”

“I’ve got it,” she said. Shadows stretched where they shouldn’t have, not forced but coaxed, cool and quiet as they wrapped around us like a second skin. The reflective light around us was dimming—not fading, not switching off, just softening.

Lights along the trail ahead flickered slightly—not enough to raise alarms, just enough to let us pass unseen between their reach. The quick power of the awakened on full display. It’s only been a couple of weeks and already she’s showing this much control.

I motioned, and we moved. Silent steps, half-shadowed. Around a slow patrol car. Past two officers chatting near the path entrance. Through the edge of the vendor field where the cleanup had begun, and no one was looking our way. Groups scattered the area—each one gossiping about the night's events.

“—They’re saying it was a wild animal—maybe a bear that got into the food stands—”

“—No way that was a bear. They said it stood on two legs—”

“—You think it was a person in a costume? Like some psycho trying to scare kids—”

“—Sheriff’s been quiet, but my cousin said one of the boys is still missing—”

“—I heard screaming. Real screaming. Whatever happened, it wasn’t normal—”

Dave muttered, “You know, I always thought sneaking was about not stepping on twigs. You make it look like an art form.”

“Keep your shoulders relaxed, center your weight on the balls of your feet, and stop holding your breath,” I murmured.

“I'm not—” He exhaled audibly. “Okay. I was.”

Maddie’s expression stayed neutral, but I caught the corner of her mouth twitch slightly. Just once. We reached the far edge of the square with no incident. From here, we’d blend back in. Just three teens who’d wandered too far from the booths and returned without drama. No one would ask questions tonight.

But the clock had started ticking.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Tabbetha Barrington

Mornings were supposed to be mine.

Coffee brewed precisely on the second beep of the percolator, cream frothed by hand, not machine, and the day’s paper folded crisply beside the salt-shaker owl no one but me had ever dared call charming. But no, not this morning. This morning, chaos had decided to test my patience.

I barely reached the top of the stairs when Marisol’s voice carried up from the entryway, shrill and unfiltered. “Something happened in the park last night!”

Marisol, sweet thing that she was, stood wringing her hands near the counter, dark hair pulled into that tight little braid she always wore. Always so polite, so careful not to offend. I’d hired her years ago—gave her something steady when others might have overlooked her. Immigrants like her needed structure, and I provided that. Gave her a life, really.

I stopped cold, one hand on the banister. “Did it burn down?”

“What? No—”

“Then it can wait until I’ve had my coffee.”

Of course, it didn’t wait. Marisol stood beside the kitchen radio like she was expecting national coverage. Her cardigan sleeves were pulled down past her palms, which always meant she thought something exciting or tragic was unfolding—often both.

I took my seat, placed my cup in its designated saucer divot, and gave her the slowest blink I could manage without rolling my eyes. “Go on, then. What dreadful disruption has the town endured this time? A squirrel loose in the bakery? A haunted port-a-john?”

“There were sirens. All night,” she said, lowering her voice. “People are saying two boys went missing.”

My spoon paused mid-stir. “Missing?”

“And someone else was injured. Maybe attacked. The news said it might’ve been a wild animal.”

I lifted the cup and sipped once. Bitter. The things I suffer for others. “A bear, probably. Looking for funnel cake. Honestly, what sort of incompetent event permits a predator to stroll into a public park?”

Marisol turned up the radio, clearly done with waiting for permission. One sharp word—and another pay cut—would correct the slight.

…“Injuries were reported late last night, and two teens are still missing after the town’s Halloween celebration. Officials responded just before 10 PM but have yet to release further details.”

I reached over and clicked it off myself. “A killer. In my beloved hamlet.”

The phrase settled in my chest like the first curl of cigarette smoke—unpleasant, but thrilling in the way only a disaster could be. Nothing happens in Grayton Creek without my knowing—or without my permission.

“I’ll wager this ties to all that nonsense lately. Hikers going missing. Strangers buying up property. The Sangster boy waking from his coma just in time for the town to fall apart. Miraculous. Convenient.”

Marisol blinked. “Mr. Sangster? He was out last night. Helping search.”

Of course he was. Always pretending to be the town’s great golden engineer. As if laying bricks and building sewers made him noble.

I gave a sharp little laugh. “Henry Sangster doesn’t so much help as make sure everyone sees him standing around doing it. He probably held a flashlight and looked concerned while his son did Lord knows what in the woods.”

Kyle. That boy.

He stared at me, the last time we met. Not with awe. Not with respect. With… scrutiny.

As if I were the one who didn’t belong.

Something’s wrong with him. Shouldn’t have woken up from that coma. Not properly. Not clean. People don’t just return from the edge of death and suddenly have enough money to buy an estate. Not unless they’ve been changed.

Warped. Diseased.

I crossed to the sunroom, phone already in hand. Naturally, I used the landline. The mobile was top-of-the-line—but that was for show. Real conversations didn’t happen over glass rectangles. Not when decorum still mattered. I knew exactly who to call—he owed me. Plural.

The morning sun spilled across the polished wood floors, glinting off the brass trim of the windows I had installed at twice the cost for half the necessity. Style mattered. People respected polish. And I was nothing, if not respectable.

“Mayor Givens, please,” I said when the city line picked up. “Tell him it’s Barrington.”

A short hold. A longer sigh. He should fire that troglodyte. And then—

“Tabbetha, it’s barely nine. Is this about the Halloween incident?”

“Of course it is,” I said sweetly. “I’m simply concerned, Daniel. About public safety. Two boys are missing, there’s damage to park property, and no one seems to know how it all unfolded. It’s just… chaos. And we both know what chaos invites.”

There was a pause on his end. “The sheriff is handling it.”

“Yes, but we can’t have just anyone using this incident to skirt oversight. We’ve already seen suspicious development activity near the creek. Permit approvals sliding through faster than usual. You must have noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said flatly.

I leaned against the window frame, eyes narrowing toward the edge of town. The Sangster estate lay somewhere beyond the hills, out of view—but not out of mind. I could feel its presence like a stain spreading just past the treeline. “All I’m asking is that we pause any further progress on those approvals until this situation is clarified. Just until we understand who was involved… and why.”

“You’re talking about the Sangster property.”

“I’m talking about prudence,” I replied. “Henry and his son have made quite the show of acquiring that land. It would be a shame if any of that enthusiasm proved… premature.”

He made another noncommittal noise. That was good. It meant he was listening. Not agreeing. But listening.

After I hung up, I sat back and let the glow of satisfaction curl through my spine. A delay wasn’t the same as a victory, but it was friction. And friction slowed things down.

Let them squirm.

Let Henry explain why he and that boy were skulking around the woods at night. Let him justify their new wealth, their fast-tracked approvals, their suspicious good fortune.

As for the boy himself…

I had seen the look in Kyle’s eyes. Cold. Measured. Wrong. No seventeen-year-old looked at me that way. Not unless something inside them had rotted. He shouldn’t have woken up from that coma. Or maybe he hadn’t—maybe something darker woke up in his place. Something without a soul.

He came back empty. Broken. Festering.

Whatever wore his skin, it didn’t belong here. And I would see it removed.

For the good of Grayton Creek.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Countdown

Sleep wasn’t hard to come by. Short, but clean. My mind was used to it—years of early training and unpredictable nights forged a rhythm I didn’t break, even after arriving back home.

Just after six I woke up, not with an alarm, but through ingrained habit. Muscles already starting to move before my mind fully returned. A roll of the neck. A stretch. My right shoulder clicked faintly—residual tension from the sprint and scramble the night before.

Sitting up, I let the moment settle. The room was dim, but not dark. Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and low. From the smell, coffee was already going. Mom’s way of anchoring the day.

The house was still. Comfortably so. No monsters. No alarms. Just creaking boards and the murmur of morning life starting to stretch. Standing, I dressed—quietly, methodically. Black cargo pants, a dark green long-sleeve shirt. Boots, worn-in and scrapped cleaned before bed. Nothing flashy. Just practical.

A thought opened the system overlay in the corner of my vision.

[Clear F-Ranked Dungeon]

[Bonus: Save Natives]

[Time Remaining: 64:04:17]

Noting the remaining time, I dismissed it with a blink.

The kitchen was warm and familiar. Sunlight spilled through the window over the sink, lighting the tile with gold and shadow. Bacon sizzled in the pan. Dad’s half-read paper sat beside his phone, and Mom was already moving with casual precision—coffee in hand, her favorite cardigan pulled tight, hair up in a quick twist that still managed to look elegant.

“Morning,” I said as I stepped in.

Both looked up. Not startled, just attentive.

“Good morning,” Mom said, passing me a fresh mug, along with a quick peck on the cheek.

“Good morning,” I returned.

Dad folded the paper and set it aside. “No news on the missing boys.” He looked tired, but then he also spent most of the night helping search the woods with other volunteers. “Nothing official, anyway.”

Nodding, I asked. “How unsettled is the Town?”

“Half of them think it was a bear,” Mom said. “Other half’s jumping straight to cults and psychos. You know how Halloween makes people.”

“They’re not completely wrong,” Dad muttered. “Either way, I don’t like the energy out there.”

I caught the shape under his jacket—his concealed holster. He wasn’t usually that direct unless something really had him on edge. Mom had swapped out her usual bag for the one she used when carrying, too. Quiet precautions.

Neither of them said anything about it directly. They didn’t have to.

“Don’t go out alone today,” Mom added, more gently than it sounded. “Stick with Morgan or Dave.”

I nodded. “I was already planning to.”

Dad turned and opened the drawer near the pantry, rummaging for a second before he pulled out a large matte black canister with its intended victim plastered on the side and handed it to me.

“Bear mace,” he said. “Just in case. Don’t leave the house without it.”

Without arguing, I slipped it into my largest side pocket.

Breakfast was simple—bacon, eggs, fresh toast with blackberry jam. The kind of meal that came together in minutes when two people truly knew each other. Loved each other.

Mom hummed softly as she moved between the stove and counter, swatting Dad’s hand away when he tried to sneak an extra slice of bacon. He grinned, stole one anyway, and she rolled her eyes like she hadn’t seen it coming.

Smiling, I kept my thoughts to myself. Just ate, listened, and let their dance play out. The smell of food, the soft clatter of dishes, their back-and-forth—the same joke heard a million times, but we laughed anyway.

“How’s the estate?” I asked, halfway through my second slice of toast.

He paused—not surprised, just weighing the answer. “Another hold notice came through this morning. A local historical zoning review.”

“That’s a new one,” Mom said with a faint scoff. “Didn’t we already hear about a state historical landmark?”

“Yep.” Dad sipped his coffee, frowning. “First, it was the utility access delay. Then the easement claim. Now this.”

“Tabbetha’s not even subtle,” Mom added.

“She doesn’t have to be,” he said. “It’s death by delay. Barrington thinks if she stalls long enough, we’ll trip or bleed capital. Or both.”

“She’s not going to stop,” Mom said. “You know that.”

My voice stayed steady as I weighed in. “She will misstep. People like her always do. Until then, she’s an inconvenience at best.” If they knew what I did, then they would see her the same—Barrington was little more than an ant climbing a white wall. You notice the small, insignificant bug, but it’s hardly worth the effort of squishing it.

Mom looked at me across the table, the edge of a frown ghosting her face. “We just don’t want you pulled into her mess. That estate was supposed to be a future—not a fight.”

“It still is,” I said. “She’s just not invited to it.”

There was a long pause, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Then Mom reached out and rested her hand lightly over mine.

“You’re a good son, Kyle.”

“And you’re an amazing mom.” I held her gaze for just long enough to let her see that I meant it.

After we cleared the table, I excused myself and climbed back upstairs. The house was quiet again. Dad’s boots echoed briefly on the back porch before fading down the gravel path toward the garage. The rest of the world was starting to move.

In my room, the desk in the corner was small and unremarkable. Two plain envelopes sat beneath the monitor. One marked “D,” the other “M.”

I picked up the envelope marked “D” and tapped it twice against the edge of the desk. Paperwork, card, title—everything Marissa helped set up was inside. Not ceremonial. Not symbolic. Just structure.

The contract was simple: field advisor, short-term. Enough legalese to satisfy scrutiny, but flexible enough to cover gear purchases, travel, and anything else that didn’t have an obvious box yet. Dave wouldn’t care about the specifics, but I did. It wasn’t about money—it was about responsibility. The more organized we were now, the fewer problems we’d have later.

The second envelope—Maddie’s—was identical, right down to the typeface.

I placed both into a padded folder, then checked my phone. One unread message from Morgan:

“You need wheels today, boss?”

I replied: “Not yet. Probably this afternoon.”

After that, I texted Dave.

“You free this morning? Need to meet. Bring Maddie if you can.”

He answered in under thirty seconds.

“We’re good, library or your place?”

“My place. Side door.”

A few minutes later, I heard the soft crunch of tires in the driveway.

Dave entered first, Maddie close behind. She had a knit cap pulled low and her usual practical layers—jacket, boots, dark jeans. Dave looked like he’d already been up a few hours, hoodie under his flannel and his hair still damp from a recent shower.

We exchanged nods. Maddie offered a small smile. She’d always been observant, but since the woods, there was more in her eyes—like something had snapped into focus.

“Coffee?” I asked.

Dave raised a hand. “Already had two.”

Maddie hesitated, then shook her head. “I’m good.”

I motioned to the chairs I’d pulled from the dining nook—only two could fit without blocking the desk entirely. They sat, and I dropped the folder between them.

Dave opened it first. “What’s this?”

“Your official paperwork,” I said. “Both of you are Creekstone field advisors. You’re on payroll now—temporary titles, real spending accounts.”

He pulled out the card and turned it over slowly. “This is for buying stuff?”

“Exactly. Military gear, protective equipment, weapons, whatever you need. If you’re going in tomorrow night, you need to be outfitted like it matters. Fifty-thousand-dollar limit each, but don’t blow through it.”

Dave flipped the card over again and stared at it like it might explode. “So, just to be clear… we’re now employees of your fake real estate company?”

“It’s not fake,” I said. “Creekstone Holdings is registered with the state. Filed legally. Operational accounts. Tax ID. You’ve met Morgan. He’s employed by Creekstone.”

“Okay, but this card?” He held it up like it might bite. “This is real money? Fifty grand?”

“Not a gift, well, not exactly,” I said. “You’re authorized to purchase gear as field advisors. Anything that fits our mission profile. Clothing. Weapons. Tools. Survival kits. You name it. You can also use it for fuel, meals, that sort of thing.”

“Wait, wait—advisors?” Maddie opened her envelope, brows raised. “You hired us?”

“I deputized you,” I corrected. “In the business, sense. Technically, you’re consultants under an open-ended exploratory project clause. It’s a flexible title. Doesn’t tie you to anything long-term, but it covers liability. We wouldn’t need so much paperwork if you were both over eighteen.”

Dave stared. “You’re not even old enough to rent a car, and you’re handing out corporate black cards.”

“Silver,” I said. “And they cap at fifty. Not infinite.”

Maddie smirked. “He’s not denying the rest.”

“He’s not,” Dave agreed. “Which is somehow worse.”

I sat back. “Would you rather a signed permission slip and a backpack full of expired MREs?”

Dave held up both hands. “Nope. This is great. Very official. Definitely doesn’t feel like we’re committing federal crimes.”

“You’re not,” I said. “The legal structure’s been triple-checked. Everything we do today is covered under disaster mitigation preparedness and high-risk environmental logistics.”

Maddie raised an eyebrow. “You made that up just now.”

“I didn’t,” I said. Then grinning, “but if I had, it would’ve still worked.”

Dave let out a low whistle and looked at Maddie. “Guess we’re really doing this.”

Maddie hadn’t touched her envelope yet. “You’re sure this is safe? On paper, I mean.”

“It’s legal. Truman oversaw the filings himself. If anyone asks, you’re supporting real estate operations—surveying, hazard mitigation. Vague enough to cover the rest. Besides, Tennessee is a right-to-work state and fairly laid back with regards to business. Technically, as long as I pay the proper taxes, I could pay you a million dollars to stare at goats.”

She finally reached for the envelope and nodded. “Okay.”

Dave shifted forward in his chair. “Not to bring the mood down, but what about Ty? Do we know if he’s still—?”

“He’s alive,” I said firmly. “The system doesn’t give you a rescue window if the objective’s already failed.” Neither of them spoke, but I saw the relief ease slightly in their posture. “That said… he’s probably not just waiting around. Dungeon mechanics don’t usually leave people untouched. He could be restrained, isolated, even—”

“Tortured?” Maddie asked, voice low.

I nodded once. “Possibly. But not killed. The timer’s still ticking, and I haven’t seen a quest fail before the limit unless someone triggered a fail state. That hasn’t happened.”

Dave leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “So we have time.”

“Just over sixty hours. Which is why we’re going in tomorrow—not sooner. I want a full day of prep. Physical. Logistical. Mental. Take today to buy gear, talk to family, get your head right—do it. Because once we enter that dungeon, there’s no pause button.”

“I’m not sure where to begin on gearing up for a dungeon.” Maddie’s statement was expected, as was Dave’s reply.

“I’ll help you. We can head into Chattanooga. There’s a great surplus store there that will have everything you need. Kyle and I already have what they won’t sell to a couple of teenagers.”

Maddie nodded slowly, then turned to me. “Do we know what we’re walking into?”

“No,” I said. “But we’ll be ready for whatever it is.”

We finalized our plans over the next hour. Maddie was hesitant because she wasn’t dumb. Dave was… eager. Not because he was dumb, but because he was my best friend. Grabbing my phone, I called Morgan.

He picked up on the second ring. “When and where?” Straight to the Point. Oh, how I liked this guy. If only I could hire a squad of him.

“The storage unit. I need both bags. Any time before three.” I replied.

“Affirmative.” With a click, he was gone. Did I say squad? I meant a platoon.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Dave

My Jeep wasn't much to look at—faded green, cracked dash, a persistent rattle in the passenger door I still hadn’t fixed—but it ran, and the heater mostly worked. That counted for something.

Maddie sat beside me, her seat leaned back just a little, gloved hands tucked into the sleeves of a fitted wool swing coat—charcoal gray with double buttons and a high collar that suited her whole retro-with-an-edge thing. Her hair was tucked up beneath a scarf that matched. As usual, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a different decade.

“You know this isn’t a photo op, right?” I said.

She looked over, amused. “You say that like I can’t multitask.”

“You ever get camo face paint on vintage wool?”

“No, but I did get barbecue sauce on silk once. It was a moral defeat.”

I snorted. “Moral defeat’s what happened when you wore silk on the field trip to that dairy farm.”

“I was twelve. And fancy.”

We hit a bend in the road, and I downshifted out of habit. The wind picked up slightly, tapping along the edges of the windshield.

“You know,” Maddie said after a moment, “this is the most normal thing I’ve done in… weeks.”

“Normal people don’t load up on tactical armor for a dungeon run.”

“I meant driving. Stores. People pretending the world hasn’t changed.”

I glanced over. “You want them to notice?”

“No,” she said. “I’m hoping this is the only one.”

We let that settle for a minute. The highway signs for Chattanooga crept into view.

I tapped the steering wheel. “You ever even been in a surplus store before?”

“Only for buttons and scrap fabric. I once found a bin of real brass zippers next to a discount bayonet. It was a weird day.”

“That’s… actually on-brand for you.”

She smirked. “Thanks. I think.” Pausing, she asked, “How do you and Kyle know so much about all this military stuff?”

Chuckling, I answered, “We’re teenage boys. We learned the same place as we all do; video games.”

“Right, that was a dumb question… well, here’s another. You sure this place has everything?” she asked, finally.

“Surplus Supercenter? If it was ever worn by someone with a badge or a patch, it’s probably on a rack there. Might even find a tank if you know who to ask.”

She smirked, looking out the window. “That supposed to reassure me?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “But if we’re going to face goblins and dungeon weirdness, I figured starting with body armor and emergency rations made more sense than crossbows and optimism.”

“Fair.”

The road opened up ahead, rolling hills giving way to the outskirts of Chattanooga. Traffic thickened. So did the billboards—one for a gun show, a couple of grinning lawyers offering “guaranteed results,” and a half-faded ad for a weekend flea market with free popcorn and axe throwing.

“Kind of wish this could’ve been a ‘click and deliver’ situation,” Maddie said, eyeing the road ahead.

“Even same day Amazon doesn’t ship fast enough,” I replied. “And Kyle wants us loaded by tomorrow night. Also, some of the best gear doesn’t exist on any website.”

“Like black market cloaking fields and enchanted gauntlets?”

“Exactly. But until then, Kevlar and modular plate carriers.”

She gave a soft snort. “So mundane.”

“Welcome to modern prepping.”

We pulled off the main drag near the old warehouse district, where the surplus place shared a lot with a strip of tactical outfitters, feed supply, and a pawnshop that somehow always had a different “Going Out of Business” banner every time I came here.

The main parking lot was a mess—every space taken, cars circling like vultures. I turned off into a side street and found a spot two blocks down under a leaf-choked oak tree across from one of those trendy themed bars for thirty-somethings, still wanting to be twenty-somethings.

“This good?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t mind the walk.

Maddie nodded while unbuckling. “You think anyone else is prepping for a dungeon?”

“I hope not. Makes us look cool if we’re the only ones.”

A block’s walk later, with cold wind nipping at our coats and the hum of traffic fading behind us, we reached the surplus store’s front steps. The bell over the door let out a flat, metallic chime as we stepped inside.

Warm air hit us first—thick with the smell of old canvas, machine oil, and a hundred boots that had seen things. The place was bigger than it looked from the outside. Aisles ran long under buzzing fluorescent lights, stacked high with everything from vintage flak jackets to brand-new trauma kits.

“This place is ridiculous,” Maddie said, eyes flicking across rows of ballistic vests, gas masks, and tactical belts.

“In the best way,” I replied. “Like a doomsday mall.”

A bearded guy at the front counter gave us a polite nod but didn’t say anything. I recognized him from previous trips—one of the owners, if I recalled.

Maddie drifted toward the clip on accessories. I headed toward the tactical med gear, automatically scanning for contents, expiration dates, and build quality. Trauma kits, field dressings, compression gauze—more than half of it was overpriced garbage or missing components, but I knew what to look for. Some part of me relaxed in that aisle. This was something I understood.

“Let me guess,” Maddie said, appearing behind me with two water canteens, a small clip-on utility pouch, and a shopping cart. “You’ve got, like, three trauma kits.”

“Four. And two of them are decent.”

She didn’t roll her eyes, but it was close. “You’re building a field hospital in your backpack, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea.” I muttered before stating, “Come on, we need armor.”

Maddie instinctively drifted toward the more streamlined plate carriers, checking tags, comparing weight. Finally, she held up a vest, her brow furrowed. “This weighs like a toddler.”

“Stops bullets better than toddlers do,” I said.

She gave me a flat look. “Charming.”

Eventually, we found one that fit her snug but not bulky—a modular vest with internal plate pockets and MOLLE loops across the front. She adjusted it twice before tugging the side straps with mild frustration.

“They really don’t make these for girls,” she muttered. “Do they even manufacture C-cup flak jackets?”

I shrugged, watching her test the fit again. Her chest rising with each breath, armor still riding wrong against her frame. “Most of this stuff’s sized for average infantry. Which means average guy. No curves, no complaints.”

She glanced at me, half-smirking. “You noticed, huh?”

“You’ve got armor gaps. It’s a tactical concern,” I said evenly.

That made her blink. Then laugh. “You didn’t even blink. Most guys get awkward.”

“I’m going into medicine. If a nice pair of tits was all it took to throw me off, I wouldn’t survive a semester.”

“So they’re nice?”

I didn’t flinch. “Statistically above average. Structurally relevant. Mission impact: moderate.”

Her laugh came easier this time, shaking her head with a large smile. “Kristen doesn’t know what she’s in for. A guy immune to boobs.”

“Yeah, but not immune to her.” I playfully winked.

We moved on to gloves, boots, and padded layers. I grabbed a compression undershirt reinforced with kevlar threading—not full armor, but better than nothing. It would go well with my armor. Maddie found a sleek side-sling med pack and clipped it to her vest like she knew exactly where it belonged.

“Pretty sure you were born to accessorize,” I said.

“I’d prefer not to bleed out. Fashion’s just a bonus.”

We loaded up on rations next—modern MREs, vacuum-sealed protein packs, water purification tablets, collapsible flasks. The kind of stuff you pray you never have to use but regret not having when you do. At one point, Maddie stopped to study a display full of combat knives.

Pointing to one, our monosyllabic attendant pulled it out, handing it to her by the hilt.

I paused beside her. “Thinking of switching up your loadout?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just held one in her hand, balanced the weight, then set it back down.

“I don’t like blades,” she said quietly. “Too close.”

Fair point. I picked out two of the larger folding knives. One for me. One for her, in case she changed her mind later. Then grabbed two more in case those were lost or broken somehow. It’s so easy to spend your best friend’s money.

Maddie picked up a slim, collapsible shovel, studied it, then put it back.

“Looks useful, but also like it would snap if I sneezed near it,” she muttered.

“Good instincts.” I replied, meaning it.

She found a lightweight poncho with a reflective inner lining and clipped it to her bag. I noticed her pausing more often now—picking things not for fashion, but function. Quiet shift. She was adapting.

When we checked out, our pile looked more like a low-tier militia drop than a shopping trip. The guy behind the counter raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask questions. He rang everything up, scanned the cards, and handed us two plain bags with enough weight to make them feel like more than just supplies.

We stepped back into the cold and started the walk toward the Jeep, both of us carrying bags filled with proof that life had changed. The bags were heavier than they looked, mostly because modern armor doesn’t pack well and MREs might as well be bricks. Neither of us complained.

We cut down a side street, weaving past a couple of tourists taking selfies in front of a whiskey-themed mural. Traffic was slow, the sidewalks packed. A street vendor was arguing with someone about the price of roasted pecans while music drifted from a Bluetooth speaker someone had wedged into a planter.

The Jeep was a block away, parked beneath the same half-bare tree. We were maybe fifty feet out when a voice sliced through the noise behind us.

“Yo—hold up.”

I turned just enough to catch the motion—two guys stepping fast out of the crowd. One moved toward me, hand low and casual. The other curved wide, lining up with Maddie like they were syncing without speaking.

Then both lunged.

The one reaching for my bag moved quick, fingers closing around the strap—and then he was airborne. Instinctively, I’d pulled the bag away with my full strength. He hit the pavement with a grunt and rolled into the gutter, wheezing.

Maddie’s guy grabbed for hers and actually got a hand on it—until she twisted on instinct and shoved him back with both hands. There was no form, no finesse—just panic and power. He stumbled like he’d been thrown by a much larger person and slammed into a mailbox. The metal rang. He dropped to one knee, swearing as he clutched his side.

Maddie froze, eyes wide, looking at her own hands like they’d betrayed her.

“You okay?” I asked, stepping between them.

She nodded once, still catching her breath. “I didn’t think he’d go down like that.”

“You’re stronger now,” I said. “It will take a while to get used to.”

We stood there for a second, both of us holding our bags, breathing steady.

A couple of tourists on the sidewalk had stopped to stare. One of the women had pulled out a phone to try to record. None of them tried to help.

“Seriously?” Maddie muttered.

Adjusting my grip on the bag, I nodded toward the Jeep. “Come on. Let’s go before someone gets us on camera.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Donald Holden

I’ve signed a lot of NDAs in my career. Startup exits. Military contractor portfolios. One particularly nasty biotech client who swore their algae-based protein powder was going to “end food scarcity.” But this one?

This one felt different.

The language wasn’t just airtight—it was armored. Layered indemnifications. Absolute non-disclosures. Clauses that didn’t just prevent me from sharing what I saw, but what I inferred. Even the signature block came through a nested proxy—“Creekstone Holdings,” backed by a generational trust I couldn’t trace past a number in the Cayman Islands.

I’d barely stepped into the leased executive suite when Truman greeted me and handed over the file.

“You’re going to want to read that closely,” he said, his tone even. “If you have any questions, ask them before you sign. Afterward…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. I skimmed the first three pages, then slowed down. Halfway through, I leaned against the edge of the oak conference table and let the implications settle in.

Who in the hell needs this level of protection?

The financials I’d reviewed in the prelim file were impressive—more than seventeen million liquid, all cleanly earned. No crypto nonsense, no weird overleveraging, no sudden influx from some unnamed backer. Just… smart, consistent growth in an incredibly short amount of time. Nearly all of it real estate, with a few private acquisitions held inside nested LLCs. That alone would’ve been enough to interest me.

But this?

This NDA read like I was about to consult for the CIA’s favorite hedge fund.

I signed anyway.

Because if Truman Kincaid vouched for someone—anyone—I paid attention. The man was old-world finance with new-world ethics. Quiet and controlled. The kind of person who didn’t waste time or oxygen.

When he called me, it wasn’t to float some rich brat’s trust portfolio.

He said, “There’s a client you need to meet. Bring your best ideas. And your best manners.”

I passed the file back. Truman nodded and tapped a small button under the edge of the wall panel. The door behind me unlocked with a soft click.

“He’ll be with you shortly,” he said.

The door opened with the softest click.

I stood automatically, half-expecting Truman’s return, maybe with a senior partner or client liaison.

Instead, in walked a teenager.

He didn’t rush or hesitate—just moved with a quiet confidence that didn’t match his age. Without a word, he crossed the room, took the seat across from me, and nodded like I was the one being interviewed.

Dark slacks. A gray button-up. Boots more at home on a construction site than in a conference room. No watch. No phone. No laptop. His eyes made a single sweep of the space—quick, methodical—then landed on me.

“Mr. Holden,” he said, calm as a still lake. “I appreciate you making the time. I’m Kyle Sangster.”

Taking my seat again, I adjusted to my potential client’s appearance slower than I meant to.

“Of course,” I said. “Always happy to meet someone Truman considers worth the call.”

That earned the barest flicker of a smile. Barely there, but enough.

I studied him a second longer than I should have. He said his name was Kyle Sangster. I didn’t recognize it—which made the next realization harder to swallow. This kid… was the one behind Creekstone. And yet Creekstone Holdings was one of the fastest-growing private portfolios I’d ever seen.

Stay professional, Donald. He’s still a client. “Congratulations,” I said. “You’ve had quite the start.”

He nodded once. “We’ve moved quickly.”

That was… one way to put it.

Creekstone Holdings had been registered just under five weeks ago. In that time, it had acquired dozens of parcels of land outright and entered private bids on four rather substantial properties. Each location was—in real estate terms—unremarkable. Undervalued. Some of them outright forgotten. One of them had been tax-defaulted for three years.

And every single one turned out to sit atop high-yield natural deposits—silver, copper, lithium, fossil fuel pockets—without a single known geological survey filed beforehand. That was the part that kept me up.

Land barons simply bought cheap, sold high. Corporate speculators followed patterns. But this? This didn’t have the usual signs of luck or insider information. This was precision on a level never seen.

“You’ve got a hell of a sense for timing,” I said casually. “Some of those parcels were days away from hitting public auction. You could have gotten them cheaper.”

“I don’t like auctions,” he replied.

I kept my expression neutral, but internally I filed that away. The tone he used wasn’t smug. It was factual. And in keeping with someone that didn’t want to be seen.

“And how are you identifying these targets?” I asked.

He tilted his head slightly. “I prefer to keep the methodology proprietary for now. But I assure you the results are sustainable.”

It was the kind of answer you expected from someone twice his age with a full PR team behind him. And somehow, it didn’t feel rehearsed. Truman had warned me this meeting would be different. He hadn’t said why. I opened my binder and laid out the first page of my proposal.

“Based on the growth you’ve seen in the past month, I’ve assembled a diversification map that includes low-visibility international placements, sustainable resource funds, and non-standard asset groups—things that grow slowly but quietly. The kind that don’t show up on Forbes radars.”

Kyle scanned the first column, then the second. He wasn’t skimming—he was reading.

He tapped a finger on one line halfway down. “Too many hands on that fund. Public disclosure triggers after a threshold investment.”

I blinked. He was right. It was buried in the fourth clause of the fine print, a detail most advisors overlooked unless a client was ultra-sensitive to exposure.

“I can substitute a comparable option with more flexible privacy protection,” I said.

He nodded.

I flipped to page two.

“This group operates under long-term infrastructure planning—telecom redundancy, smart grid logistics, even water control. They’re clean, consistent, and not sexy enough to attract regulation.”

He studied that page longer. “Would that open up any dependencies on government supply contracts?”

“Minimal. Most of their revenue is private industrial and municipal backup systems. But I can get hard numbers.”

“Do.”

We kept going.

By the thirty-minute mark, I’d gone from presenting to collaborating. Every slide was met with exacting scrutiny—sometimes a simple nod, sometimes a short, sharp question that forced me to justify my models out loud.

He didn’t pretend to know what he didn’t know. But when he did speak? He was incisive.

“Let’s assume I need to move fifteen million,” he said near the end, folding his hands. “Not now—but fast, if required. Can you keep it mobile without triggering attention?”

“I can make that happen.”

“Discreetly. No red flags. No overlapping identifiers. And never once skirting the law?”

“I’d recommend offshore nests. Low-traffic shells with matching operational cover. It’s what I do for large-volume transitions. Everything is legal.” That was a first. Most wanted to skirt the law as much as possible.

Kyle didn’t smile, but something in him eased—just a fraction.

“I’ll want staging reports,” he said. “Weekly at first. Then biweekly. Truman will forward the secure channel.” Pausing, he added, “I’m interested in an internet company. It could be websites, portal creation, anything with people that know what they're doing and small enough to buy outright. No shared ownership.”

And that was it.

No grand ask. No handshakes. No posturing.

Just a seventeen-year-old who spoke like a silent partner from a sovereign wealth fund. When I stood to leave, he rose too. Same posture. Same calm. He held the door as I passed, like we were leaving a classroom, not a war room.

I didn’t ask who taught him all this.

And I didn’t believe for a second that he would tell me… or that anyone did.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Gear Up

“It's a gladius, built for work, not show. The blade’s CPM S35VN steel, folded Damascus-style, holds a razor edge through blood and bone without dulling. Weighs about two pounds, balanced near the hilt for quick thrusts and cuts. Titanium alloy guard and pommel—light, tough, won’t break under impact. The G10 grip’s textured to stick in your hand, wet or dry. No rust. No fuss. Just a blade that does its job—and keeps doing it. Cryogenic treatment makes the steel hard but not brittle. It’s a tool you can trust when things get messy.” I finished re-sheathing the small sword in its scabbard. The recently purchased work van staying stable despite my movements.

“And this,” I said, hoisting the round shield with my left hand, “shield is all business. Its core is AR500 steel, quarter-inch thick for stopping power against bear claws or 9mm rounds, layered with Kevlar-carbon fiber composite to keep it tough but trim. Total weight clocks in at 5.5 pounds—light enough to wield fast in a scrap, no arm fatigue, but solid enough to hold the line. A thin ceramic coating on the face shrugs off scratches and heat, while titanium edge reinforcements and a central boss take impacts without buckling. The G10 grip, textured like my gladius, locks in your hand, wet or dry. It’s a shield that stops serious threats without slowing you down.”

Dave gave a low whistle. “Man. That’s not gear. That’s a manifesto.”

“Do I need to salute it?” Maddie added, raising an eyebrow. “Or will it pledge allegiance on its own?”

“Laugh all you want,” I said, re-sheathing the gladius. “You’ll be glad I have it if something lunges out of the dark with claws and a bad attitude.”

Dave wasn’t laughing. He was staring—not at me, but at the setup. The gladius. The shield. The vest. His eyes swept over the rig, then back to the table where my rifle, bow, and secondary pack were all laid out with precise alignment.

“You ordered all this weeks ago, didn’t you?” he said slowly.

I paused, then nodded. “Right after the first time I got jumped in the woods. Before any of us knew what was going on.”

“And you didn’t tell us because you didn’t want to worry us until you knew something concrete.” He wasn’t asking, he was stating it.

“Yeah, and thank you for not reacting like we’re living in a teen drama.” I replied, meaning it. “You’ve both been handling everything far better than I did when I was first thrust into all this.”

Putting her hand on my shoulder, Maddie corrected me. “To be fair, we get to go home, have a normal life for the most part. You were ripped from everything and everyone you knew and loved. I would have lost my mind.”

“Thank you.” I said.

Picking up one of my custom rig belts, Dave asked. "How much time did it take to find the people who made all of this?"

“A few nights of internet searching. I wasn’t sleeping well,” I said mildly. “Had to do something productive at three a.m.”

Maddie folded her arms. “You know, most people cope with insomnia by journaling or watching documentaries. You planned for tactical engagements.”

“Monsters don’t care about self-care routines. They’re rude like that.”

Dave shook his head. “You really are the most terrifying Boy Scout I’ve ever met.”

I clipped the shield to the custom rig across my back with a satisfying snick and let the weight settle in. Balanced, flush, no rattle. The vest was custom-fit—stitched tight to my frame with reinforced shoulder straps and a locking spine track that let me draw or stow the shield mid-movement. I'd tested the setup in drills. It didn’t just work. It flowed.

My gladius rode comfortably at my left side in a low-slung scabbard. Close enough to draw on instinct, far enough not to clip my thigh when I moved fast. Rifle cradled across my arms, bolt-action smooth, chamber empty for now. Tight quarters were coming. Everything on me had to serve more than one purpose, or it wasn’t coming along.

Across from me, Dave did a final check of his own gear, methodical but calm. Same deer rifle as mine, freshly cleaned. His collapsible batons were sheathed on his hips, silent and snug. The armor he’d picked up in Chattanooga yesterday fit better than I expected—worn-in just enough to let him move like he meant it. His backpack rig carrying his bow and at least a dozen arrows.

Maddie stood beside him, slipping into her armor one strap at a time with a faint grimace. The vest fit—barely—but she had to wrestle it a bit around her chest to make it settle. She adjusted the side pulls, gave the sternum buckle a hard tug, then exhaled like she’d just finished threading herself into a corset.

“Two sports bras,” she muttered, not quite under her breath. “New world, same design flaws.”

Dave looked like he was about to say something, but thought better of it. Probably wise.

“I can have something custom-made if you want,” I said. “Or you can use the card.”

She gave me a look—part appreciation, part resignation. “I’ll survive for now. But I swear, the moment someone starts selling combat gear for women who actually have a ribcage, I’m buying them out.”

“Noted.” I replied. “They do make them for women. They’re just not as common.”

Dave reached into his side pouch and pulled out two large folding knives. They appeared to be clean, solid, well-balanced. He offered them without fanfare. “Just in case something gets too close before you can nuke it.”

Maddie took them slowly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she turned one over in her hand. The blade snapped open with a flick—quiet and sharp. She held it for a second longer than necessary, then closed it with a soft click and clipped it to her belt. The second joined it on the opposite side.

“It’s weird, I know,” she said quietly. “They somehow feel… final. More real than using shadows and light.”

I didn’t argue. She’d use them if she had to. But blades were different. They didn’t just kill from a distance—they made it personal. You felt the resistance. Saw the blood. It ran when it wasn’t supposed to. It smeared, it stained, and no matter how many times you saw it, part of your brain still screamed that it was wrong. Blood belonged inside. That was the rule. And yet, survival demanded we break it—again and again. To live, something else had to bleed.

We were almost ready.

“Last piece,” I said, pulling a small black case from my bag.

Dave raised an eyebrow. “We getting matching bracelets or something?”

“Better,” I said, and popped the case open.

Three matte-black headsets nestled inside—slim, angular, deceptively light.

“MSA Sordin Supreme Pro-X,” I said. “Top-tier. Active hearing protection, directional microphones, comms capable. Blocks gunfire but amplifies voices and soft sounds. You’ll hear each other without losing your hearing to a rifle in a cave.”

I handed one to each of them.

“Military?” Dave asked, turning his over.

“Special forces-level,” I replied. “They cost me a few thousand, but part of that was getting them here fast.”

Maddie adjusted hers over her scarf and tugged the strap tight. “Comfortable. Surprisingly.”

“They’re built to wear for hours under pressure,” I said. “You’ll forget you’re wearing them. Until you don’t.”

Dave slid his into place, then winced slightly when I flicked my fingers near his ear.

“Loud,” he muttered.

“Sharpens the edge of every small sound,” I said. “Sorry, forgot you two have heightened senses now.”

“No worries.” He nodded. “They’re kind of cool, actually.”

“The volume control is right here,” I said, showing both of them the controls. “That way you don’t go deaf just from talking.”

The air in our small prep space was thick now—not with fear, but with weight. Dave checked his rifle sling again. Maddie adjusted her pack straps and ran her fingers once along the edge of her bow. I pulled up the system overlay with a thought and blinked at the corner of my vision.

[Time Remaining: 30:45:00]

I dismissed it with a blink.

Dave had backed into the closest parking spot to the forest as he could. People were out and about despite the gloomy November day, but unless someone was staring right at us, they probably wouldn’t think twice. A group of hunters—nothing more.

We could have parked further away, walked the extra distance, but if Ty was injured beyond Dave’s ability to heal, we needed to be as close as possible. We exited the back of the van, closing the rear door as quietly as possible, then we stepped into the woods together. In the distance, I could hear the faint sounds of yelling.

Dave tilted his head. “It’s the rescue crews looking for Ty and Terrence. They’ve already combed this area once. Still, might be smart to move fast—just in case.”

Nodding, I adjusted my rifle. “Then let’s not waste time.”

We moved as one, slipping further into the woods. The tree line swallowed us quickly, shadows stretching wider than they should for midafternoon. Even with cloud cover, there was something off about the light—subtle, but noticeable. A haze clung to the edges of branches, like the air hadn’t decided if it wanted to be smoke or fog. Something far different from the VOCs that gave the Smokey mountains their name.

Our boots stayed quiet on the forest floor. Maddie’s movements had become almost soundless—either from instinct or the creeping influence of her magic. Dave kept pace at my right, scanning with the same sharp awareness I’d come to rely on.

I slowed near the first bend in the trail and dropped into a crouch, brushing a hand across the dirt.

No new tracks. Still just the ones I’d seen two nights ago—goblins, maybe half a dozen, spaced tight and staggered. Nothing else. No claw marks. No drag lines. No heavy impressions that would suggest something bigger had come through.

“I’m not seeing anything new,” I said, standing again.

“So, the dungeons got them locked inside?” Maddie said.

“Most likely,” I answered.

We kept walking. Twenty minutes in, the path veered right and cut toward the slope of the ridge. I felt the tension settle in my spine before we even saw the cave mouth.

The cave sat ahead in plain sight, right where it had been last time—jutting from the ridge like a cracked mouth waiting to speak. No brush obscured it. No natural camouflage. Just a dark, jagged opening that somehow felt older than the forest around it.

We’d all been here before. But this time was different. As we approached, the air seemed to thin—not enough to choke, just enough to make you notice. My skin prickled, faint and electric, like walking too close to an invisible fence.

Dave slowed beside me. “It feels weirder than last time, or is that just me?”

“Not just you,” I said. “It’s the dungeon.”

We stopped a few feet from the entrance. Up close, the stone seemed darker—like it had absorbed the night and decided to keep it. The air tasted different too. Cold, dry, with just the faintest tang of metal. I reached out slowly, hand steady, and brushed the edge of the cave’s opening.

It rippled.

Just for a second. Like heat off asphalt, but vertical. Then it was gone.

Maddie blinked. “Was that—?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s cloaked. Or half-phased. Not fully detached from our side.”

Dave leaned in, squinting. “So once we go in…”

“We’re not in Tennessee anymore,” I finished.

He exhaled, then grinned. “Well, at least I can say I went somewhere this weekend.”

Maddie shot him a dry look. “Remind me to smack you with a flashlight if you try to book any vacation packages in here.”

I stepped forward. “Just remember—once we’re through, the rules change. Spatial drift, unstable time, terrain that loops or resets. Stay close, stay sharp.”

They nodded.

I crossed the threshold first. The shimmer touched my skin like ice mist, then vanished. One step later, the forest was gone. They followed without hesitation. And just like that, we were inside.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Dividing by Three

The shimmer passed like a breath of frost. One step, and the forest was gone.

We emerged into night. Not pitch black—but a gloominess born of darkness mixed with decay. The kind that clung to stone and whispered in places where time no longer moved in a straight line. For a second, I didn’t move. None of us did.

The chamber surrounding us was massive, circular, and silent. Cold air rushed over my skin as the entrance sealed behind us, and the full scale of the place came into view. I blinked and triggered True Sight.

The overlay snapped into place, casting the chamber in faint outlines of magic and metadata. Lines traced across the walls like veins beneath skin—flickering scripts that looked old even by Altlandian standards. A tag hovered near the floor.

[High Arcane Structure]

[Origin: Unknown]

[Status: Degraded]

The longer I looked, the more details resolved. Stone braced by ancient reinforcement spells—cracked, unstable. Traces of once-functioning wards embedded in the doorways. The glyphwork wasn’t goblin-made—they’d just defaced what was already here.

Whatever this place had been, it wasn’t meant for creatures like them. I deactivated the overlay with a blink and felt the faint buzz behind my eyes fade. We were in a tower. A massive, arcane one—long-abandoned, half-collapsed, and still faintly bleeding power like a wound that refused to close.

And beyond that—windows.

I turned and walked toward the nearest one. There were six in total, evenly spaced between vertical support columns. They weren’t glassed in—just jagged gaps in the stone, warped by time and temperature. When I looked out, my stomach dipped.

We were high. Towering above the landscape. Higher than any building on Earth. The view stretched for miles across an alien horizon—shifting plateaus, mist-choked valleys, and what might’ve been a distant, floating river of light far off in the lower sky.

Dave stepped up beside me, swallowed loudly, and let out a low breath. “That’s… not Grayton Creek.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not.”

Maddie moved with more hesitation, keeping her back to the wall. Her eyes flicked upward toward the cracked ceiling high above. “This place wasn’t meant to be entered from the top.”

“No,” I repeated. “It wasn’t.”

She ran a hand along the wall. “But we appeared here?”

“Dungeons can be almost anything and start almost anywhere. They still follow their own logic, even if we can’t guess what that may be.” They both responded with a silent nod.

The floor beneath us creaked softly—stone groaning under pressure that didn’t belong to this realm anymore. Goblin graffiti scarred the lower half of the walls—sloppy, erratic marks made of blood and soot, mixed with old sigils they clearly didn’t understand. Bones, mostly animal, were piled near what might’ve once been a meditation altar.

This had been sacred once… an altar, maybe. Now it was just haunted.

Keeping my rifle at the ready, I turned toward the center of the room. A single stone spiral staircase wound downward from a jagged opening in the floor, bordered by rusted remnants of a shattered railing. The steps looked worn but intact.

“Light,” I called, followed by Maddie sending a small floating orb ahead of me. Her control had already grown exponentially. If only it was possible to be an awakened and a leveler.

Peering down the stairwell, the glow of Maddie’s conjured light reflected off the stone walls. Dust motes. Nothing moved.

“Just like practice,” I said quietly. “I’ll lead. Maddie in the middle. Dave rear guard.”

“Copy,” Dave replied. “I’ve got your backs.”

Maddie gave a single nod and followed me to the edge, and we descended. The first two flights were quiet, our boots echoing off cold stone. The deeper we went, the warmer the air became—not pleasant, but heavy, like descending into breathless earth. The second floor was sealed by a fallen slab, so we kept going.

We hit the third. The room opened out wide at the base of the stairs—roughly rectangular, with arched alcoves along each side and a rust-colored stain streaking the floor like something had been dragged across it. I stepped forward slowly, scanning each shadow.

That’s when I heard it.

Clack.

Bone on stone. Subtle. Too steady to be debris.

I raised my rifle and motioned silently. Maddie pressed close to the wall, her fingers pulsing with faint light. Dave moved wide right, his rifle raised.

They came out of the dark together.

Three skeletons—tall, humanoid, but twisted. Their spines were stretched, and parts of their bone structure looked reinforced by black iron spikes hammered directly through joints. One held a jagged blade. Another had what looked like a rusted mining pick. The third carried nothing but its own arms, sharpened down to tapering points.

They didn’t speak. Just attacked.

Our new headsets blocking out the explosive sound as I fired twice—center mass. The shots hit, but the results were underwhelming. The first staggered but didn’t fall. The second’s ribs shattered, but it kept coming. Idiot! I hadn’t been this dumb in years; True Sight.

[Skeleton]

[F-Rank]

[Weaknesses: Head shots]

[Strengths: Resistance to Slashing and Piercing damage]

[Status: Undead]

“Go for their heads!” I shouted.

Maddie unleashed a narrow beam of light that cut across the room, searing straight through one skull. The bones fell apart like brittle glass.

Dave met the second with the full-force of his rifle’s stock—shattering several ribs. It fell back, still slashing upward. He twisted as the skeleton’s bony fingers raked across his chest armor—then, dropping low, he fired his rifle into its head. The impact sent a shower of bone fragments flying.

The last came at me. I shifted left, shouldered my rifle, and fired point-blank through its hip. It staggered. I kicked it hard enough to send it toppling. It clattered to the floor, twitching. Maddie finished it with a shadowbolt—blunt-force impact right to the spine.

Then silence. Just the three of us, breathing. In the corner of my vision, a notification appeared.

[Skeletons Destroyed]
[Experience Gained: 75]

“They’re smarter than I expected,” Maddie said.

“Faster too,” Dave added, glancing down at his bruised knuckles.

Dismissing the notice, I replied, “Movies never do them justice. Skeletons have little weight, and they're hard as bone, pun intended. It makes them tougher than you expect,”

Maddie muttered. “Magic not muscle moves them. I wonder if I could use shadows to create my own.”

“Future necromancer, huh?” Dave scoffed.

Maddie’s face scrunched. “No way, just a thought for potential things to work on.”

“Keep it up. But think bigger. Even though it's not the most efficient, using darkness to animate skeletons is handy for lots of things.” Seeing her about to ask why, I went on, “To animate, your core would have to be strong enough for long-term channeling and your control of darkness so fine that creating a shadow being would be more powerful and useful.”

Maddie tentatively responded, “That… makes sense.”

“Three skeletons down,” Dave said. “Shall we keep going?”

We descended two floors unmolested, the clatter of our boots swallowed by the tower’s unnerving quiet. Cracked murals whispered of forgotten magic, their pigments dulled by time and grime. Mold claimed the walls in spidery veins, creeping over shattered sconces and warped beams. Somewhere behind it all, I could still feel the old purpose of this place—a proud structure built for power and discipline, long since surrendered to decay.

At the base of Floor Six, the doorless arch opened into a room much wider than the one above it. The floor had once been a patterned mosaic—now broken and faded, with vines threading through the seams. What remained of ornate columns lined the edges, some cracked in half and slumped to the side. A few splinters of ruined furniture littered the far end. What might’ve been an elegant reading desk had collapsed beneath a fallen section of ceiling, and mold devoured a once-regal rug stretched across the room’s center.

Slowing my pace, I let my forward step drag just enough to signal a halt.

Dave stopped behind me, his stance solid. Maddie slipped in close, sending out a smaller orb of light ahead of us, hovering just above head height. Two orbs already—go Maddie.

Then came the sound. It started faint, like a soft rattle of dry leaves.

Clack. Clack. Clackclackclack.

Six skeletons emerged from opposite ends of the room—two from behind collapsed columns, another rising from beneath the shredded rug, and the rest stepping out of shadows like they’d been waiting.

I took in their gear fast—rusted but heavier than the ones on Floor Three. One carried a chipped longsword. Another had what looked like a battered wooden shield and short sword. Two had bone axes, fused from femurs and iron. The last two wielded clubs—simple, brutal, and effective. Still F-ranked, but this was more organized. More deliberate.

“Headshots only,” I said under my breath. “Aim careful.”

Dave shifted wide to the right, keeping low. Maddie’s hands were already glowing, her focus narrowed.

The first skeleton charged me—short sword and shield up in a crude imitation of training. It swung high as another followed along with it. I fired once. The shot took its head clean off. Bone and metal clattered to the floor.

The bone-axe pair moved as a team—one angling toward Dave, the other toward Maddie. I tagged Dave with Speed, then ducked behind a ruined pillar to avoid my second attacker. One free shot was all we got.

Dave moved like he’d been unshackled—firing two clean shots before they could close. One skull cracked open like a pumpkin. The other got winged, but kept coming.

“Left side!” I called.

The club wielders closed on Maddie. She held her ground until the last moment, then cast a quick, narrow beam of light right through one of their skulls. It collapsed mid-swing. The other swung low.

Too close.

I cast Slow just in time—the skeleton’s strike turned sluggish. Maddie ducked and rolled, coming up clumsily but with her palm aimed. A bolt of shadow shot across the short distance.

The impact struck the side of its ribs—blunt enough to send the skeleton tumbling. Its skull cracked against the wall. Enough to break the spell animating it.

Three down.

The axe skeleton on Dave forced him to switch positions, pushing him back toward a toppled shelf. It swung in a tight arc. Dave parried with his rifle—not ideal—but he managed to get one arm clear and fire point-blank.

Click. Misfire?

He cursed, falling back as his speed boost allowed him to avoid getting hit. Dropping his rifle, he quickly drew his two batons, extending them while deflecting the axe with his left and coming down on the skeleton’s skull with his right. It dropped like stone, but the baton he used was a bent mess.

The last skeleton—longsword—had been circling. It lunged now, straight at me, blade extended in a thrust. I sidestepped and used up my rifle to further deflect the aged sword. I kicked it back, steadied, and aimed for the skull.

One clean shot right in the forehead.

It stopped moving. Silence returned. I still waited three long seconds before lowering my gun.

[Skeletons Destroyed]
[Experience Gained: 150]

Not the worse gains far from the best. But it was my choice to do things this way. Glancing at my friends, I called out to Dave, “Misfire?”

“I forgot to reload,” Dave answered. “How you doing Maddie?”

“Just fatigue from so much casting.”

She leaned against a half-toppled column, chest heaving. Dave reloaded with smooth, practiced movements, then looked at me. He didn’t need reprimanding he wouldn’t forget again.

“Are you either of you hurt?” She asked.

Dave answered first. “No broken bones. Bruised maybe. That axe hit hard.” Holding up his broken baton, he asked, “This thing can crack brick. What gives?”

“Normally it would be reinforcement magic, but I think it’s scarier than that.” Looking over the piles of formerly animated bones, I continued, “It may take magic weapons or weapons forged from magical metals to do full damage. It’s that way across the spheres.” Shrugging, I added, “We’ll know for certain soon enough.”

Staring over at her kills, Maddie added, “My light spell’s still cutting through fine. Shadowbolts seems like it’s also slowing them.”

“Darkness spells can do that—you’re growing fast.” My mouth betrayed my thoughts before I could stop it. “When this is done, I’ll do my best to teach you both what I can. But at a point, it’s going to be experimenting.”

“But you’re already training us… right?” Dave's question carried concern, not accusation. Accusation would have been entirely fair. While I hadn’t been outright lying to them anyway, I had been keeping an ocean of thoughts to myself. Looking around our surroundings, I made a decision.

“Yeah, I’ve been training you.” Turning to Maddie, I added, “Both of you.”

Maddie raised an eyebrow as she said, “This sounds like a ‘but’ is coming.”

Moving over to stand closer to them, I spoke. “That’s because you're smart and there is one coming. But—I haven’t trained either of you as quickly, efficiently, or as well as I could. While I technically haven’t held either of you back, I sure as hell made sure you aren’t as powerful as you could be.”

There, that one was out in the open.

Dave's face went from went from quizzical to deep thought. Maddie’s went somewhere between surprise and aghast as she asked. “Could you explain why you’d do that to us?” Anger bubbled up next. “I get you’re not the most open of people, but in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never struck me as someone that would put others at risk like this.”

Dave answered her. His heading nudging at me as he spoke. “That’s just it. We don’t know him.” He paused. Most would think it was for effect. But it was Dave thinking before speaking. “We know a sixteen-year-old Dave. This guy is a decade older and lived a life we’re only getting a taste of right now.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse? He should be watching out for minors or something?” Maddie’s heart wasn’t in her words.

“He may be older and certainly far more experienced than I’ve considered until now, but he’s still Kyle.” His eyes bored into mine as he stated more than asked, “It’s the power. Where you were, everyone had it or access to magical equalizers. Here Maddie and me are superpowered and getting more powerful. You weren't sure how it would affect us. Maybe it goes to our head, we start acting superior to everyone else or worse, just go full evil. And like you say, we’re more powerful than you, so who could stop us?”

It was an act of will not smiling. Dave mostly nailed it, showing what I always knew about him; he’s as intuitive as he is intelligent. I kept my reply simple.

“That about sums it up.”

“Okay, I get that. But if you were really worried about us going bad, why risk training us at all? I get you need us to help with the dungeon, but it’s still a risk. Honestly, I’ve kind of kept my own mouth shut about why we don’t get the police involved,” Maddie finished.

“To answer your questions, first the risk was minimal. Second, I’ve spent the past weeks checking out every cop in town. None of them are awakened or a leveler, which means they most likely couldn’t enter the dungeon. Even if they could, they would probably die if they got hit once.”

Shaking her head, she asked, “Minimal? I don’t get it. How can we be a threat worth keeping in check and minimal at the same time? You said Ty was awakening. Did you plan on recruiting him to help you if we went off the rails?”

“You are a minimal threat to me.” I answered.

This time, both of them stared at me hard.

Dave spoke first. “No offense Kyle, but you’ve not just pointed it out yourself, we’ve seen it in training. You're slower, get hurt easier, and didn’t you nearly die from that single Goblin attack?”

“Correct.” Big talker, that’s me.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Maddie asked.

Sighing, I answered, “I haven’t told you about the good years—full of love, safety, and joy. Or the other ones. The kind of hell no book dares describe and no movie gets right. I’m holding back things not fit for repeating, and yes, especially for two teenagers that deserve as normal a life as I can provide given your lives will never be normal again. If you want to quit after this, I won’t blame you. I planned on recommending it.” Making a point to stare at Maddie, I added, “If you don’t want to trust me, that’s your choice. You should also keep in mind I will still keep things from you, but nothing that threatens you in any way. I’ll also keep training you if you want.”

Turning, I strolled toward the stairs, stopping at the first step. Behind me, a quiet exchange took place for all of a minute. Slowly, a light orb passed over my head, floating down the stairs. Dave and Maddie moved up into position, each giving me an affirmative nod. Together, we headed down.

Floor Seven opened into a narrow hallway lined with broken statues. Marble busts shattered at the neck. Cracks spread like veins down their bodies—some headless, others crumbled completely. Time had warped every edge, and the shadows danced strangely as Maddie’s light orb drifted ahead. It was hard to tell if the air was colder or if the memories etched into the walls, just gave the illusion of breath.

No ambush. Just a silence that felt like it was listening.

On the way down to Eight, the dust thickened. The air turned damp, the walls narrowing slightly, almost like we were moving through a gullet instead of a tower. When the next chamber opened, it surprised me—it wasn’t a battle floor. Instead, a forgotten library stretched out on either side of the stair base. Bookshelves mostly collapsed. Pages rotted. But a few tomes still clung to their homes, their bindings swollen with age and moisture.

“Some of these tomes might be salvageable,” Maddie, staying near the orb, spoke pleadingly. “They could be filled with knowledge that could help us.”

“Doubtful. The decay’s too deep.” I returned, my own voice pragmatic.

She kneeled beside a loose page, turning it over carefully. “The writing looks oddly familiar.”

I nodded once. “That’s because you’ve been seeing it peripherally here and there on every floor.”

She looked at the page again, brow furrowed. “Still feels different.”

Maddie gently set the page back down, dusting her fingers. She wasn’t wrong for wanting to comb the library, it just hit bottom of the priority list of saving Ty while also getting everyone out alive. It was also unlikely an F-rank dungeon would have any real loot unguarded.

Dave stayed just behind her, keeping one eye on the stairwell. Good instinct—he wasn’t fully trained, but he was observant. He hadn’t wandered or poked anything. And he stuck close, followed orders, and watched our backs.

With a glance, I gave the library one last sweep. No signs of movement. No obvious catastrophes.

The descent ended in the same eerie stillness as the past eight. No noise or echoes to give warning to what seemed an inevitable attack. Three on floor three, six on floor six, and now we were on floor nine. Logic overruled my feelings as I again kept my mouth shut. History taught me long ago those that survived and thrived did so with the least hand holding. They would learn. I just needed to let them.

Peeking in, the ninth floor chamber stretched wide, built on symmetry—three archways to the left, three to the right, and one massive door ahead instead of stairs. No markings showed, nor any decoration. More importantly, nothing moved. Bone fragments littered the floor, too scattered for a proper fight, too recent to dismiss.

Maddie slowed beside me. “Doesn’t feel right.”

“Because it isn’t,” I said, keeping my voice low. “No damage to the room. No remnants of a struggle. They were placed here.”

Dave shifted slightly, not speaking, not reaching for anything he didn’t need. Just alert. We stepped farther in, and that’s when it happened—three skeletons rose from the bone piles near the leftmost arch.

The first skeleton rushed us, moving faster than bone should. Axe raised, it closed the distance with raw aggression. Dave stepped forward to meet it, absorbing the hit across his rifle’s frame with a grunt, but the impact still shoved him back.

A second skeleton loosed an arrow from the far side of the chamber.

Maddie’s leg jerked mid-step. She stumbled to the floor, breath catching sharp as the shaft buried itself just above the knee. No scream. Just a sharp hiss through clenched teeth as she turned and sent a burst of dark energy toward the bowman.

The third skeleton fired at nearly the same time.

Dave moved to cover her, but the arrow caught him clean in the shoulder. Armor cracked. He twisted with the hit, off-balance but standing. No complaints, no theatrics—just reset his grip and struck back. If he was still a normal human, it would have sent him sprawling.

The melee skeleton tried to recover, but Dave was already there. The stock of his rifle cracking as he crushed through its skull. The bones collapsed in a heap.

Maddie forced herself upright on one leg, her expression pale but focused. Another arrow missed—off-target thanks to her shadowbolt. She countered with another, not waiting for a clean line. The impact struck hard enough to topple the archer and buy a few seconds of space.

My bullet found its mark in its skull. While they needed to learn, that didn’t mean they needed mortal injuries to do it. Maddie recovered enough to use light to decapitate the other archer while I slipped four more rounds into my rifle.

The second wave came without ceremony. No dramatic entrance—just the sound of bones scraping stone and the subtle tension that warned us it wasn’t over.

Six more skeletons rose from the floor with mechanical precision. This time, they moved with something that passed for tactics. Two broke off to either side, longbows in hand—brittle wood strung with sinew, arrows already notched. The other four advanced as a loose formation. Crude armor clung to some. Their weapons ranged from an ancient longsword to a warped spear and a pair of jagged clubs that looked grown rather than forged.

I didn’t speak—just cast Speed directed at Dave. The spell hit home, and he moved, quick and low.

The archers loosed their first volley.

Dave's body tilted, leaned, and flowed between them like water. One arrow grazed his shoulder plate—nothing deep. The second missed wide as he dropped to a crouch and returned fire. Two sharp cracks echoed through the room. One archer’s skull shattered like glass, the body falling in an awkward heap of bone and tendon. The other flinched just enough to send its next shot wild.

The melee skeletons charged.

“Slow,” I whispered, targeting the spear-wielder leading the rush. Its momentum faltered instantly—bones dragging just out of sync with their own unnatural speed. It bought Dave the second he needed. A quick pivot, and one shot crushed through its temple. It dropped mid-stride, clattering across the stone.

Maddie braced her weight on the wall, lifting her leg slightly to avoid stressing the arrow wound. Her hand came up, fingers trembling but aimed, and a narrow beam of focused light carved across the room. It lanced through the second archer’s skull with surgical precision. For half a second, the body stayed standing—then collapsed like its strings had been cut.

Now four remained. One—a skeleton with rusted plate and club—broke from the others and swung wide toward Maddie. She caught it coming and launched a shadowbolt mid-chest. The impact snapped ribs, but it didn’t stop. She gritted her teeth and followed with another blast, this one aimed lower. The force turned the skeleton sideways and sent it crashing into a broken pillar. Bones rolled in every direction.

Another closed in on Dave—this one wielding a twisted scythe, more blunt than blade. It swung heavy and wild. Dave ducked the first pass, sidestepped the second, and waited for the pause in rhythm. When it came, he rose into it—rifle held tight—and smashed the skeleton’s skull from beneath. Bone and metal scattered across the floor.

Two more remained. leveling my rifle, I fired once. The bullet hit center mass—not fatal, but it wasn’t intended to be. They needed it more than I did.

The second-to-last skeleton locked onto Maddie and advanced without hesitation, club raised high. She braced against the pain in her leg, adjusted her footing, and waited. No light tricks—just focus. When it drew close enough to strike, she pivoted off her good foot and released a dense bolt of shadow straight into its lower spine. The impact crushed through brittle bones and sent the creature tumbling sideways. It hit the ground in pieces, the club rolling free as the last of its animation drained away.

The final skeleton made one last charge—straight at Dave. He didn’t wait. No clever move, no heroics. Just a direct, brutal strike—rifle stock against cheekbone. The skull caved with a sharp crack, and the remains crumpled mid-motion.

Silence fell again.

Breathing heavily, Dave lowered his weapon, eyes scanning for movement. “We clear?”

“For now.” I answered.

Maddie slumped against the wall, sweat breaking across her brow. “That… wasn’t a fair fight.”

“There’s no such thing,” I replied, while taking a quick peek at my newest notification.

[Skeletons Destroyed]

[Experience Gained: 375]

Dave kneeled beside Maddie, already digging into the small medkit clipped to his kit. His movements weren’t frantic—just a bit shaken. He had steadier hands than most warriors I’d known.

“Let me see,” he said, voice low, but not soft. No sugarcoating.

Maddie gritted her teeth and pulled back the torn section of her pants leg. The shaft had gone through clean, just above the knee. No arterial blood. He exhaled through his nose.

“Through-and-through,” he muttered. “No splintering I can see. That’s lucky.”

“Define lucky,” Maddie said between shallow breaths.

Dave smiled but didn’t answer. He cut the arrowhead free, pulled the shaft out with a swift tug, and applied pressure instantly. Maddie screamed. She went pale, shuddered, and then held still. While another attack on this floor was unlikely, her scream could have alerted something on a different floor.

He cleaned the wound, used an antiseptic pad, and then started healing her leg with his magic. Slowly, tissue knitted together. The bleeding stopped as the wound scarred over. Then he wrapped her leg tight. “You’ll walk,” he said while wiping beaded sweat from his brow. “But don’t expect to sprint.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, forcing a breath that could pass for a laugh.

Once he was sure she was stable, he turned the same process on himself. The arrow in his shoulder had lodged near the joint. Trickier angle. He used a wall for leverage, braced the medkit on his thigh, and worked the edge of the bolt loose with shaking fingers.

“Want help?” I asked.

“Nope.”

He got it out with a grunt. Not quiet, not pretty, but effective. Bleeding was slower than Maddie’s had been. Surface wound—no deep trauma. He repeated the healing process, this time becoming more visibly drained, then wrapped it one-handed. Slower this time, but no less methodical. He looked up and met my eyes.

“I’ll be fine. Not ideal, but functional.”

“I trust you,” I said. “Still, take a breather. We have time.”

He nodded once, sat back, and drank water. We all did. The rest wasn’t long, but it was enough to get blood moving again. I chewed half a bar and ran my gaze along the chamber, still half-expecting a third wave.

Maddie broke the silence first. “Three on three. Six on six.”

Dave blinked, then leaned forward. “Nine on nine.”

“Spot on,” I said, keeping my approval internal.

“You knew?” Maddie asked.

“Pattern’s obvious once you see it.”

“You didn’t think to tell us?” she said, her voice carrying an edge.

“You learn better when you notice it yourselves.” I replied.

Dave chuckled. “That’s evil-teacher logic.”

“No,” she said, “that’s Kyle logic.”

Looking at both of them, I added, “That’s fair. But it’s no less true.”

We took ten minutes. Long enough to drink water, chew through a ration bar, and steady our breathing. No ambush followed. No shifting walls or magical backlash. Just the heavy quiet of the floor, like the tower itself was holding its breath. I checked the time in my head—enough left to keep moving without pressure, assuming nothing catastrophic blocked our path.

Taking point again, I headed toward the massive stone door ahead where stairs should have been. No glyphs, no inscription. Just blank, ancient weight. We stopped three paces from it and waited.

“Well, let's see what's behind door number one,” Dave’s words left his mouth as he pushed on the door. Beneath us, the floor dropped at a steep angle, sending us sliding down into the unknown.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Maddie

My stomach twisted before my body even hit the slope. One second I was on solid stone; the next, gravity yanked me sideways and down. My scream tore loose before I could stop it—followed by a ragged breath and then nothing but scraping pain. I skidded along some kind of hard, spiraling ramp, the stone biting through cloth and skin. The impact at the bottom knocked the air from my lungs and left me curled on one side, teeth clenched, waiting for everything to stop spinning.

Silence followed. Thick and waiting. Behind me—no sign of where I’d fallen from. Worse, no Kyle or Dave. Trying to slow my rising panic, I pushed up slowly.

The floor sloped beneath my palms, bending downward in a wide spiral. My fingers traced the wall—cool stone, curving with me. No seams. No breaks. Simply a narrow, four-foot path hugging the tower’s outer edge. The inner wall stayed solid to my left, but to the right there was nothing. Only open air. How far down it dropped, I couldn’t tell. Breathe Maddie. Breathe.

Raising my right hand, I called light. A soft orb formed, hovering ahead. It drifted forward a few feet, then dimmed—no, vanished. The dark didn’t swallow it like shadow. It consumed it. Pulled it in. I drew it back closer, and the orb flickered alive again, its glow reaching only a few feet. Nope, not scary at all. Down. The only way to go was down.

Breathe, take a step. Breathe, take a step. Ignore the gaping chasm to my side. I’ve got this, I’ve got magic, I can do this.

Every step after that was deliberate, and careful, very, very careful. The ramp spiraled downward—any end obscured my darkness. No landings. No markers. Only more curve and more dark. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It pressed in from all sides. Each step was swallowed by the oppressive quiet; the deeper I went, the more palpable the feeling of being watched became.

Then something touched me.

A brush across my shoulder. Not cold, exactly. More like pressure without weight. Like something leaned too close and stole the warmth from the edge of my skin. I turned fast, my light orb flaring—but nothing showed. No form. No flicker of motion. Only the ramp and the dark. Calm Maddie, don’t panic.

Another brush came minutes later—this time across the back of my neck. Stumbling, I caught myself on the wall. The light swayed. Still, there was no form. No sound giving away a presence. Nothing other than that same draining sensation, like something pulled a thread from the inside of me and didn’t let go. My breathing grew shallow. Not from panic—fatigue that hadn’t been there before.

Maybe I should create a second orb. I dismissed the thought almost immediately. I needed to conserve what power I could. Instead, I tightened the light closer and a bit brighter. Enough to increase my field of vision a couple of feet.

That’s when I saw it.

A shape. Low to the ground. Clinging to the slope of the inner wall just beyond the orb’s edge. It didn’t move like an animal. Didn’t shimmer like a shadow in moving light. It was darker than the surrounding darkness—black that had mass. It slid back the moment the light edged closer, not fleeing but shrinking away like smoke reacting to wind.

Pressing my back to the wall, I stopped, waited, and watched. The thing didn’t advance. It hovered near, always at the edge, pacing me like a predator too lazy—or too uncertain—to strike. Too bad for it, I had magic.

I sent a flash of light, then a needle of shadow. Neither landed. The light dissipated before reaching it. The shadow dart seemed to pass through it. It didn't scream. It didn't flee. It was like it had no mass to hurt. Then it was gone.

Waiting another minute for it to return yielded no results, so I kept moving. Every few feet I glanced behind me, but nothing ever followed. Curve after endless curve, the ramp winding downward with no sign of change. No doors. No landings. No stairs.

Minutes passed. Ten? Maybe more. The silence blurred everything.

My legs started to ache from the constant slant. I shifted the weight from one side to the other, trying not to limp, trying not to let the tension creep into my arms, my jaw, or my spine. The orb bobbed gently, casting pale light on stone that never changed. I wanted to speak—to hear something—but I didn’t.

And then it touched me again.

Right ankle, soft as a breeze, but deeper than cold. I jerked back and nearly lost my balance. The orb flared, and the thing flinched—merely for a breath—but it didn’t run. It didn’t vanish.

It faded. Like mist slinking into cracks.

Time stretched on, an eternity, as I stood there, every muscle tense, my lungs barely moving. There was no noticeable injury. No sharp sting of pain. Just that sense that part of me had bled out, invisible, through a hole I couldn’t find. My heart, my awakened core, felt drained.

No more attacks came. All I could do was keep moving. The descent dragged on, featureless. I traced the wall with my hand, hoping for seams or symbols—anything to break the pattern. But there was nothing. Only unbroken stone and the lingering threat of something unseen, waiting in the dark.

Something brushed my side.

This time, I didn’t scream. Stopping myself, I let the moment pass like a heartbeat I couldn’t afford to lose. It didn’t linger. Whatever it was, it grazed the edge of my being and moved on.

It wasn’t clawing, biting, or stalking in the way animals do. But it was feeding off of me. Leeching my life. In retrospect, waiting after every attack was stupid.

One foot in front of the other, arms tight at my sides, shoulders curled forward like I could brace against the emptiness. The ramp continued to spiral. Always curving. Always sloping. A gentle, painfully quiet descent that never ended. It was getting into my head now.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t even still. It breathed. It watched. Each step scraped against stone like a sin I wasn’t supposed to commit. I told myself it was a trick of the dungeon, atmosphere meant to unnerve. But that didn’t stop my palms from sweating or my throat from tightening every time the light dimmed for no reason.

Kyle always said silence was the worst part of any hunt. "Noise means life. But when the forest goes still, something scary is near. Then it’s either fight or run."

There was nowhere to run here and nothing I could do to fight.

Nana would’ve scolded me for how I held my breath. “You breathe like you mean it, child. Long and deep. The dead don’t need the air—you do.” Her voice gave me strength, got me through the death of my parents and so much more. I inhaled slowly, held it, and let it go, pretending she stood behind me with that old shawl and her sharper-than-steel eyes.

The next touch didn’t come for a long while.

It slid across my wrist like cold ink. I jerked back, stumbled into the wall, and raised the light out of reflex. Nothing. Not even the shape I thought I’d seen before. The only proof that it had ever touched me was the fatigue now crawling up my arm, as if my muscles had given nothing more than a fraction of themselves away.

Crouching there, one knee pressed into stone, I tried not to cry. I was alone, and the weight of that had started to sink in. Kyle’s presence gave me more strength than I ever realized. He projected confidence without ever saying a word. Dave and his mix of knowledge and ability to heal. During our few combats above, they stood between me and the things that wanted to rip us apart.

Now it was down to me. No one to shield me. No one to fall back on. And whatever hunted me didn’t need claws or teeth. It needed time.

Get moving Maddie. I pressed forward. My legs ached and my spine burned from tension. The descent never stopped curving. Time blurred. I needed to find a way out. But more than that—I needed to find a way to fight my attacker.

Another stretch of the ramp passed without incident. No quick touch. No shadowy flicker. Simply the constant maddening curve downward and the quiet dread pooling deeper in my chest.

I’d almost convinced myself it had gone. Maybe it lost interest. Maybe I’d slipped past whatever territory it haunted. Maybe.

Then the light dimmed again—not faded, but pressed inward like it had been wrapped in wet cloth. The orb flickered faintly, sputtering at the edges. I paused and let my hand drift toward the wall for balance, only to realize I was no longer sure which side was solid. My depth was off. My balance too. The stone beneath me sloped sharper than before.

And then—another touch. This time on my calf. I jerked back and spun, too late to catch anything, but in time to see the trailing edge of something slither around the bend. Not fast. Not urgent. But deliberate. Patient.

The orb flared when I focused on it again, pulsing harder like it, too, didn’t want to be alone.

Dropping to a knee, I pressed my palm flat against the cold stone steps and closed my eyes. I didn’t need sight right now. I needed my other senses. Breath Maddie. Listen, think.

Shadow magic slipped past it like air past a wall. Light magic only agitated it—if it did anything at all. Kyle would’ve known what to call it. He’d have flipped through his head full of tomes and named the thing in a heartbeat. I had to guess.

My fingers spread against the stone. I didn’t cast—not exactly. I reached out—feeling for it. Letting the dark in. My core—churned, like what I was forcing stuck ice to break apart. A frigid coolness echoed out of my center. My chest hurt from the effort, but in my mind I could see it, the stairs, the chasm, and only a dozen feet away a shape.

Focusing on the shape, I paused. There was movement. Soft, subtle. The shape edged closer. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t recoil. I welcomed it. It was a creature of darkness. I could feel it the way I did my spells. So why had my shadow bolt not worked?

As soon as the thought of shadow entered my mind, the creature moved, withdrawing from me. Damn it Maddie. You are light and dark, not light and shadow. And if this was a creature of darkness, then… like a whisper, I extended my will—not as spell but as a command. It paused. Quivered. Like it didn’t understand what was happening.

That was the moment I struck. Not with force, but with intent. I reached through the darkness, past my own shrinking fear, and found the thread inside the thing—what passed for its will, or center. Weak, flickering, barely there, but present. I pulled it. Not hard, but firm. And to my surprise—it didn’t resist.

With a flash of onyx wings, it gracefully glided toward me, finally settling upon my arm before wrapping itself around my bicep, and in that moment, I knew it was bound to me. Instinctively, I knew what it was… it was a darkling, a creature created from a wisp of will and dark magic run amok.

The growing ache in my chest eased. Standing again, I breathed hard, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades. The experience had taken more out of me than I wanted to admit. But it worked.

Carefully, gently, I caressed the darkling’s small body. Smooth, cool but not cold, no fur or hair yet not skin or leathery. Did we even have words for things like this? The texture of cool smooth milk without the sensation of liquid? Maybe a liquid metal like mercury or gallium?

My musing didn’t last. This first creature hadn’t been alone.

Two more emerged at once—one crawling low along the outer edge of the ramp, the other clinging high to the curved inner wall. They moved like ink spilled in reverse, fluid but wrong, coiling in angles that made my eyes ache to follow. Neither rushed. They didn’t need to. They already knew the space better than I did.

One lunged.

I threw up a barrier of shadow without thinking, but it passed through like fingers through mist. The first pulse of contact drained me hard—sharp, like blood loss without the wound. My knees buckled. My breath caught, fire searing my ribs.

The second one closed in behind. I turned too late to stop it from brushing along the side of my neck. Another drain. Faster this time. It was feeding harder—stronger than the first.

My vision narrowed. I couldn’t think clearly. Couldn’t fight both. I reached—desperate, not for power, but for help. And the bound one moved.

The moment the second shape crossed my path, the first flared back into view—drawn by my need. It collided with the second creature, darkness slamming into darkness. I didn’t know if they could feel rage. But their battle in the air turned furious.

With one attacker distracted, I focused everything I had on the one still clinging to me. Dropping low again, I pressed my hand to the steps to steady myself and reached. Not its form—but for its will. That flicker of primitive thought at its center. It writhed against me, trying to slip away, but the line between us held. It snapped into my control, just like the first.

The third hesitated—but only for a breath. This time, I was ready. The moment it broke free from the scuffle, I opened that same connection—wider, firmer. Not gentle, not coaxing. Anger had replaced fear—feeding my will to dominate the life draining monster.

It fought.

It lost.

The ramp quieted. I sagged back against the stone wall, heart pounding, limbs trembling. Sweat dripped from my chin to the floor. My orb hovered dimly beside me, pulsing slowly, steadily.

Three. I hadn’t defeated them. I hadn’t destroyed them. I’d bound them. And I knew they were still with me—close, afraid of my anger, but waiting. And I didn’t feel alone anymore.

It took a few attempts to command them. Thought alone didn’t do it. Neither did emotion. It was more visualizing what I wanted, then they copied my intent. The largest curled itself to the shape of my back. The middle-sized one curled around my upper right thigh while the smallest retook its position on my arm.

If they could live outside the dungeon, maybe I’d name them.

The ramp continued. Endless, winding. Every step felt heavier now—minutes passed. Or hours. Hard to tell in a place that swallowed time and sound the way this one did. The slope leveled into a flat stretch of stone beneath my feet, ending in a wall ahead.

A dead end? Wait, no, something was there. In the center of the wall, waist-height, a single dull metal bar jutted out at an angle. Old and pitted, it was a handle.

Staring at the handle, half-expecting another attack, I debated grabbing it. Looking around, there were no other options, no paths to take. Reaching forward, I gripped the bar. Cold metal met sweaty palm.

It resisted, at first. Stuck in place. Then, with a low grinding creak, it twisted. I pushed, then pulled—and the wall cracked open. A narrow seam revealed itself, stone shifting with ancient weight. The bar became a lever. The wall, a hidden door.

Behind it, a hallway stretched forward. Faint, flickering light spilled into the dark from a chamber ahead. Yellow and white, electric and irregular—like fire.

Then the noise hit. Goblin voices. Sharp and guttural, just like when we fought the four. A scrap of shouting in a tongue I didn’t know mixed with the sound of a human screaming. Followed by a single, echoing gunshot.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Dave

The fall should’ve knocked me out. Hell, it should’ve broken something. But instead of unconsciousness, I got cold water, hard stone, and a full-body bruise I could already feel blooming under the surface. Two feet deep, maybe a little less where I landed, and freezing. My boots hit solid ground beneath the water, slippery but holding, and I forced myself upright with a groan that felt older than I was.

For a moment, I just stood there. Breathing. Letting the shock roll through my limbs in one long, shaking wave. No Kyle. No Maddie. No familiar voices calling out from nearby chambers. Just the sound of slow-moving water and the faint drip of something far off in the dark.

The cavern stretched outward in all directions, or at least it felt that way. The air was damp, but not stagnant, with a weird cleanliness to it—like a cave no one had ever breathed in. Glowing fungi clung to the far walls in patches, dull blue and pale green, giving the whole place the vibe of an underwater dreamscape. Some of it hung like vines, others puffed outward like barnacles, their light soft and pulse-like, as if the whole chamber was holding its breath.

I peeled off my rifle strap and gave it a once-over. The receiver was dry, thank God. But the already damaged stock had split further. I muttered a soft curse under my breath and fished out a roll of duct tape from my kit, wrapping it tight with the kind of practiced hand that said this wasn’t my first field patch. It wasn’t pretty, but it’d hold. My unused bow was missing entirely, as were half my arrows.

As I worked, I felt the slow throb behind my sternum—the ache of landing wrong, of being tossed like a rag doll down a magic water slide. It wasn’t serious, but I didn’t like walking wounded. With a slow breath, I drew in the spark at my core and let it ripple outward. Light pushed gently through my limbs, warming the sore spots and knitting whatever had gotten bruised. The pain dulled to nothing.

“I’m fine,” I muttered to myself. Then added, “Not dead anyway. That’s something.”

Looking around again, I tried to orient myself. The ceiling vanished into darkness above me, but faint reflections from the water showed bioluminescent fish darting just beneath the surface. Most were small—finger-length, silver-blue. A few, though, were larger. Thicker-bodied. One swam by, about as long as my arm, its sides pulsing with slow amber light. It didn’t even glance my way. Just cruised past like it owned the place.

That was when it hit me. Not the absence of noise thanks to the sound of water, but that kind of stillness that made the hairs on your neck pay attention. The kind that made you realize how much you usually depended on background sounds—Kyle's dry one-liners, Maddie asking a million questions, even just boots echoing off stone. Now there was nothing. Just me, my breath, and the hum of a space too big and too empty to feel safe.

Behind me, I found the edge of a wall and leaned against it, letting the stone anchor me for a minute. Rough-hewn, but sturdy. No glyphs or markings. Just damp rock and the faint outline of moss.

Kyle would’ve had something to say. Probably about checking my perimeter, conserving my core strength, or watching for ambushes. “I really hope they’re okay,” I said, quieter this time. I knew they couldn’t hear me, but it felt right to say it anyway.

That’s when I heard something. A soft ripple—just one—but it wasn’t mine. I froze. Water stilled around my legs. Every muscle locked as I turned my head slowly, scanning the edge of the light.

Nothing.

Then a faint splash, farther off. Like something heavy just slid into the water. Great. The fish had friends. Large amphibian friends.

With soaked pants clinging to my legs and my busted rifle digging into my shoulder, I remained motionless, every nerve screaming in protest. The light from the fungi barely lit the rippling water. I heard it before I saw it.

A wet glide. No splash this time. Just the sound of something too large for stealth, doing a really good impression of stealthy anyway. Then came the subtle wake, pushing toward me in a wide, slow arc.

My brain said: fish. My instincts said: bigger than a fish.

Crouching lower, I tried to move without splashing. The water fought me, making my movements sluggish and muffled, my rifle dipping from the resistance. Glowing fish shot past me. In a second, I got the barrel forward just as the shape breached, letting out an evil sound.

The hiss was not serpentine, but a low, guttural sound, like a king scorned, full of the rancid smell of territorial fury. At first glance, it looked like a log. A long, moss-covered chunk of something organic. Then the head lifted, long and narrow, with ridges along the skull. Eyes like wet stones. Teeth like broken daggers.

Alligator. But not quite. The skin wasn’t right—glossier, almost scaled in places, but with patches that shimmered wrong. Zombie gator? Swamp mimic? Demon log? Where was Kyle when I needed classification?

It charged.

Dropping sideways, my back hit the water hard as I rolled. The jaws snapped shut right where my ribs had been. I kicked backward, feet skidding across rock as I pulled up into a better stance. The thing spun unnaturally, tail whipping. I ducked, caught a glancing blow, and stumbled.

Then I fired. The shot hit low—shoulder, maybe neck. It snarled, unphased.

Not good.

Dodging again, this time I leaped clear over a low lunge that tried to drag me under. My body screamed at the movement. Every superhuman muscle lit with the effort of launching myself out of the water, high above the creature, before coming back down behind it. But I landed on my feet, slipping only a little, and raised the rifle again.

"Come on, come on…"

This time, I waited. I didn’t shoot right away. I waited until I saw the angle—head raised, eyes locked—and I aimed between them.

Pulled the trigger.

The second shot hit true.

Its skull burst sideways, gore and bone snapping outward like the punchline to a bad horror movie. It dropped in a heap, half in the water, half sprawled across the stone. No twitching. No death throes. Just stillness.

I exhaled. Loudly.

“Okay,” I said to nobody. “Zombie gator, one. Me, also one. But my one killed it, so… I win.”

Sloshing over to the monster, I nudged the body with my boot just to be sure. When it didn’t move, I slumped down onto a nearby stone shelf and let my heartbeat catch up with my common sense.

The adrenaline didn’t crash all at once. It bled out slowly, like warmth escaping through wet clothes. I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, rifle laid across my lap. The glowing fungi above pulsed in slow intervals, as if the cave itself had lungs. Every few seconds, a droplet of water fell from somewhere high above and vanished into the pool with a faint plunk. In the distance, the sound of falling water further broke the silence after battle.

Checking my rifle again, I noted the duct tape held, but the crack down the side of the stock made every pull of the trigger a gamble. Still, it worked. That mattered more than cosmetics.

The pain in my thigh and ribs reminded me that I’d gotten lucky. The tail smash did more damage than I thought. Tapping into my ability to heal took less effort, but the drain was worse the more damage I was healing. Thirsty, I opened my canteen, drank too fast, choked once, then slowed down. Rising, I started moving.

The floor beneath my boots dipped slightly, the shallow cave lake uneven at best. My fingers tapped restlessly against the rifle. This wasn’t what I’d signed up for. Not exactly.

A part of me—the one that trained with Kyle, practiced emergency triage on wooden mannequins—wanted to be here. Another part wanted to be anywhere else. This was hardly the pastime of a future doctor and research scientist.

Hospitals filled my mind. I love them. Hospitals were places of care, lifesaving institutions filled with heroes. Patients didn’t try to kill you. Patients didn’t have fangs. You could help people, save lives, and all without being eaten or fighting undead abominations. Did I want to be a doctor or some monster slayer?

And yet, some stubborn core deep inside kept whispering: why not be both?

No offense to my best friend, but I didn’t want to be Kyle. That guy had steel behind his eyes. Like he’d been through five lifetimes and got up swinging each time. Maddie had… something else. Fire and fury mixed with that “I’m a badass wizard” look she gave people when they weren’t watching. Me? I just wanted to patch people up, make the world a better place.

But here I was. Bleeding, damp, and smiling like an idiot as I pictured Kyle telling me to stop feeling debating with myself and start remembering our training.

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo in my head like some profound mentor. It was quieter than that. His subtle smirk when he knew more than anyone around him. The way he knew better than anyone. And in this moment—crouched in a waterlogged tunnel with no idea what floor I’d landed on or what came next—I missed him more than I’d expected.

The past year without my best friend—my brother, really—nearly broken me. Losing him, thinking it was somehow my fault. Then Kristen and me. Damn, I felt like a movie villain. And then he’s back, changed, but the same. He absolves me of all my sins—my guilt. And I get superpowers.

Shaking off my introspection, I rose, rifle snug to my chest, and crept forward. Water sloshed with every step, but there was no helping that. If something was going to hear me, it probably already had. Eventually, the subterranean lake gave way to a rocky shoreline.

Creeping, I followed the shore until it stopped at cave wall. Following the wall eventually led to a tunnel. More glowing fungi illuminated the space just enough to follow the passageway. The ceiling dropped here, forcing me into a partial crouch, and as I rounded a bend I froze.

Nestled in the shallow basin ahead were mounds. Soft. Mossy. At first I thought seaweed or piled-up vegetation. Maybe old bedding or drift refuse from flooding. Then I spotted the shape—flattened circles, wide-set eyes, squat limbs folded tight to squat bodies. Dozens of them.

Frog-like humanoids, each one no more than four feet tall, all sleeping in weird little nests.

And I was standing in their living room.

My next breath caught halfway down my throat as I slowly backed against the tunnel wall. The little frog-men didn’t stir. Not yet. Not even a twitch. Just lay there, breathing in soft, wet rhythms—nostrils pulsing, limbs curled like oversized toads playing dead. My boots rested in the middle of their nest grounds. No cover. No way to tiptoe backward. They were everywhere. A few clung to the walls in higher alcoves, sleeping upright like weird amphibian bats.

The space wasn’t wide, maybe twenty feet across and twice that long. At the far end, water trickled in from a thin channel in the ceiling, creating a cold, steady stream that snaked through the center and fed several mossy pools. Bone fragments and rusted metal trinkets littered the edges—trash or trophies, I couldn’t tell. One corner even had a little shrine made of stacked shells and what looked like an old boot. Civilization, of a sort. A society of frog-folk. I’d unknowingly strolled in the middle of their home.

I stayed still for a count of twenty. Every part of me wanted to bolt, but Kyle’s voice rang: “Don’t panic, think. Act, don’t just react. You’re more than you were now… use it.”

One of the frog creatures stirred.

Its eyelids cracked open—no whites, just pitch. It made no sound—not a croak, not even a breath. It just watched me, unblinking, like it couldn’t decide whether I was predator, prey, or intruder. I didn’t move. Neither did it. Then a second one raised its head, this one closer to the ceiling, eyes glinting blue-green under the fungal light. Silent still.

Moving slowly, I tried stepping back the way I came. My foot hit a puddle—the sound of shifting water betrayed me. The nearest frog-thing rose to full height, legs unfolding like bent spring steel. Its mouth opened just a little—too wide, too long—and from it came a wet hiss that made my spine crawl. Then another stood. Then another.

In unison, a chorus of warbling croaks broke the stillness. It wasn’t deafening, but it echoed weirdly, bouncing off the stone in ways that made it hard to track how many of them had risen. Five? Ten? Maybe more. Kyle’s voice again: “Nothing in a dungeon is your friend. Don’t wait to be killed.”

So I did the only thing I could. I dropped to a crouch, aimed center mass, and squeezed the trigger.

The first one dropped mid-lunge. The report of the rifle slammed through the tunnel like thunder in a tin can, my headphones canceling out the noise. Water exploded around it, frog-blood and skin scattering. The others didn’t freeze. They charged.

Not dumb beasts—fighters. Coordinated. A few darted to the walls, skittering sideways on webbed feet. One dove into a pool and vanished. I pivoted, fired again, clipped a shoulder, then headshot the next.

Too many and only one round left.

With my awakened strength, I vaulted onto a raised patch of stone near the shrine, giving myself height and angle. My rifle cracked again, killing the first one to leap at me. A strong kick sent the next one back to ground level.

One managed to leap the full ten feet in a burst of muscle and fury—its claws raked across my jacket before I further cracked my rifle stock on it, sending it crashing into the pool below. Dropping my rifle, I swiftly pulled out one of the folding knives I’d brought. 4.5 inches of cold, hard steel flipped out an instant later.

My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my hands.

The next frogman leaped toward me—did they have any other attack? With a gurgling rasp that raised every hair on my neck, I met it head-on, low and square, and stabbed for its chest. The blade went in—more resistance than I expected—but the tip found something soft and the thing buckled. It didn’t go down clean. It clawed at my arm, and I had to drive a knee into its gut to break free. I shoved it sideways, and it collapsed into the shallow water, still twitching.

Another was already on me. No time to line anything up. It came in high with a wild swipe, claws aimed at my head. I ducked instinctively, felt the wind of it pass over me, and swung the knife backhanded into its side. The blade caught, not deep, but enough to stagger it. I followed with a shoulder check and knocked it off balance, then stomped down hard on the back of its knee. It shrieked and collapsed. I slashed across the throat. Messy, but fast.

Something raked across my lower leg—jagged, rusty. I turned and saw another one ducking low, weapon in hand. The pain lanced up from my calf like someone had jabbed me with a branding iron. I shouted—not dramatic, just the kind of sound pain demanded—and stumbled back a step. Blood warmed the inside of my boot.

It hurt. But I could still move.

Below, another three circled, half-crawling across the cavern floor like predators. One veered left, another right, while the third climbed the wall like it was made of handholds only they could see. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement.

One above me to my left lunged.

Throwing myself sideways into a half-roll, watery muck splashed into my collar. I came up just in time to catch a blow to my chest as it landed on me. It hit harder than I expected—maybe thirty, thirty-five pounds of muscle and hate—the impact knocked me back. We tumbled, tangled up, and I barely got my blade between us before it snapped at my face. The first stab hit shoulder. The second found its side. It shrieked, thrashed, and I jammed the knife in under the ribs until it stopped moving.

I shoved the body off with a grunt, but it cost me. One of the others rushed in from behind, and I didn’t see it coming. It slammed into my back, knocked the wind out of me, and sent me face-first into the rocky shelf. My arms hit first, then my chest, then everything stung. Cold water, split skin, hard stone.

Twisting on instinct, I kicked out with both legs. Caught it in the gut and rolled back to my feet, knife still in hand.

It charged again, faster this time, swinging wild. I ducked under the first claw, grabbed its wrist with both hands, and drove my knee into its stomach. My muscles burned from the effort, but the thing folded just enough to give me an opening. I brought the knife down into its shoulder, then yanked sideways as hard as I could.

It fell. Not dead yet, but not getting up quickly. Whipping my gaze back and forth, I saw only one remaining. It hesitated. Its eyes—wide, unblinking—locked on mine for half a second. Then it turned and bolted into the dark.

I didn’t chase it.

I stood there, chest heaving, leg burning, water dripping from my sleeves and chin. My knife hand trembled. Blood—some mine, most not—ran down the slope. My arms ached, my ribs screamed, and my left knee felt like it had a new dent in it. Breathing came hard.

“Okay,” I whispered, voice wheezing. “No more sushi. No more ponds. I’m a desert guy now.”

It was my first attempt at healing while moving. The results were mixed. Healing occurred slower and with more drain than seemed reasonable to me in my current state. Move a few feet, focus, look for threats. Rinse repeat until I had progressed dozens, maybe hundreds of yards away from the frog people’s lair.

And then luck shined on me. Nestled within the cavern's ancient stone wall, an aged, immense wooden door came into view. Eighty-seven steps—I counted each one—brought me to the door. Reloading my increasingly damaged rifle, I pulled the door open with more effort than I wanted to admit.

The old hinges groaned like they hadn’t moved in years, maybe decades. Cold air hit my face first—drier, somehow cleaner than the waterlogged tunnels behind me. I walked through, boots squelching, and closed it gently behind me. No telling who, or what, might still be listening.

The hallway ahead was narrow, walls built of stone reinforced with thick bands of metal. A faint glow lit the path—different from the glowmoss or arcane light from far above.

I crept forward, sticking close to the wall, rifle tight to my shoulder. Every move felt louder than it should’ve, even though I was trying to move quietly. My shoulder still throbbed. My body still ached despite my attempts at healing.

The hallway angled left.

I followed the curve—and then I heard it.

Voices. Not anything human—but rough and guttural, the kind of sound you didn’t forget—goblins. I froze. Crouched. Waited. A second later, a scream of pain. Kyle? Maddie? No, it didn’t sound like them.

My back hit the wall. Adrenaline kicking into overdrive. I edged forward, slow. Just enough to peek around the corner and there they were. Dozens of Goblins.

Green-gray skin, sharp teeth, long ears, and too many of them to count at a glance. Some perched on crates. Others moved between makeshift tables stacked with supplies. A few wore patchwork armor. But what locked my breath in my chest were the two hulking figures in the far center—each nearly seven feet tall. Broad. Hunched. One carried a hammer I could’ve used as a battering ram. The other gripped something jagged and rusted, but heavy.

And they weren’t posturing. They were organizing.

Someone else was in the room. A low cage where I couldn’t see them, surrounded by the vile little monsters. A long stick, maybe a staff, rose in the air, then shot downward. Another scream pierced the space, then a cracked voice called out. “Just kill me!”

It was Ty.

Chapter Forty

Traps

The floor dropped, sending us down a greasy slide covered in God knows what. Darkness kept me from seeing what was happening to my friends as their voices quickly trailed away. Stone caught me in the ribs and threw me sideways. Air whooshed by as I dropped faster and faster. Instinctively, I shifted my weight with the slide, righting my body and angling my feet and legs downward to take the inevitable impact of landing.

Since arriving home, I’d spent very little time on gymnastics, but as it was one of my few remaining legendary skills, I didn’t need to. The long slide went on for what must have been hundreds of feet. A glimmer of light appeared below, and as I braced myself, I could feel the wind picking up. The fall ended as abruptly as it started. Landing hard, I rolled—twice, then a third time—before stopping to find myself in a long, wide passage.

Spinning around looking for threats, I immediately noticed the ramp was gone, as were Maddie and Dave. They were both awakened—at least F-rank by my reckoning—and still growing in power. This was only an F-ranked dungeon… nope, reminding myself of the facts did nothing to make me feel better.

Turning again—this time slowly—I took in my environment while listening for signs of life. Nothing. No monsters. No screaming. No wind. Just that tight, stale air I was beginning to hate. Adjusting my pack, I stretched my arms and legs to shake off the ache from my fall. I really missed having regeneration.

The corridor stretched out ahead, narrow and sloped, lit by a faint green flicker crawling from the wall seams—probably glowmoss or something similar. There were two choices; what looked like a cave-in or the other direction, which seemed to stretch forever. My choice was made for me—I started moving in the opposite direction of the blocked passageway. First thing I noticed was the silence—no water, no wind, no echoes. Most of all, there were no bones or places to hide monsters. Six steps in, I found out why.

The stone under my left foot gave way—I dropped backward instantly. From my right, a spike shot from the wall before retracting. If I’d been moving any faster or moved any slower falling back, it would have killed me. Traps. Damn my complacency and lost skills.

Calm down Kyle. Getting angry at yourself won’t help anyone. Learn from it, move on.

My greatly reduced perception barely caught the next one. A slight shift in the floor texture. Almost smooth enough to pass over. I crouched and ran a fingertip along the edge. Pressure plate trap built for basic thieves… or overconfident idiots.

My fingers moved on their own—hook, lift, brace the edge, catch the spring. Reset the mechanism, wedge it tight with dust. Done in ten seconds, maybe less. That part never left me. Legendary disarming traps for the win. It was the spotting of traps that was off.

Moving painfully slowly. My eyes did the work now. I didn’t like it. I used to feel traps. Used to walk into a room and just know where they were hiding. Like they called to me. Like they were proud of themselves and wanted someone to admire the craftsmanship. But that sense that came with my old skill rank—was gone. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to rely on it.

Fifteen more feet and I nearly lost a leg.

There was a wire strung knee-high between two stones, one of them carved to look natural. It wasn’t. The stone was too clean, too regular. I dropped to one knee and squinted. Tripline, basic tension. I got under it, eased the hook free with the tip of a probe, and braced the coil before it could snap. No sound. No spring release. Just the razor-sharp blade that would have swung out.

Every step ate time. Every disarm reminded me just how much slower I was now. Maddie could be bleeding. Dave could be boxed in. Ty—

No. Not thinking about Ty.

Focus.

Moving forward, I stayed vigilant, scanning, watching. My eyes burned from the strain, and my neck was already tight from holding still too long. There were more traps. I could feel that much, even without the old sixth sense. But finding them? That was going to get old real fast. Stop whining to yourself, Kyle, you learned it all once you’ll just have to do it again… only much slower without gifts from gods giving you a boost.

The next stretch seemed clear. No wires, no plates, no loose stones that didn’t belong. I kept to the edge anyway, scanning every inch of the floor.

Step.

Step.

With a jolt of pain in my battered body, I stumbled, my hand instinctively flying out to grasp the wall for support—and click.

Too late.

A soft chk-chk echoed behind the stone. I dropped instantly, rolling hard to the right, just as a hiss of pressure cut the air. Something whistled past my head—no, into it.

Needles.

Dozens of them, fired from a slot just above the baseboard. One caught my arm, two hit my left thigh, and one buried itself high in my shoulder, near the collarbone. Not deep. Not fatal. But deep enough to make me curse loud and fall back against the far wall.

Gritting my teeth, I yanked the first one free. The metal was clean, dry to the touch, and left no sticky residue on my fingers. There was no shine, and I felt no numbness—good. If there was poison, it had gone inert decades ago.

The second one hurt more. Straight into the quad. I yanked it out and threw it down the hallway, where it clattered like a guilty knife. The third snapped off in my hand. I had to dig under the skin to pull the rest of it free.

Stupid. That was really stupid. The walls are trapped, idiot.

I let myself breathe. Just for a second. Then I crushed what was left of the needle tips under my boot and got moving again.

The next trigger was embedded in the mortar—easy tell once I dropped to one knee. I brushed aside the top layer of dust and saw the faint copper glint of a spring catch. Trip-based. Maybe a dart. Maybe a snare. Didn’t matter. A flat hook and a twist from the tip of my belt pick disarmed it in less than ten seconds.

Two more followed. One embedded into the side of a fake support beam, barely taller than my shin. A tension line connected to an overhead bracket, probably meant to swing something blunt. The other hid beneath a cracked tile shaped to break clean under pressure. Pressure release traps were old tech. Nothing I hadn’t neutralized a hundred times before.

With a glance, I knew how to disarm it. I slid a pin between the bracket hinges, looped a catch wire, and flipped the tension back on itself. Another one down.

Tile trap? Just needed a wedge. I jammed a broken piece of stone beneath the corner and stuffed dust into the edge to keep it firm. Locked in place. It was all too easy and familiar. The rhythm felt good—move, spot, kneel, fix. I wasn’t fast spotting them. Anything over a D-ranked dungeon would be an issue until I increased my perception.

Still no sign of the others. Still no sound beyond the slight shuffling of my clothes and the occasional breath slipping past clenched teeth. I'd gone maybe thirty meters since landing, maybe more, and the corridor just kept going in a long gradual curve. The longer it went on, the slower I got.

Not because the traps were getting smarter—they weren’t. Same beginner-tier garbage: wires, pressure plates, pivot tiles, and wall slots rigged to fire something sharp or swing something heavy. No enchantments. No illusions. Just mechanical mayhem meant to slow… and kill the impatient.

Every few feet, I had to stop. Crouch. Shift left. Shift right. Sweep a hand over the floor, tap lightly, listen for the change in sound. Then check the walls. Then the ceiling. Always the ceiling.

One missed pattern, one lazy glance, and something small and cruel would punch through skin and hurt me or worse.

The problem wasn’t disarming. That part was muscle memory. The tools did what I told them. The traps listened. What burned was the drag of looking—eyes trying to focus in bad light, neck cramping from holding still too long, back tightening from bending and shifting weight, again and again.

After the third false alarm—just a cracked tile, no mechanism under it—I almost kept walking. Almost. And then I saw the shadow line didn’t match the brick layout. Another trap. Wall-mounted dart thrower, recessed. Old, rusted, but still loaded. I disarmed it. Fast. Angry.

It didn’t matter how easy it was. I was still moving like I had sandbags tied to my boots. And the worst part?

I didn’t know if Maddie or Dave were ahead of me or behind. I didn’t know if this whole floor was a maze or a funnel or a dead end. I didn’t even know if we were on the same level anymore. For all I knew, they were waiting for me high up above. Or they weren’t.

That’s what finally got to me. Not the traps, not the ache in my knees, not the constant crouch-and-sweep cycle. The worry. It crawled into my head and started whispering things I didn’t want to hear.

What if they were already past this? What if I was wasting time dodging training-grade junk while someone bled out three rooms away? I moved faster. I didn’t run. Just stopped checking every foot and started checking every five.

And that’s when the ceiling gave out.

The impact was preceded by a subtle, almost imperceptible sound: a soft grind of stone on wood. By the time I looked up, it was already coming down.

No time to think. I dove sideways, tucked into a roll, and felt the air punch out of my lungs as I slammed into the wall. Stone chunks rained down where I’d been—fist-sized, ugly, nothing sharp but all angry. One caught my thigh. Another clipped my ribs.

Staying down, I kept my arms over my head. My teeth clenched as my ears rang. The worst of it passed fast, just a hard thump-thump-thump like fists slamming the floor over and over again. When it stopped, dust hung thick in the air.

Slowly, I pushed myself up. Bruised back. Bruised ribs. Aching shoulder. Intact head. No blood. No broken bones. It could’ve been worse and it would’ve been, if I hadn’t looked up at the last second.

Limping forward, I kicked one of the rocks aside. It skidded across the floor and tapped a loose tile. Another trap trigger. Probably tied to the same mechanism.

“Smart,” I muttered. “Stacked triggers. Bait one, catch the second when they dodge.” Beginner stuff. But clever for beginner stuff. On Altlandia dungeons were generally made by their cores, but some, very few, opened to other worlds. You could easily tell which was which. Here and now? I had no idea.

Moving again, the hall curved sharply to the left. Not a gradual bend, not designed for comfort. Just a cold architectural decision. I followed it, stepping light, one foot at a time, eyes scanning every angle.

Then I saw it.

A large, ornate door, its surface carved with intricate designs, stood at the end of the long corridor; the heavy, reinforced hinges hinted at the secrets it guarded, and the lack of a visible lock only deepened the mystery.

And between me and that door? One hundred feet of potential trappy death.

Every tile. Every wall seam. Every shadow cast by the uneven glowstone strips embedded in the floor now appeared lethal. The first few feet were clean. Or they felt clean. Hard to trust that now. My eyes burned from too much scanning. My hands were starting to tighten up from the constant tension.

Fifty feet in, I heard something.

Faint. Dull. Muffled like it was trying to reach me through layers of stone. A thud? A scrape? No. Multiple sounds. Rhythmic and uneven. Freezing, my ears strained to pick up the sound. Then another thump, low and distant, like something hitting a wall too far away to care if anyone heard it.

The acoustics down here were awful, and I didn’t exactly trust my senses after falling through who-knew-how-many levels. But something was ahead.

Crouching again, I swept the floor three tiles ahead. Found a tripwire so thin I almost missed it. The anchoring stone had been shaped to look like part of the natural wall curvature—same grain, same dust pattern. That was deliberate.

I disarmed it with a twist and a flick, then moved up another two steps. Closer. Something thudded again. Harder this time. If someone was behind that door, they weren’t trying to be quiet.

Halfway to the door, I heard voices. High-pitched and guttural—sharp consonants strung together too fast, too harsh. Goblins. I’d heard them before. They always sounded like someone was gargling curses and spitting knives at the same time.

Then came the deeper voice. Roaring something, its voice commanding and angry. And then the unmistakable sound of battle. The clang of metal on metal. A scrape. A short cry. Then another impact, heavier, maybe a body hitting stone.

Dropping lower, I checked the next row of tiles. Pressure line embedded between seams—could’ve been a foot spike trap. I took it apart it in seconds, barely looking. My hands knew the rhythm. The noise ahead was pushing me faster.

Forty feet to the door.

The goblin voices rose—shrieking now, not organized. Panic? Rallying? Hard to tell. The deeper voice roared again. I caught something between the echoes.

“Just kill me!”

That was definitely a human voice.

Moving faster. Less cautious, glancing more than checking. The stone under my boots felt ready to betray me at any second, but someone was fighting on the other side of that door—and I was done taking my time.

Thirty feet.

I stopped disarming and risked skirting them.

Another snarl echoed through the stone—guttural, wet, furious.

Twenty feet.

“Fall back—get him clear!”

Dave. That was Dave’s voice.

Maddie screamed something over him—sharp, panicked. Too far away to make out, but hers. No question.

Ten feet left. There were still too many possible spots left unchecked. I moved anyway.

My boots scuffed the final tiles, possibly pressure plates, maybe wired to blast the corridor. I didn’t care. If they went off, so be it. That door wasn’t staying shut.

I hit it full-on, braced one hand against the frame, grabbed the handle with the other. Steel groaned under my grip. Hinges fought me for half a second.

Then I ripped the door open.

Chapter Forty-One

Ty

My fault, all my fault. I deserve this hell.

"Aaaah!"

How long now? How many times have they—

“Whyyyaaahh!”

Move—they hurt me. Stay put—they hurt me. Curl up—they hurt me.

The words filled my head again—my fault, all my fault. This is hell, and I deserve it. Terrence is dead because of me. Half the kids at school are afraid to show up because of me. My dad’s life was ruined because of me… where’s my mother? She should be here in hell with me.

Damn it! I forgot to count. Every few minutes, they stab me with their sticks. Sharp, jagged, but they never shove them far. They love jabbing the same spots again and again. If I’m still alive, why don’t they kill me? It must be hell. Only in hell would I keep healing over so fast just to be stabbed again.

“Kurs’chalik baud kismer!” The large demon kept yelling at the smaller ones. They hate me. Maybe it's because I hurt them… at least two of them. Terrence tried, but they killed him. They didn’t even react when he hit them. But when I did, they screamed.

But that's what I do, isn’t it? I hurt others to make myself feel better.

“Dad, I’m so sorry.” The words came out a raspy whisper. Thankfully, they didn’t hear me. They tortured me more when I talked. I screamed for hours when they first pulled me into this place—the demons that dragged me straight to hell.

Mother, you should be here with me. The anger was coming back. The hate. My helplessness… no… my cowardice brought it back. I hate football. I hate being a teenage caricature. A textbook school bully. Most of all, I hate the selfish child—the coward that took my mother’s bribes to stay with her while damning my dad to working his ass off at two jobs to pay for her and her extravagant lifestyle.

He only got to see me once a month, and most times I refused to go because his tiny apartment reminded me of what I’d done to him. NO! Not just me. What she and I did to him. If I could go back and talk to thirteen-year-old me, would it even matter? He’d kept his mouth shut about her cheating on Dad. He’d chosen getting to do whatever he wanted so long as he stayed the golden boy for his mother… her and her wine parties filled with the clinking of glasses and murmur of gossiping women just like her. Worst of all, he chose to screw over his dad just so he could be the cool guy at school.

Another piercing pain wracked my side.

“Why don’t you just kill me?!” The words came out as a scream before I could stop them.

The little demons began kicking the cage again. Spit and piss came next. I wanted to just lie down and disappear. No more pain, no more regret, no more guilt. The world would be better without me… and yet, if I had one more chance. Just one.

Second chances were for good people that made a mistake, not monsters like me and my mother. When would she arrive? How long had I been here? It felt like days, but maybe that was because of the pain, the passing out. Would she be tortured like me, or would they give her a job? Dad, I’m so sorr—

A thunder crack ripped through the air. My head jerked up instantly—it was a gunshot! A gunshot in hell? My tormentors jumped and ran… no scurried in fright. I would have laughed if I could. A voice yelled out.

“Over here, goblin scum!”

That voice, I knew that voice. Rising as high as I could, my back shoved into the top of my short cage, my face pressed to the bars, I saw him. David, that honor student from school. What the hell?

Another loud boom as he fired again before I could process what was happening. A single, precise shot pierced the chest of a demon halfway between me and the wide opening where David now stood. The creature crumpled inward and crashed to the ground. Goblin, he yelled goblin. The shroud of my own delusion fell away. These weren’t demons, they were just small, vile little monsters.

I wasn’t dead!

Another goblin screamed and lunged, short blade raised. His second shot punched through its jaw and out the back of its skull. I couldn’t breathe. Not from fear—just from shock.

My fingers slipped off the cage bars as the goblins scrambled in every direction, clawed feet slapping stone, their snarling coordination breaking apart like kicked ants. The big one roared something guttural and pointed toward David with a hooked finger. The others obeyed. Fast.

A third shot dropped the one farthest left. Its leg vanished in a red mess. I wanted to cheer, to help.

The fourth—missed.

I heard the click. David’s gun was empty. He didn’t swear. He didn’t hesitate. He started swinging the rifle like a bat into the nearest goblin, driving it sideways into the wall with a sickening crunch. Another clawed its way up behind him—he turned and drove a boot into its chest, sending it tumbling over the central brazier.

The big one was glaring from across the room. Its seven-foot frame dominated the shadows, all sinewy muscle and jagged scars, its cruel eyes burning with a predatory intensity that promised unrelenting violence. Thin green-black fur lined its face and all areas of exposed skin. It wore some kind of armor lashed together from bones and scraps. Its weapon looked like a broken iron rod or club, rusted and blunt at the end.

More goblins, previously hidden behind makeshift racks and crates in the room’s corners, burst forth as their leader barked what sounded like orders from its fang-filled mouth. There were so many of them. Too many.

David didn’t back down.

He dropped the rifle and went straight to his knife—a folding blade no longer than his palm, already covered with blood. The first goblin came low. David moved lower. He ducked, caught its arm as it swiped, and buried the knife under its ribs. The thing shrieked and thrashed, but he held on, driving it back before shoving it away. How the hell was David so strong? So fast? Why was he dressed like a soldier?

The next hit him. Full-on. Tackled him into the wall with a howl.

I winced as David’s back cracked against stone, but he didn’t fall. He locked his arm around the goblin’s neck and twisted, dragging it with him as he pivoted and threw his full weight forward. They hit the floor hard. He came up first.

Blood ran down his temple, but he wouldn’t stop.

One of the goblins shrieked something guttural and high-pitched. It didn’t wait for the big one’s signal. It lunged. David sidestepped the first swing but caught a second claw across his ribs—his shirt split open, showing bloody scratches running across his side.

He grunted and pushed forward, dragging the goblin off balance before slamming his forearm across its throat. It gurgled, clawing at his face. David dropped with it, rolled over its body, came up still gripping the knife.

Another charged him. Then another. I couldn’t keep count. They weren’t dumb, just vicious and fast. They worked around him. Pressed from both sides. Claws. Teeth. Rusted blades.

David moved like he’d trained, but not like he was invincible. He got cut again. Across the shoulder. Then his leg. Then his back. He turned with the pain, not against it. That’s what scared me. He didn’t stop because of pain. He moved with it.

But even I could see it wasn’t enough.

His balance wavered. A goblin knocked the knife from his hand and tried to drive a bone shard into his side. He blocked it with his arm and grabbed the creature’s throat with the other, slamming it to the ground—but the blade was still there, buried in his forearm now.

He screamed.

He looked tired.

The big one stepped forward. The goblins moved out of its way.

It didn’t rush. Didn’t yell. Just walked. Heavy, sure steps. David turned to meet it, chest rising fast, knife gone, blood soaking his side. He raised his fists anyway.

He was going to die.

And I was still in a cage, too weak to even call out.

A flash split the shadows.

A bolt of searing white light streaked across the room, punching through a goblin’s head before striking another in the shoulder and spinning it sideways. Another blast followed, this one darker, slower, with weight behind it. It cracked into the leader’s chest, knocking him off balance and somehow… slowing him.

I blinked against the light, jaw slack.

Maddie?

She stepped in through the far side of the chamber, teeth clenched, hand raised. Her offhand traced a short arc, three swirling shapes peeling away from her body. Small, shapeless, and shifting like ink in water, they darted forward with erratic speed—each one slamming into a goblin before dispersing like mist. The creatures staggered, not injured but rattled, and turned their attention away from David.

I didn’t know what I was seeing. Maddie had always seemed quirky and kind of hot. What was going on? Were all my classmates some kind of secret superheroes? She fired off tight beams of focused light with pinpoint aim, her eyes wide, face pale with effort.

Our eyes made contact, and she ran toward me.

One of the goblins barreled past the others at her. Maddie hit it square in the chest with a darkness—it slowed, stumbled, then fell over. Three small, dark, shadowy forms with onyx wings sprang from the goblin’s corpse, darting towards Maddie.

She reached my cage, a flare of light shearing off the lock and half the door. “Move with me—I’ll help you.” Her words might have been the kindest I’d ever heard. It took all my effort just to stand up. Walking seemed impossible until she grabbed me under the arms and pulled me like I weighed nothing.

Two goblins moved to intercept my rescue. Behind them, David suddenly pivoted, drew another knife from somewhere, and threw it. One goblin went down from his knife buried in its chest. The other goblin’s leg folded under it, sending the creature tumbling from another bolt of darkness flung by Maddie.

David yelled, “Fall back—get him clear!”

Maddie half carried, half dragged me toward the opening she appeared through. My head lolled to the right. There, a goblin aimed at David’s back. “No!” I yelled. The goblin turned—too late.

Pushing away from Maddie, I tackled it, teeth bared, hands shaking as I grabbed its wrist and slammed it against the stone. The bow clattered free. I don’t know where the strength came from, only that it was real.

The arrow missed David’s spine by inches, bouncing off the wall beside him. The goblin shrieked and clawed at my face. I head-butted it, hard. My vision swam. My knees buckled. More shouting. I heard Maddie call my name. I think. Maybe it was someone else.

I dropped to the floor beside the goblin, chest heaving, blood dripping into my eye. My arms felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. Everything spun.

The last thing I saw—before the world tilted sideways—was David turning toward me, mouth open in shock. The air grew heavy and still as something else entered the room, its presence a palpable weight.

A shape moved—no, cut—through the fire-lit smoke. Silent. Relentless. Shield up, sword low, posture smooth and brutal all at once.

A goblin shrieked, gurgled, collapsed. Another turned to run and was split across the back before it took a full step. One thrust took out a knee, the next opened a throat. The shield didn’t just block—it hammered, slammed, broke. Steel rang like a death knell.

He was beyond human—moving like he was dancing to a lethal rhythm I couldn’t follow, each footstep a beat, each strike a drum. The goblins tried to surround him—they never even closed the circle. He carved through them like they were nothing. No hesitation. No wasted motion.

Then I saw his face.

Holy shit.

Is that coma boy?!

He didn’t look at us. His eyes were locked on the next kill, then the next. Spinning past a slash, driving his sword upward into the soft flesh of a goblin’s chin, wrenching it free, catching another with the rim of his shield so hard I heard bone give way.

One goblin flailed at him from behind. He didn’t even turn. Just shifted his weight, stepped aside, and let the blade scrape stone. The counter took its arm. Then its life.

He moved like a storm in human skin.

Beautiful and terrifying.

The leader—the huge thing that had ordered my torment—roared and lunged at him. Shield and sword met club as they worked in tandem to block the massive rod of wood and iron. Metal screamed. Kyle—coma boy—didn’t budge.

The force of the clash rattled the brazier chains. Kyle’s shield split straight down the middle. His gladius snapped just above the hilt. However, the hobgoblin’s club shattered with a loud clang, its rust-eaten head exploding into a spray of brittle iron shards.

Casting their ruined weapons aside, both men stepped back with nothing in their hands. Only Kyle smiled.

The monstrous goblin leader roared and charged again—he didn’t even get close.

Kyle stepped inside the beast’s reach and hammered his fist into its exposed ribs. Once. Twice. Then he pivoted on the balls of his feet, dropped low, and struck the monster’s knee from the side with a bone-snapping kick. The leg gave with a sound I felt in my teeth.

The monster stumbled. Kyle surged forward and grabbed it by the throat. His hand came up filled with flesh. He ripped the leader's throat out with his bare hand.

Then the goblins came. Not one or two—all of them. They shrieked, howled, surged in a tide of limbs and steel.

Kyle ran straight into the flood.

A blade arced toward his ribs. He knocked it aside with a knife-hand parry, stepped into the attacker’s guard, and broke its jaw with an elbow before it even had time to scream. Another jabbed at his back—he spun, caught the wrist mid-thrust, pulled the goblin off balance, and drove a rising knee into its chest so hard it lifted from the ground.

He never stopped moving.

A trio came together—Kyle weaved between them, ducking under one wild slash, grabbing the second by the throat and flinging it into the third. He punched the next clean across the temple, dropping it cold. Another lunged at him from the flank. Kyle kicked it in the gut, then brought the same foot around in a turning wheel-kick that shattered its cheekbone and sent it tumbling.

It wasn’t a brawl. It was a graceful slaughter. Like he knew exactly where every attacker would be before they got there. He fought like gravity didn’t apply.

He used one goblin as a stepping platform, vaulted off its back, and landed in the middle of five more. They didn’t even get to raise their weapons. He kicked, struck, flipped, and slammed each one to the floor before the rest even realized he’d moved.

One raised a sword behind him.

Kyle ducked without looking, snatched the creature’s wrist mid-swing, twisted it until bones cracked, then flung the blade across the room like garbage. He palm-struck the goblin in the throat and turned to face the next before its body hit the floor. Blood spattered the stone. Limbs stopped twitching. The air stank of sweat and iron.

Silence fell.

Then I realized something even crazier—he hadn't taken a single hit.

I stared, mouth open, ribs aching, unable to speak.

Maddie and David didn’t move. Neither did I.

Kyle turned, his gaze sweeping across the blood-soaked battlefield. Then, settling on the three of us, he calmly spoke.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I hate traps?”

Chapter Forty-Two

Loot

“Because I’ve been operating off of Altlandia rules. The more I help you, the more I hinder your growth. And to be fair, I did mention I had other legendary skills.” I knew the Q&A was coming, but man was it brutal.

“Well, at least now I know why you didn’t consider us a threat to you. I thought you just meant because we were friends.” Maddie’s response hurt slightly but was reasonable considering how much I kept back.

“We are friends,” I corrected, “And I meant that too.”

“What else have you been keeping back from us?” Maddie asked, with far less venom than her last question.

I stared at her.

“Wow, that much?” She didn’t sound angry, just surprised. Dave kept quiet, obviously thinking.

“Yeah, that much. But not because I’m trying to be mysterious or I don’t trust you. It’s just…”

Dave cut in, “You don’t want to put the weight on your friends who happen to still be teenagers.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re planning for something bigger than here. Bigger than Grayton Creek. You’re worried this will go larger than here. Affect more people.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then back at me. “That’s the reason behind the rush for cash. You want to prepare for whatever might happen?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not going to tell us what that is yet?” Maddie asked.

“Nope.”

“But you will tell us when you think it's safe for us to know?” Dave asked.

“I’ll tell you, the second it's safe for you to know.” I answered, and I meant it.

Something passed between the two, and then Maddie’s smile returned. “Good enough for me.”

Glancing around the battlefield, Dave added, “You could have soloed this with ease. I want to be angry, but every decision you’ve made, I would have made to. How much time do we have left?”

I checked my notifications, skipping past my level-up and the new spells I’d received, to see the remaining timer from after the fight ended.

[Dungeon Close Imminent]

[31:24]

[31:23]

[31:22]

“About thirty minutes. Plenty of time to loot what's here and leave through the gate. You guys want to check the goblins while I talk to Ty?” I asked.

“Yay, goblin guts.” Dave remarked as he and Maddie started moving.

Ty was looking much better after his fifth healing session. He sat on a stack of storage crates in the far corner of the chamber, arms resting on his knees, fingers flexing, feet bouncing. Nervous energy mixed with anxiety. He’d been quiet for most of the conversation—letting Maddie and Dave fire their questions at me while I tried not to lie. But now, with the worst behind us and healing mostly done, it was his turn.

“I need something to tell them,” he said finally. “Something that doesn’t involve… green freaks with bone necklaces and three superheroes.”

“We’re not superheroes, Ty,” I began, only to be interrupted by Maddie.

She looked up from the nearest goblin corpse, her hand clutching a dull chain, maybe a necklace. “Speak for yourself. I’m totally a superhero.”

“Fair enough.” Looking back at Ty, I continued, “You want to keep it simple and as true as possible. That way, it’s easier to keep up with.”

Ty nodded, but his voice was low. “I was with Terrence when he died. My other two friends got away. That’s already out there. I don’t want to dishonor them—or make it sound like I abandoned anyone.”

“You didn’t,” I said. “You stayed. That’s what they’ll remember. The story just needs to stop short of dungeon floors.”

He met my eyes and gave a short, bitter laugh. “Right. So I was dragged off by something. Held underground. Heard them arguing in a language I didn’t understand. Got lucky when they fought each other, and I ran off exhausted with no idea where I was.” He exhaled. “No magic. No monsters. No team.”

Without taking his eyes off the bloody body he was looting, Dave added. “Most will write it off to a bear or bears, maybe a panther, given sightings of them still persist.”

“And,” Maddie added, “if anyone asks how you survived, just tell them the truth.”

Ty raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”

She shrugged. “That you wanted to.”

He didn’t say anything to that. But his feet stopped bouncing.

Crouched beside the remains of the hobgoblin leader, I brushed aside the metal shards of what used to be my shield. My gladius lay nearby—half a blade with the hilt buried under more gore than I cared to deal with. The weapon had fractured all the way down the spine. That made both attack and defense destroyed in one fight. Great.

Dave ambled over, one arm wrapped across his ribs, the other holding a bent knife by the tip. “Guess I’m not the only one who lost gear. Both your toys bit it?”

“Shield’s broken. Sword’s toast. Same as your batons,” I said, nodding to the empty pouches on his belt. “And judging by the notch on that knife, you’re down to scrap metal, too.”

He examined the blade, shrugged, and jammed it closed anyway. “Might frame it. ‘Survived a dungeon with this glorified letter opener.’ Think it’d sell?”

“Maybe to a cosplayer looking for apocalypse gear,” I muttered, stepping over to the goblin corpses. “We all learned the same lesson—standard gear doesn’t cut it. Dungeon monsters are tougher than Earth animals. Their hides are reinforced with mana or evolution, maybe both. Normal metal bends, snaps, or gets chewed through in a real fight.”

Maddie appeared at Dave’s side, wiping greenish red blood from her arm with a torn strip of cloth. “So… what does work?”

“Magical weapons,” I said, crouching to flip a goblin over. “Or at least weapons forged with magic-infused materials. Cold-forged steel laced with ether, demonbone alloy, blessed silver, that sort of thing.”

“Great,” she said, stretching one leg out with a wince. “Guess we better get our shopping list together.”

My hand brushed something rough inside the goblin’s leather pouch. I pulled it free—an F-ranked mana crystal, small and faintly pulsing with weak blue light. Not much, but better than nothing. “These help.”

Dave leaned closer. “A glow-in-the-light crystal?” He joked.

Tapping the side of my head to indicate I used True Sight, I answered. “Sort of—it’s an F-rank crystal. Holds enough mana to power a lantern for a few days or enchant a bootlace if you’re patient. Alchemists love ‘em, and they’re currency in some cities. Worth more to the right buyer. Here on Earth… there are future possibilities.”

Maddie crouched beside a different body and fished through a pouch, coming up with a small bone charm wrapped in copper wire. “This do anything?”

“Probably not,” I said, squinting at the crude etching. “Goblin fetishes. Most are just decorative or religious. Sometimes cursed. Don’t keep it near food.”

She dropped it instantly. “Noted.”

I gave a half-smile, then stood up and motioned to the far side of the room. “There might be more stashed over there. Goblins hoard everything. Especially mana-rich items or enchanted junk they don’t understand.”

Dave moved off toward the crates. I stayed put, letting the silence settle for a moment. The clatter of bones and armor, the scrape of boots, the low murmur of Ty checking his arms—it all felt so normal. Well, dungeon-normal. It reminded me of my former home. Did I miss it?

Maddie looked at me sidelong. “So what now? We get stronger, replace our gear, and keep pretending this is just a weird camping trip?”

I met her gaze. “Mostly yes.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said. Then, after a pause: “You’re still going to keep some secrets, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the bodies all around my feet.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Some.”

We found the stash behind a false wall. Maddie spotted the seam first—faint, but cleaner than the rest of the stone. I tapped along the edge with a broken spear until something gave way. With a shove, the section pivoted inward with a dry, grinding scrape.

Inside was a cramped alcove packed with crates and woven baskets. Not the kind of loot that belonged to goblins. This stuff looked like it had been stolen. But then dungeons could just generate things to look that way.

“Jackpot,” Dave muttered, crouching and flipping open the nearest crate. His voice echoed in the small space.

It wasn’t gold or jewels. Nothing flashy. But there were coins—bundles of them—wrapped in oilskin and tied with twine. Mixed denominations. Mostly copper and silver, but a few dull gold pieces glinted among them. There were also tools, jars of what looked like dried herbs, even a half-broken lantern enchanted with a flickering spark of blue light.

I reached into the next crate and pulled out a small shield. Round, metal-banded, and… not rusted. Not chipped. The wood was too dark and heavy to be local. Etched runes circled the center in a ring, barely visible unless you were looking for them. I gave it a careful flex. Solid. Too solid for ordinary timber.

“Shield’s dwarven,” I said, flipping it over. “Runes are reinforced barrier type. Probably F-grade or low E. Durable enough to take a blow from something mean.”

“Think it’s better than your last one?” Maddie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Considering my last one’s currently in two pieces, yeah. It’s an upgrade.” Glancing over at Ty, I added, “There will probably be something aimed at each of us. This may not be for me.”

Dave whistled from a corner of the stash. “Kyle. You’re gonna want to see this.”

I turned and stepped over, careful not to knock over the precarious stack of woven baskets beside me. Dave held out a sword. Longer than mine had been. Curved slightly. The blade shimmered faintly, like heat waves rippling off pavement.

“Mana-forged,” I murmured, taking it from him. “Not masterwork, but definitely enchanted. Light-affinity edge. Meant for cutting through low-rank magical creatures.”

“It’s balanced,” Dave added. “Weighed it in my hand. Handle’s worn, but the tang’s intact.”

I gave it a quick practice swing. Smooth arc. No rattle. The blade left a faint silver afterimage in the air. “Not bad.”

Maddie knelt by a flat crate and lifted the lid with both hands. A soft click followed by a pop of displaced air escaped from the seal.

Inside, cradled in old velvet, was a staff.

It wasn’t grand—no crystal topper or twisting vines—but it radiated potential. Plain ashwood darkened by time, bound with faintly glowing threads of blue and violet that pulsed like veins. At the base, a metal cap inscribed with sigils I didn’t recognize.

“Is it magical?” Maddie whispered, eyes fixed on it. She ran her fingers along the threads, and they responded, flaring once like a heartbeat. She inhaled softly.

“Yes,” using True Sight again, I said. “It has a twilight affinity. Meaning during evening and early morning hours, it will strengthen your magic. It’s clearly meant to be yours.”

At the bottom of a broken jewelry box stuffed between crates, I found a bracelet. Thin. Twisted iron with an inlaid strip of dull emerald. It vibrated faintly against my fingers.

“Passive mana draw,” I said, weighing it. “Should act as a trickle charger and it has healing affinity. Want it?”

Dave grinned. “Slow drains me now to give me a boost later, yep.” He took it, wrapping it around his left wrist.

Glancing at Maddie. She was still examining the staff like it held a secret no one else could see.

We stood in silence for a beat, surrounded by the quiet hush of claimed war spoils. The floor was still slick with blood. The air stank of ash, sweat, and mana residue.

We reached the gate with just under five minutes left on the timer.

The air in the chamber was already shifting—cooler, tighter. The spatial pressure that always came before a dungeon’s collapse was creeping in like fog at the edge of my perception. I paused at the threshold, letting the others go first.

Dave gave Ty a quick but gentle shoulder check as they passed through the gate. “Remember what we talked about. Say you ran. Say you were lucky. Don’t give ‘em any more than that.”

Ty nodded, clutching a worn blanket around his shoulders like a cape. His skin still had that too-pale, over-healed look. He was shaky, but upright.

“Thanks,” Ty said. His voice rasped, but he sounded clearer now—like part of the weight had finally lifted. “And… David… thank you.”

Dave gave a lopsided grin. “It’s Dave. All my friends call me Dave. You can too.”

Ty cracked the barest smile.

Maddie gave him a hug, quick and careful. “You’re tougher than you look. Don’t forget that.”

He looked like he might respond, but the dungeon trembled slightly behind us, and he flinched. I came up last and stopped beside him at the boundary. “You walk into town from here,” I said. “Take your time, make it look messy. You were scared, hurt, confused. No one will question it.”

Ty nodded again. “Got it… will I hear from you again?”

“Soon,” I said. “Keep your head down for a bit. We’ll be in touch, but call me if you need anything, anything at all.”

The gate pulsed once behind me. A low hum rose, then snapped outward in a ripple of light. The dungeon closed with a heavy, silent finality.

No fanfare. Just a dull flicker and a cold rush of air as the gate vanished. The jagged rock where the portal had been shimmered, then settled into a solid cave wall—unremarkable, inert. If you didn’t just live it, you’d never guess what had been here.

Outside, night had fallen.

The forest was quiet. Still. But the cold had teeth now, and the wind that snuck through the trees wasn’t gentle. Above us, the stars flickered like warnings.

Ty took a breath, squared his shoulders, and started limping down the slope alone. Just a guy who made it out. A survivor stumbling home through the woods. His hoodie was too thin. His torn pants trailed a little in the dirt. But he kept going, never once looking back.

Dave watched him disappear between the trees before exhaling hard. “He’ll make it. I think he’s tougher than he knows.”

“Yeah,” I said, watching until I couldn’t see him anymore. “He’ll be okay.” I left off the ‘Just not anytime soon.’

We didn’t linger.

Retracing our steps, we made it back to the van unmolested. Dave got in the driver’s seat. I climbed into the back without needing to be told. Maddie sat up front, arms wrapped around herself against the cold.

The doors shut. No more words passing, Dave started the engine.

The heater flared up. Warm air filling the cab quickly in the way only new vehicles could. As we pulled away, tires crunched over gravel, leaves, and half-frozen asphalt. We got Ty back, stopped any future break out by collapsing the dungeon.

And while my friends reflected on what we’d just been through, it was barely on my mind. It’d been a long time since I viewed dungeons as a challenge. Sure, I needed to be far more careful—train more. But what kept me sitting in silence was how close things had been to going wrong.

That… and the notification under my level-up.

Chapter Forty-Three

James R. Truman

The hum of the espresso machine was the only sound in the office besides the low tick of the antique wall clock. I didn’t need caffeine at this hour—habit was the real stimulant. I simply enjoyed the taste. Two precise shots, no sugar, no foam. Simplicity was underrated.

I reviewed the morning briefs Marissa left on my desk: one zoning variance in Grayton Creek, two nuisance filings against the West Ridge expansion, and another attempt by Tabbetha Barrington to contest the Sangster land use ordinance. She never stopped, yet Kyle seemed unconcerned.

By the time I finished the last page, the espresso had cooled to the perfect drinkable temperature. I took a sip, then opened my calendar to confirm no changes had been made. A single name sat at ten o'clock. Kyle Sangster.

I’d met with him more in the last few months than with some clients over a decade. No wasted words. No grandstanding. Just targets, deliverables, and results. It was refreshing, in a mildly disconcerting way. Most boys his age chased girls or cars. Kyle chased silence and infrastructure.

Marissa’s knock was quiet. She cracked the door just enough to speak.

“He’s here.”

“Send him in.”

She left without another word.

Straightening the cuff of my charcoal suit, I stood and adjusted the line of my tie. The morning sun filtered through the narrow window slats behind me, drawing long shadows across the polished desk.

I wasn’t nervous. I was never nervous. But I had learned, in dealing with Kyle, that attention to detail wasn’t just courtesy—it was the difference between being useful and being obsolete.

The young man was building something. Something big. He still didn’t say it, but I knew. You don’t form four holding companies and transfer land through nested trusts unless you’re planning for something well beyond your zip code.

And yet, every time we met, it felt like I was reading only the first few pages of a much thicker book.

The door clicked open behind me.

“Kyle,” I said as he stepped inside.

Nodding once. He replied, “Mr. Truman.”

His attire was, as ever, unobtrusively utilitarian—his usual field-worn boots, this time with a clean dark jacket, thicker than his previous due no doubt to the weather, with no logos over a flannel and jeans.

We shook hands—a formality more than anything. His grip was even with no bluff in it meeting my own style of handshake. We both sat without wasting motion. Either we had much in common or the lad was quite adept at mirroring.

“I assume this isn’t a social call,” he said.

Right, we hadn’t discussed this meeting over the phone. I tapped the closed folder on my desk, then opened it with a practiced flick.

“No. It’s confirmation. The lease agreement with Red Valley Exploration & Energy finalized this morning. Wire transfer hit the blind trust at 6:08 a.m.”

Kyle didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He simply looked at me, absorbing.

“Total up-front,” I continued, “was fifty million, as negotiated. Twenty-five thousand per acre, two thousand acres leased. Royalties set at twenty-one percent of net profits after operational expenses. Standard delays, capped deductions.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. That was his version of pleased.

“They signed without redlining the royalty clause?”

“Correct. We ran it through the holding company tied to Creekstone Holdings’ Nevada proxy. Your name never surfaced. Not in the filings, not in escrow, not in the title transfer.”

Kyle nodded once. “And no deviation from the drill targets?”

“None. They’re convinced they’ve struck a major reserve. Possibly one of the largest untapped deposits in this part of the country.”

He said nothing to that. No acknowledgment. No surprise.

Which was the most interesting reaction he could’ve given.

“You found this tract,” I said, slowly, “before the surveys. Before Red Valley even started sniffing around.” This was more digging than I’d ever done with a client, but damn, the kid intrigued me.

He stared, weighing before responding.

“I did,” he said.

That was all. No elaboration. No false modesty. No explanation. That was Kyle Sangster in a sentence: absolute clarity, offered in fragments.

I closed the folder and folded my hands over it.

“There’s no legal issue,” I said. “No red flags. Everything is structured through the shell cascade, buried three layers deep and routed through the Creekstone web. The trust remains solid. No paper trail leads back to you.”

Kyle gave a slight nod.

“I’ll begin construction on a second firewall—another layer of obscurity. We’ll roll the incoming royalties into an offshore LLC based in Belize, then rotate into a Singaporean holding that’s already vetted through our EastNet intermediary. Holden recommends we use the funds not just for static investment, but as operational capital. Real estate. Infrastructure. Things that can be converted or shielded quickly.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. I’d learned that when Kyle said nothing, it usually meant agreement or deeper consideration.

“This puts your known total liquidity,” I continued, “above seventy-two million. That doesn’t include net worth in trust-held property, the valuation of your own personal accounts, or the tech company you acquired.”

No reaction.

He didn’t flinch at the numbers.

That part had unnerved me, early on. I’d represented trust-fund millionaires, regional kingpins, and oil heirs who cried over quarterly dips and threw lavish parties at minor upswing. Kyle? He accumulated wealth like a machinist adding tools to a box—just pieces for whatever his goal might be.

“Do we expand the portfolio?” I asked. “Start a foundation? A think tank? It may be time to create a philanthropic front.”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I want everything quiet. Movable. No buildings with my name. No scholarships. Not until I say.”

Understood.

His voice was low, but there was finality in it. Like he’d practiced that answer before arriving.

“You want it fast or careful?”

“Both,” he said.

Of course he did.

He stood to leave, and I had already reached for the closing file when he paused.

“There’s something else,” he said.

I looked up.

“I want you to find three buildings,” he continued. “Chattanooga, Nashville, and Memphis. Multistory. High security. They need rooftop access capable of supporting helicopters. Large office capacity, but most importantly—underground facilities. Parking garages. Storage. Bunkers. Whatever fits.”

That was… unexpected.

“And you want to purchase outright?” I asked automatically.

Kyle shook his head. “Not this time. Payments. Long-term acquisition, if possible. I want the holdings discrete, even if that means losing some control up front. Blend in.”

He never operated that way.

Every transaction he’d made until now had been clean, surgical, and final. Buyouts. No strings. No exposure. This was different—more flexible, but more vulnerable too.

“I assume these aren’t for Creekstone branding?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Just functional. No signage.”

I tapped a pen against the desk, once.

“You’ll need someone on the ground,” I said. “Each city. Someone who knows development codes, infrastructure patterns, zoning boards.”

“I don’t have time,” he said. “Hire someone. Trusted. Or someone we can trust enough until real trust is earned. I’ll cover it.”

Another departure. Kyle rarely handed off personal directives.

This wasn’t a boy spreading himself too thin—this was a man who had already calculated his bandwidth and was delegating before it became a liability.

“I’ll begin today,” I said.

He gave a faint nod. Then he was gone. Long after Kyle left, I remained seated, hands clasped beneath my chin, staring at the closed door.

Fifty million was a number I’d seen before. So were shell companies, mineral rights, royalty contracts. I had built cathedrals of paper and law around men who’d never lifted a shovel, but owned a city block.

But not like this.

Kyle didn’t chase opportunity—he created inevitability. That was the difference. Every major move, every acquisition, every land survey, every delayed reveal—it all came as if he were responding to a plan only he could see.

The new request disturbed me more than the unprecedented fortune.

Leasing properties in major cities. Layered infrastructure. Helipads. Underground access. And financing instead of ownership. That was deliberate vulnerability—Kyle knew damn well we could have bought those buildings outright and buried them in our usual structures.

But he didn’t want immediate ownership. He wanted movement. Flexibility. Depth.

That wasn't paranoia. That was preparation.

I’d seen something like it once before, decades ago—an old intelligence asset turned CEO who built his regional headquarters with seven exits and no signage. He called it "insurance against tomorrow."

Kyle hadn’t lived long enough to be that paranoid. But he was already thinking like someone who expected to be surrounded.

I leaned back in my chair.

Kyle Sangster was a pattern that didn’t align with anything I’d ever seen. There was no red flag. No actionable concern. I shut the folder, locked it in the secondary drawer, and poured the rest of my now-cold espresso down the sink.

Rinsing the cup, I then dried it, and set it precisely where it belonged. Then I sat down again—not because there was more to do, but because there was more to reconsider. I needed to understand Kyle Sangster if I were to stay ahead of whatever was thrown at him.

And that, for the first time in my career, might not be possible.

Epilogue

Home

Two levels from one dungeon. If not for my intervention at the end, it would have been one. Leveling on Earth was slow. But I had broken past human limits, which meant I could get more use out of my higher-ranked skills. With a thought, my class menu appeared.

[Class: Controller]

[Level: 3]

[Strength: 6.7] [Endurance: 6.9] [Agility: 6.7] [Intelligence: 6] [Charisma: 6]

[Health: 690 (Endurance X 100)]

[Skills]

[Alchemy: journeyman, Archery: expert, Armed Combat (Blades, Improvised, Polearms): legendary, Blacksmithing: journeyman, Cooking: journeyman, Disarm Trap: legendary, Gymnastics: legendary, Legerdemain: journeyman, Mining: legendary, Perception: journeyman, Stealth: legendary, Swimming: legendary, Tailoring: journeyman, Tracking: journeyman, Unarmed Combat: legendary]

[Titles: Harbinger (Grants: True Sight)]

[Controller Awareness: Enhanced perception during combat—greater sensitivity to positioning, momentum shifts, and enemy focus.]

[Skill Affinity: Generalist]
[All non-unique skills may be freely acquired through study and use. Time to improve skills reduced by 2%. No class-based restrictions.]

[Basic Controller Spells Granted]
[Slow: Temporarily impairs enemy movement. Currently: 50%]

[Speed: Temporarily enhances target's movement speed. Currently: 50%]

[Mark Target: Highlights selected enemy for allied focus. — True Sight Conjunction: Reveals visible weak points to allies when active.]

[Enhance Melee Weapon: Temporarily turn otherwise mundane melee weapons into magical weapons.]

[Enhance Armor: Temporary increase toughness and resistance of armor. Currently: 10%]

Enhance Melee Weapon would have been great back in the dungeon. Maybe saved me a few grand on weapons, but that was nothing anymore. There was already an order for more weapons. Armor was a bigger issue, even with my second acquired spell Enhance Armor. Military grade did okay for goblins, but barely. There are few true armorers on Earth and we needed better metal.

Closing my menu, I pulled up the Grayton Creek satellite map on my laptop. It’d been just over a week since we finished the dungeon, and the area was still covered in search and rescue, hoping to find Terence’s body. With a click and drag, I zoomed the image to right above the cave.

All you could make out were trees, not that the image was real time, it was months or years old. I just needed the image in my head while I contemplated my next moves.

The land was for sale, but any purchase right now could raise flags with law enforcement. The dungeon was gone, but that’s not what kept my interest. It was the vein of mithralite running only four feet inside the cave walls, about eight feet inside on the right. I’d detected it the moment after the collapse.

It shouldn’t exist on Earth, but there it was. Not as good as true Mithral, but better than steel and easier to enchant if I ever gain the skill again. Or if someone else does. It was enough for hundreds of weapons and dozens of sets of chain armor. That is, if I could find someone willing to do the work, and willing to relocate here to do it.

Grayton Creek was home—and the hub of everything I was building. Dave and Maddie were part of that now, for better or worse. If they knew how hard it was keeping them in the dark, trying to protect what was left of their youth, their innocence from much darker things… I let the thought dissolve. It led nowhere but back to waiting to info dump years of horrors on them.

Ty was a different matter. We’d barely talked due to how busy I’d been, but our talks were informative. He wasn't the same boy anymore; his face was now etched with a constant shadow of pain. He'd seen a splinter of hell and returned to a lesser, but still agonizing, version of it. He didn’t ask for help. In fact, he didn’t ask for anything.

He seemed content to just come over and sit silently while I did my research online. Occasionally, he would say something about his mom or dad, then go quiet. Each time he visited, he fell asleep. It was obvious he felt safe around me, and I wondered how much sleep he got when he was home. I’m guessing not much.

We talked briefly about his awakening. I expected him to jump at the chance to be more powerful, instead, he looked scared. Ty needed help—maybe more than I could give. The thing was, we could use him. An awakened with earth affinity. Depending on what rank he topped out at, he would be tougher than… well, a tank.

Shaking my head at myself, I closed my laptop. Getting up, I crossed the few feet to my bed and laid down staring at my ceiling. We needed all the help we could get, and I needed to move faster.

Not because I thought the world couldn’t handle magic slowly seeping into it. People would adjust… with some growing pains. Not because I thought our military couldn’t handle some goblins. They could easily handle what we just did. And not because I thought some apocalypse would start soon. No, I didn’t think the Earth was doomed.

I knew for a fact it was doomed.

Not tomorrow or next week—maybe not even for years. But what was coming seemed inevitable because it had come for Altlandia and a thousand worlds before it. Earth had magic now—dungeons could spawn—which meant the tether I awakened to get home wasn’t the only one active now.

We’d barely made it to the van after saving Ty when the message appeared. The implication was clear. My fears realized at the sight of it. Bringing the notification up, I watched as it continued counting down.

[Next local dungeon appearance in 167.36 hours]

[Next local dungeon appearance in 167.35 hours]

[Next local dungeon appearance in 167.34 hours]

Kyle, Dave, and Maddie will return

in

Broken Universe

Book Two: Graduation

Character Glossary

Kyle Sangster

Appearance: Seventeen years old with dark brown hair, gray-blue eyes, and a tall, athletic build. Kyle dresses in practical, low-profile clothing—dark layers, durable boots, and neutral tones meant to avoid attention. There’s a quiet intensity to him, a stillness in his movements and a weight behind his gaze that suggests he's always thinking several steps ahead. He moves like someone who’s been hunted before—and survived.

Personality:
Quiet, measured, and far older than his years in temperament, Kyle carries the burden of two lifetimes. Though respectful and calm, he rarely reveals what he’s truly thinking. His loyalty is unwavering once earned, but trust does not come freely. Beneath the silence is a tactical mind and a survivor’s grit—someone who’s led armies, made impossible decisions, and returned with both scars and secrets.

Abilities:
As an experience-type, Kyle has no natural limit—his strength grows only through hard-earned action, not gifts or shortcuts. Years of survival in Altlandia have honed his mastery of stealth and battlefield awareness, while his magical abilities now include True Sight (allowing him to perceive weaknesses, names, and traits), and early Controller-class spells like Slow, Speed, and Mark Target. He also possesses a few legendary skills, such as mining that allow him to detect metals, ores, and buried resources. Strategic by nature and forged through conflict, Kyle leads through example, and with instinctive control and quiet precision.

Overview:
Once a war-hardened emperor in the fantasy realm of Altlandia, Kyle magically forced his way back to Earth, resulting in him being placed into his seventeen-year-old body—powerless, unknown, and quietly rebuilding. While the world sees a miracle recovery from a coma, Kyle knows the truth: Earth has changed. Magic is awakening. And whatever forces rewrote reality to accept it... may not be finished yet.

“Dave” David Engel

Appearance:
Seventeen years old with a relaxed, athletic build, short blonde hair, and thoughtful blue eyes. Dave usually dresses in hoodies, flannel layers, and worn jeans—functional clothes that match his grounded nature. He carries himself with easy confidence, his posture casual but alert. There’s a quiet readiness to him, like someone who’s used to helping others and stepping in when it matters.

Personality:
Loyal, perceptive, and disarmingly witty, Dave balances humor with an innate sense of responsibility. Though he cracks jokes and deflects tension, he pays close attention to the people around him—especially Kyle and Maddie. He’s not easily shaken, but when he is, he grounds himself in action. Dave doesn’t posture or seek attention, but when the moment comes, he doesn’t hesitate. His loyalty runs deep, and once he commits, he’s all in.

Abilities:
As a healer-type progression user, Dave’s abilities are oriented around restoration and physical resilience. Though still early in his awakening, he’s already capable of instinctive energy use—reading injuries and accelerating recovery. His natural toughness and awakened durability make him deceptively hard to injure. In combat, he wields collapsible batons with surprising precision, blending instinct with speed, especially when enhanced by Kyle’s spells. Dave’s strength lies not just in magic, but in the kind of calm focus that turns potential into action.

Overview:
Dave is Kyle’s lifelong best friend—the one who never stopped visiting during the coma, and the first to be trusted with the truth. After learning about Altlandia, and Earth’s changing nature, he not only believes Kyle but steps into the fight beside him. Now awakened, employed as a Creekstone field advisor, and training for real-world threats, Dave serves as Kyle’s second-in-command—reliable, capable, and quietly becoming a force of his own.

Maddie Draycott

Appearance:
Seventeen years old with wavy black hair often tied back or tucked beneath vintage scarves. Her eyes are a sharp hazel, quick to observe and quicker to judge worth. Maddie favors a retro-modern style—fitted wool coats, layered dresses, handmade accessories—always blending old-world charm with practical touches. Though not imposing in size, her presence is quietly commanding. She moves with purpose, even when uncertain.

Personality:
Independent, intelligent, and emotionally grounded, Maddie rarely follows the crowd. She thinks before she speaks, but doesn’t hold back when something matters. Artistic and fiercely curious, she approaches the world like a puzzle she intends to solve—on her own terms. Though she hides her fears well, Maddie isn’t reckless. She calculates her risks and chooses where to place her trust, which makes her loyalty sharp-edged and lasting. Beneath her calm exterior is a deep reservoir of strength.

Abilities:
Maddie is a progression-type known as a Luxumbra Sage, a rare and volatile dual affinity that grants her access to both light and dark magic. Though still early in her development, she’s already demonstrated the ability to cast precision-based light lances and heavy-impact shadow bolts. Her darkness affinity also allows her to manipulate—dimming lights, cloaking movement, and softening presence.

Overview:
Maddie stumbled onto her own real magic through an old book and raw instinct—but what began as curiosity quickly became transformation. Now one of the few awakened individuals on Earth, she’s part of Kyle’s inner circle. Calm under pressure with her friends by her side, Maddie brings more than just power to the group. She brings questions—about reality, choice, and what it means to change the world when the world no longer makes sense.

Henry Sangster (Kyle’s Father)

Appearance:
Late forties with salt-and-pepper hair, a strong jaw, and weathered hands that speak of years in the field. Tall and lean with a quiet physical presence, Henry dresses in work boots, button up shirts, and clothes built for utility rather than appearance. His posture is steady, his movements economical. In any room, he’s the calm center.

Personality:
Quiet, capable, and deeply principled, Henry is the kind of man who lets actions speak louder than words. He rarely raises his voice, but when he does, people listen. As a father, he leads by example—offering freedom, but expecting accountability. His humor is dry, his insight sharp, and his trust hard-earned. Though not prone to outward emotion, his love for his family runs deep and constant, revealed in the things he builds and the time he gives.

Abilities:
Henry possesses no magical or level-based abilities, but his real-world skills are formidable. A senior civil engineer with decades of experience, he understands land, terrain, and infrastructure like few others. He’s practical, mechanically inclined, and unshakably reliable in both emergencies and long-term planning. His greatest strength is his unwavering presence—both as a father and a builder of futures.

Overview:
More than just Kyle’s father, Henry serves as the anchor to the life Kyle left behind—and the man Kyle aspires to emulate. He helps navigate the legal complexities of Creekstone Holdings, offers practical support during the estate restoration, and provides steady guidance even when the world around them begins to shift. In a story filled with magic and mystery, Henry is proof that strength doesn’t always need power—it just needs resolve.

“Bel” Belinda Anne Sangster (Kyle’s Mother)

Appearance:
Mid-forties with chestnut hair often tied back in a loose twist, gentle features, and sharp, expressive eyes. Bel dresses in comfortable, elegant clothing—cardigans, jeans, and soft earth tones that blend grace with approachability. She carries herself with quiet poise and a subtle strength that never asks permission to be felt.

Personality:
Warm, perceptive, and fiercely protective of her family, Bel Sangster is the kind of mother who remembers every detail but says only what needs to be said. She feels things deeply but rarely shows it unless she chooses to. Her kindness is never weakness—it’s weaponized wisdom. She listens more than she speaks, sees through excuses with ease, and meets cruelty with precision rather than volume.

Abilities:
Bel has no magical gifts, but her emotional intelligence and social intuition are nearly supernatural. She reads people instinctively and knows how to disarm tension without ever appearing confrontational. Her strength lies in her empathy, resilience, and ability to make even the worst day feel survivable. In the chaos that surrounds Kyle’s return, she becomes a quiet shield he never has to ask for.

Overview:
Bel supported Kyle through every stage of his coma and recovery—emotionally, financially, and spiritually. Along with Henry, she sold nearly everything to give Kyle the best care, and now that he’s back, she refuses to let him carry the weight alone. She receives his wealth not with greed, but with gratitude—and uses it to begin rebuilding not just their lives, but their legacy. Whether facing down predators like Tabbetha Barrington or reading between Kyle’s silences, Bel is a pillar no magic could ever replace.

Nana (Maddie’s Grandmother)

Appearance:
A striking woman in her late sixties or early seventies with silver-white hair kept in a precise French twist and eyes that miss nothing. She dresses with deliberate care—tailored coats, vintage brooches, polished shoes—all chosen with intent, not vanity. Every movement is measured. Every glance, purposeful. She doesn’t waste steps, words, or attention.

Personality:
Elegant, sharp, and unfailingly composed, Nana projects refinement with an edge. She rarely comments on what she sees, but nothing escapes her notice. Her silence is never passive—it’s observant, weighing everything. Though she doesn’t interfere in Maddie’s choices, she watches closely, offering guidance not through instruction but presence. Her love is real but guarded, shaped by a life that taught her when to speak and when to simply remain.

Abilities:
Nana possesses no known magical abilities, but her intuition borders on uncanny. Capable of destroying an opponent with a well-placed phrase—she has the poise of someone who’s spent her life among people who wield power—political, social, or otherwise—and knows how to disarm it without drawing a weapon. Her emotional control and observational depth make her a quiet sentinel in Maddie’s life.

Overview:
After Maddie’s parents died, Nana became her sole guardian, providing stability, routine, and a home filled with quiet warmth and expectation. She’s not overbearing, but she notices more than she says and keeps a careful eye on the people Maddie brings close. During their outings, she accompanies Maddie and her friends by invitation, offering gentle reminders and quiet observations. Though she doesn’t understand everything happening around her granddaughter, she supports her in the ways that matter—by showing up, paying attention, and trusting Maddie’s judgment more than most adults would.

Gary Engel (Dave’s Father)

Appearance:
Early fifties with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, clear gray eyes, and a fit frame that reflects a life of quiet discipline. Gary dresses cleanly but casually—pressed polos, dark jeans, and well-kept outdoor jackets. He favors neutral colors and reliable gear, often carrying himself with the quiet confidence of someone who solves problems for a living and doesn’t feel the need to advertise it.

Personality:
Even-tempered, hard-working, and quietly humorous, Gary is the sort of father who leads by doing and rarely needs to raise his voice. He’s an intentional man—measured in how he speaks, when he acts, and what he allows to affect him. He supports Dave with unspoken trust and gentle guardrails, never overstepping but always watching. He respects strength, but he values patience more.

Abilities:
While he has no magical powers, Gary works as a regional systems analyst and logistics coordinator for a private infrastructure firm out of Chattanooga. His job involves overseeing efficiency and compliance across transportation and energy projects, which gives him both financial stability and a deep understanding of planning, routing, and emergency mitigation. He’s also a skilled marksman and recreational hunter, using his cabin in the woods as a seasonal getaway for family and quiet retreats.

Overview:
Gary Engel has been friends with Henry Sangster longer than either of their sons have been alive. When Kyle began recovering, Gary didn’t prod or ask questions—he simply offered support, the way old friends do. He trusts his son, and he trusts Kyle, and he’s wise enough to know something deeper is happening without demanding explanations. Grounded but not naïve, Gary is a man who has chosen calm over control—and made that choice a strength.

Bee Engel (Dave’s Mother)

Appearance:
Late forties with smooth olive-toned skin, chestnut hair often pulled into a soft braid or bun, and calm blue eyes that radiate both kindness and clarity. Bee dresses in classic, comfortable styles—fitted sweaters, denim, aprons when cooking—with just enough personal touch to show care without extravagance. She always looks put together, not to impress, but because she believes excellence starts at home.

Personality:
Gentle but commanding, Bee is the kind of woman who makes a room feel warmer the moment she enters it—and quieter if needed. She is calm under pressure, decisive when it counts, and never idle. While she rarely raises her voice, her expectations are known and respected. Bee isn’t interested in trends or applause; her pride comes from running a home that runs well, raising a son who respects others, and creating a place where peace is not just hoped for—but enforced.

Abilities:
Bee has no magical abilities, but she excels in the role she chose—homemaker and mother. She keeps the household running smoothly, makes every dollar count, and sees to it that meals are made, needs are met, and everyone around her has what they need long before they ask. Her instincts are sharp, and her influence is often felt more than seen

Overview:
Bee Engel may not know everything happening beneath the surface of Dave’s world, but she knows her son, and that’s enough. She supports Gary without question and runs her home with quiet authority. Whether Dave’s day brings school, hunting trips, or something stranger, Bee is the constant in the background—keeping the lights on, the pantry full, and the people she loves steady.

James R. Truman (Attorney & Legal Strategist for Creekstone Holdings)

Appearance:
Mid-fifties with short, dark hair graying at the temples, clean-shaven, and sharply dressed in tailored suits. His posture is straight, his movements deliberate. He wears subtle but expensive accessories—a leather watch, polished shoes, minimalist cufflinks—that signal wealth without flash.

Personality:
Polite, exacting, and quietly formidable, Truman is a man who reads people the way most read contracts. He rarely speaks without purpose and never asks a question he doesn’t already know the answer to. Professional to the core, he respects competence over charisma and places high value on facts, discretion, and follow-through. He isn’t cold—just efficient. His loyalty, once given, is absolute, and he operates with the understanding that some clients are more than they appear.

Abilities:
Truman possesses no magical skills, but he is a master of systems—legal, financial, and bureaucratic. With decades of experience in high-level corporate law, he specializes in shielding wealth, insulating ownership, and constructing airtight organizational structures. He’s also a skilled negotiator and tactician, capable of undermining adversaries without ever raising his voice or drawing attention.

Overview:
James R. Truman was brought in early through Henry Sangster, tasked with helping a recovering teenager establish legal independence and quietly manage a substantial, instant fortune. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. Instead, he built what Kyle needed: a blind trust, a front-facing LLC, and layers of legal protection to keep his identity hidden and his assets secure. Since then, Truman has acted as both shield and strategist—deflecting interference from figures like Tabbetha Barrington and ensuring Creekstone Holdings grows without drawing too many unwanted eyes. He knows Kyle is different and is fascinated by the mystery of him. Driven by his oath as an attorney and his unwavering personal ethics, he prioritizes his clients above all else.

Tabbetha Barrington (Bank Owner – Barrington First Trust)

Appearance:
In her late forties but clinging hard to the illusion of twenty-nine, Tabbetha Barrington wears the armor of wealth like it’s skin—tailored silk blouses, sleek pencil skirts, and designer heels that announce her presence with every step. Her hair is dyed a glossy brunette, styled with precision that dares anyone to question its authenticity. From a distance, she looks polished. Up close, the cracks show: makeup applied with the heavy hand of someone mimicking youth, lips too red, smile too tight. Her brown eyes, cold and cruel, never soften—not even when she’s pretending to be kind. Her fingers, always manicured and adorned with rings, move like talons—grasping, pointing, pressing power into place. Tabbetha believes she looks flawless. What others see is effort. Lots and lots of effort.

Personality:
Vain, controlling, and deeply insecure beneath a veneer of sophistication, Tabbetha lives to be seen, respected, and feared—preferably all at once. She rewrites history in her head to preserve her ego and projects superiority while quietly resenting anyone who hasn’t had to claw for control the way she believes she has. She believes in hierarchy, in appearances, and in keeping people in their proper place—especially those who don’t grovel the way she thinks they should.

Abilities:
No magical traits, but Tabbetha wields institutional and social power like a weapon. As the owner of Barrington First Trust, she controls loans, mortgages, and financial influence across Grayton Creek. She’s well-connected politically on a local level and knows how to delay permits, file nuisance claims, and manipulate bureaucratic systems to create pressure. Her real strength lies in weaponizing red tape and public perception.

Overview:
Once a social climber who married into wealth and inherited control of the local bank and its branches, Tabbetha now sees herself as Grayton Creek’s quiet queen—deserving of admiration and obedience. When Kyle and his parents begin to rise without her permission, she takes it as a personal affront. Her efforts to sabotage their progress—through zoning challenges, historical site petitions, and targeted slander—are less about profit and more about power.

Morgan Alvarez (Driver and Field Operative – Creekstone Holdings)

Appearance:
Late fifties with deep brown skin, a square jaw, and short-cropped black hair flecked with early gray at the temples. Morgan has a solid, compact build—like someone who never let his military fitness lapse—and typically dresses in dark slacks, plain polos, and fitted jackets that don’t draw attention but allow for quick movement. He wears mirrored sunglasses often enough that they feel like part of his uniform, and his expression rarely reveals more than necessary.

Personality:
Quiet, focused, and professionally detached, Morgan says little but sees everything. He’s not cold—just economical with words and movement. There’s a calm confidence in the way he handles himself, the kind that comes from years of being the first one in and the last one to panic. Loyal once trust is earned, Morgan doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t need to be told twice—or at all.

Abilities:
Morgan has no magical abilities, but it can be assumed he brings a tactical skillset honed through years in law enforcement and the military. He’s ability as a driver is unquestioned as his punctuality and vehicle maintenance.

Overview:
Morgan Alvarez started as a rideshare driver who made an impression. Professional, quiet, and sharply observant, he handled every assignment with care and never asked questions, even when the pickups got strange. Kyle took notice, tested him quietly, then offered him a full-time position. Now employed by Creekstone Holdings, Morgan serves as Kyle’s personal driver and unofficial security—a presence in the background who’s seen just enough to suspect something unusual, but loyal enough not to ask.

Marissa Hale (Legal Operations – Truman & Associates)

Appearance:
Mid-thirties with a polished, understated style that leans toward tailored slacks, muted blouses, and low-profile accessories. Her red hair is usually pulled back or neatly clipped, and a pair of slim glasses often rests just low enough on her nose to signal business is about to begin. Marissa is rarely seen without a legal pad in one hand and a laptop bag over the other shoulder. She dresses for function, not fashion, but there’s nothing casual about her presence.

Personality:
Efficient, direct, and exceptionally competent, Marissa doesn’t bother with small talk unless it serves a purpose. She’s detail-oriented and tactically aware, especially when it comes to bureaucratic maneuvering and legal pressure points. While professional to a fault, her distaste for manipulation and bullying shows in the small moments—thinned lips, measured silence, a glance over her glasses. She respects precision, hates wasted time, and values people who do their homework.

Abilities:
Marissa possesses no magical abilities, but she is a highly capable legal operative with deep knowledge of zoning law, trust mechanics, and political interference strategies. She knows how to file the right motion to stall a threat—or bury it. She also handles employment and operational paperwork for Creekstone Holdings, including Kyle’s internal team, and works directly under Truman on sensitive matters.

Overview:
Marissa Hale didn’t choose this assignment—Truman assigned her. But since stepping into Kyle’s orbit, she’s recognized something most haven’t: this isn’t a typical client, and the stakes are far from normal. She hasn’t asked for the whole picture—yet—but she’s watching carefully, tracking every detail, and making sure the paper trail behind Creekstone is as tight as it is quiet. Whether it’s field contracts or legal countermeasures, Marissa is the one making sure nothing slips through the cracks.

Donald Halden (Private Investment Strategist – Consultant to Creekstone Holdings)

Appearance:
Early thirties with neatly styled blond hair, clean-shaven face, and a wardrobe that walks the line between high-end finance and low-profile professionalism—tailored suits, subtle watches, and shoes that never scuff. Donald presents like someone who’s used to boardrooms, but smart enough not to flash power where discretion is needed. His movements are smooth, his posture deliberate, and his expressions calculated with practiced ease.

Personality:
Astute, analytical, and calm under pressure, Donald Halden thrives on complexity and the thrill of finding order in financial chaos. He doesn’t talk to fill silence—he talks to clarify. He’s used to clients who want the world to notice them; Kyle is the rare exception, and that alone catches his interest beyond Kyle’s young age. Though measured in tone, Donald is curious by nature and sharp enough to notice patterns that don’t fit conventional explanation. He respects intelligence, and when he finds it, he adapts accordingly.

Abilities:
Donald has no magical abilities, but his financial acumen is elite. He specializes in discrete portfolio structuring, offshore asset management, and high-yield, low-visibility investments. His skill lies in keeping wealth mobile, untraceable, and legally insulated—exactly the kind of mind Kyle needs for quiet expansion. He also demonstrates a rare ability to shift gears mid-conversation, quickly transitioning from presentation to collaboration when Kyle’s insights surprise him.

Overview:
Handpicked by Truman and brought in under a fortified NDA, Donald Halden expected a high-risk hedge fund or a reclusive trust heir—not a seventeen-year-old with an empire in motion. But after one meeting, Donald understood what Truman already knew: this wasn’t a rising star—it was something unclassified. The kind of client that doesn’t exist on paper and shouldn’t exist in reality. And yet, there he was. Now, he works behind the scenes to move Creekstone’s growing fortune without triggering alarms, quietly becoming one of the few professionals Kyle trusts to think several moves ahead.

Kristen Cooper (Dave’s Girlfriend, Kyle’s Former Crush)

Appearance:
Seventeen years old with dark brunette hair in soft Audrey Hepburn-style bangs, expressive brown eyes, and a slender, graceful frame. Kristen’s resemblance to a young Hepburn is uncanny—enough that Dave noticed long before either of them got close. She tends toward a classic look: cardigans, fitted jeans, and subtle jewelry that leans more timeless than trendy. She carries herself with a ballerina's posture and grace.

Personality:
Poised, emotionally honest, and not afraid to speak her mind, Kristen is often caught between what she feels and what she wishes she didn’t. She wants to do right by the people she cares about—but also wants to be seen, remembered, even longed for. There’s a subtle conflict in her: the need for closure and the hope for lingering impact. She owns her mistakes when they surface, but like many her age, she sometimes doesn’t realize what she’s really seeking until the moment passes.

Abilities:
Kristen has no magical or level-based abilities. Her strength lies in emotional awareness, self-correction, and the kind of vulnerability that—when properly channeled—helps her grow past old mistakes.

Overview:
Kristen was once the center of Kyle’s teenage focus, right before his disappearance. While he lay in a coma, she and Dave grew close, bonded by shared loss and long conversations that slowly turned into something more. Though she hoped Kyle might still carry a torch for her, Halloween night gave her the answer: Kyle remembered her, but the emotional tie had been erased. He told her she had a great guy in Dave, and—perhaps without realizing it—helped her shut down the part of herself still craving validation. It wasn’t cruel. It was freeing. And in that moment, Kristen finally let go.

Ty Ransom (Student – Grayton Creek High)

Appearance:
Seventeen years old with a thick linebacker build, square jaw, and the kind of confident smirk that looks good on a football field but wears thin in real life. Ty usually wears his varsity jacket like a badge of status, and moves with the swagger of someone who’s always been told he’s the biggest guy in the room. But lately, there’s a visible weight behind his posture—like the world’s started pushing back.

Personality:
On the surface, Ty is loud, arrogant, and quick to throw the first insult—or the first punch. But behind the bravado is a teenager cracking under pressure. He lashes out to distract himself from everything he doesn’t want to admit: the fear, the guilt, the gnawing sense that his life is heading nowhere fast. Most people see a bully. What they don’t see is a kid who hates who he’s become and has no idea how to change it.

Abilities:
Still early in his awakening, Ty shows signs of earth affinity—resilience, strength, and a growing connection to natural energy. Kyle identifies his traits during their early confrontations and confirms it after rescuing him from the goblins. Though untrained, Ty’s durability and raw physicality hint at his future role as a progression-type built for frontline combat.

Overview:
Ty Ransom was the guy who shoved first, joked last, and never took anything seriously—until Nightmare in the Woods ended in blood. After being abducted and nearly killed, Ty breaks down and confesses what few would expect: he hates football, he hates who he’s been, and he knows he’s been running from everything that hurts. With a broken home due to a mother who sees him as a trophy, Ty has lived as a product of pressure, not purpose. But now, with a second chance and the beginnings of something deeper stirring inside him, he may finally have a path forward—if he’s willing to take it.

Gods of Altlandia

Loptr (Trickster God)

Appearance:
A striking figure clad in the flamboyant fashions of his primary worshippers, the kitsune. He combines the flair of a 15th-century European dandy with the poised elegance of geisha attire—ribbons, patterns, and silk layered with chaotic precision. Every part of him demands attention, and he revels in the spectacle.

Overview:
A trickster deity of mischief and chaos, Loptr rarely offers direct help, but his cryptic advice often carries deeper truth. He speaks in riddles and sarcasm, but Kyle suspects that beneath the bravado lies a being who sees farther than most—and sometimes intervenes more than he admits.

Lucinda (Goddess of Earth and Fertility)

Appearance:
A radiant curvaceous woman with knee-length brown hair that flows like water, concealing her form with effortless grace. Her eyes are bright brown, flecked with glimpses of emerald stars, and her skin is perpetually sun-kissed. She carries the scent of wildflowers wherever she walks, and when she departs, her form dissolves into a swirl of fragrant rose petals.

Overview:
Compassionate and deeply emotional, Lucinda is one of the deities who summoned Kyle to Altlandia. She grew to care for him deeply and pleaded with him to remain. While nurturing by nature, her emotions run strong—capable of warmth, sorrow, and devastation in equal measure.

Zephyrion (God of Storms and Wisdom)

Appearance:
A tall, weathered figure dressed in the plain, rugged garb of a common traveler. Despite his modest appearance, his presence carries the weight of storms held at bay. His voice can thunder like a tempest or speak with subdued clarity, always steady, always watching.

Overview:
Zephyrion is the voice of restraint and long-term vision among the gods. He respects mortal will and rarely interferes directly, but his support of Kyle was steady throughout his rise in Altlandia. A being of patience and storms, he favors wisdom earned over power given.

Places of Influence

A guide to the settings, structures, and institutions shaping the world around Kyle Sangster and the quiet awakening spreading beneath the surface.

Grayton Creek

Grayton Creek is a close-knit little big town, nestled in the Smoky Mountains, tucked between wooded ridges and the winding creeks that gave it its name. It’s the kind of place where kids grow up riding bikes on gravel roads, neighbors still wave from their porches, and everyone knows which church hosts the best potluck dinners.

The town center is built around a modest yet busy square, complete with an ice cream parlor, a coffee shop that doubles as the local gossip hub, and many independent storefronts that have been run by the same families for generations. Seasonal festivals are a point of pride here—especially Halloween and Christmas, when the square fills with hand-carved decorations, food booths, and games that haven’t changed much in fifty years.

Surrounding the town are miles of hiking trails, old parks, and forest paths that weave through thick stretches of hardwood and pine. While much of the land remains undeveloped, it’s not forgotten—used by hunters, hikers, and teens looking for somewhere to escape supervision for a few hours.

People in Grayton Creek tend to be sincere. They may not be flashy or overly curious, but they mean well. News travels fast—sometimes faster than facts—but for the most part, it's a community that takes care of its own. Kyle Sangster and his family are well known, especially after everything they went through during his recovery. Most folks keep their questions quiet and their judgments quieter.

It’s a town that runs on tradition, steady rhythms, and the sense that some places are better left unchanged.

Sangster Estate

Once known locally as “The Castle,” the Sangster Estate sits on the wooded edge of Grayton Creek like a monument someone forgot to tear down. Built over a century ago by industrialist Jonas Levington, the limestone manor was designed to last through anything—financial collapse, war, time itself. And for the most part, it has. Three stories tall, fortified with thick-cut stone walls, arched copper-trimmed windows, and twin towers that once served functional, not decorative, purposes—the estate is equal parts fortress and legacy.

When Kyle Sangster purchased the property, it was overgrown and nearly forgotten. But under his direction, his father, Henry Sangster, drew up plans to bring it back to life—not just as a home, but as a generational stronghold. The upgrades include steel-core framing, reinforced joists, and disaster-resistant glass, all designed to transform the estate into a modern-day fortress without disturbing its historic foundation. Additional improvements—fiber optics, redundant power systems, elevators, and a full interior restoration—have been carefully mapped out to honor the estate’s legacy while ensuring it stands ready for whatever the future brings.

Inside, the house holds offices, reading nooks, large halls, and six massive bedrooms, each with its own fireplace and ensuite bathroom—an uncommon luxury when the estate was first built. The kitchen, a sprawling space, filled with antique stoves, butcher block counters, and space enough to cook for a crowd. A two-story private library rises along the western wing, complete with wraparound balconies and sliding ladders. Beneath it all, a fully vaulted stone cellar stretches deep and wide, built like a bunker and cool enough to store perishables, wine, or secrets. Out back, a vine-covered orangery waits in patient ruin—already claimed by Bel Sangster as her personal restoration project.

Despite some dubious resistance from town officials, the estate is slowly being brought back to life. For Kyle, it’s more than just a house. It’s a safe, permanent place for his parents, a way to give them the stability and care he believes they’ve always deserved. Quietly, and with purpose, he’s turning it into something lasting.

Creekstone Holdings

Creekstone Holdings began as a legal shell—just an LLC with a clean name and a blank slate. But behind its quiet paperwork and careful structure is Kyle Sangster, building something with deliberate distance from his own name. Set up through a blind trust, the company shields Kyle from public records, legal entanglements, and unwanted attention. On paper, he’s just the well-hidden beneficiary. In practice, he’s the architect.

The company’s focus is simple: land, resources, and privacy. Creekstone targets forgotten properties—abandoned lots, shallow mine sites, undervalued parcels missed by bigger developers. But Kyle doesn’t guess. Thanks to his unique talents, every piece of land acquired has proven rich in rare minerals, fuel deposits, or something even more valuable. The acquisitions are strategic, quiet, and increasingly difficult to ignore.

Inside the small but growing operation, roles have begun to take shape. James Truman handles legal insulation and corporate structure. Donald Halden, a private advisor brought in under tight NDA, is mapping out long-term investments. Dave and Maddie are listed as field advisors, but their titles are more a gesture than a job—legal cover that lets Kyle quietly fund their gear, training, and involvement without raising questions. And Morgan Alvarez, Kyle’s quietly hired driver and former deputy, acts as the first line of eyes and ears outside public view.

In just over a month, Creekstone has generated more than eighteen million dollars in liquid assets—most of it sitting quietly in accounts no one thinks to look at. The plan isn’t for flash. It’s for speed, wealth, and total control—all under the radar. What Kyle is building is far bigger than Grayton Creek. For now, Creekstone is just a name on paper. But soon, it’ll be the name behind everything.

Altlandia

Altlandia wasn’t its original name. The world had one, old and sacred, but the gods offered Kyle the chance to rename it—a gift reserved for only their chosen champion. They told him the act would break the world’s internal limits for him alone, letting him rise faster, learn quicker, and surpass boundaries that bound others. He was sixteen, still reeling from being summoned, and half-joking when he called it “Altlandia”—short for “alternate land.” It wasn’t clever or grand, but the magic took it seriously. From that moment on, the world changed around him. And so did his place in it.

The world he ruled was one of vast plains, floating mana towers, half-buried ruins, and kingdoms still nursing scars from ancient wars. Rivers cut through farmland. Beastkin and elves traded with humans in rebuilt cities. Dungeons rose and fell. And above it all, the gods watched—powerful, fallible, and bound by rules they themselves could barely explain.

Kyle didn’t start as a ruler. He started as a summoned champion—a teenager pulled from Earth, gifted by divine hands, and thrown into war. Over the years, he rose through trial and blood to lead armies, crush demon lords, and reunite fractured nations. By the time he left, Kyle wasn’t just a warrior. He was an emperor. A tactician. A myth.

The world itself ran on a magical system: progression-types gained power through focused cultivation and natural affinity, while rare experience-types like Kyle grew only through action—without limits, but also without shortcuts. Altlandia was full of dungeons, wild mana, and ancient mechanisms that powered both civilization and chaos. Its arcane towers, built by a forgotten race, served as beacons of energy—and in the end, it was those towers that helped Kyle craft the impossible spell that sent him home.

He never chose to abandon it. But when the time came, he chose Earth. Chose family.

And now, with magic waking throughout his home sphere, the lessons Kyle learned in Altlandia—the alliances, the systems, the mistakes—may be the only reason Earth stands a chance.

Obligatory Authors Note

If you enjoyed the story, then please consider leaving a review for the book. Feedback is everything for a new and independent author. Positive feedback (four and five stars) is always welcome and helps other readers find books they would enjoy.

I’m currently writing book two, and if all goes well, meaning people like the first one, it will be completed somewhere between quickly and not so quickly. It really depends more on how well the books do in reader land and if real life gets demanding.

Thanks to you all for allowing me to entertain you.

For questions and comments, you can contact me at dklandtroop@gmail.com

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