When did I fail?

  When I trusted Darefei? Like I had any better choice at the time.

  Maybe when I got the bright idea to hunt that wererat thief?

  That old bastard would have betrayed me eventually anyway, right?

  Or maybe the real mistake was coming to this damned palace [...] at all. Should've just died with the villagers.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  The hole yawns beneath us like an orange-glowing pipe. The slimes [...] keep fighting for survival, their silvery tendrils lashing out only to dissolve in the void.

  "...Surface hurts! Magic! Need to cure Din! Survive Din Survive Din!..."

  Damn. What the hell can I even do?

  "Do not fear, mast—Henrique. I see a way out. Will thee trust me?" Houonas [...] asks, her voice cutting through the chaos. The same Houonas who just watched Darefei betray us. Can I believe her?

  Like I have a fucking choice.

  "Yes, Houonas [...]. I'll try to believe." It's all I can manage.

  Her pupil-less white eyes meet mine, filled with something worse than pity—guilt. "I never thought he would... Some become blinded by their domain [...]'s needs. They only see too late how their actions poison what they seek to protect. The Ecclesiastical Order exists only to mold us into Dominion Digits. They care only for profit, not for the hearts or loyalties we carry."

  She hesitates, that blank gaze somehow growing more unsettling. "Wouldst thou... give me the Waster's Reflection artifact?"

  Could I use it to survive the fall? Doubtful. But what choice do I have? She might try to run, but the slimes [...] would tear her apart before she got three steps. Not that it matters—right now she's carrying me like some grotesque princess, my blood soaking into her robes.

  I nudge Geen. The slime [...] hands over the shard relic. If this is betrayal, at least the slimes will make it costly.

  Xeen's still working on my arm, though the Little Shelly necklace might as well be a cheap trinket for all the good it's doing. If it worked like the turtle's magic, I'd be bouncing off the walls by now.

  Maybe Xeen's only healing me out of self-preservation. The slimes [...] need me at full strength. Do I really believe that? I'd rather not think about it.

  Essence [...] swirls around us, coalescing into a watery mirror-surface. Why isn't she pointing it downward?

  "Hold me, Henrique. I shall deliver thee from this misfortune." Like I've got the strength. But the slimes [...] do—their silver tendrils coil around Houonas [...] like living chains.

  She twists mid-air, slamming the watery surface against the tunnel wall. The orange glow eats at it... but not fast enough. A fragile sheet of ice forms for just a second—long enough for her to kick off, launching us toward a side passage.

  Forward. Not down.

  We crash onto a ledge. Houonas [...]' upper arms scramble for purchase while her lower set heaves me up like a sack of grain. For the first time, I hear her grunt—a raw, human sound.

  Then she does something unexpected: yanks out her communicator and hurls it into the void. A red light winks out and falls as well.

  "Pardon, Henrique. Too far to retrieve. There was no other way."

  The relic's gone. But I'm alive. For now.

  "Art thou injured? Shall I carry thee?"

  "Yes. But I'll walk." Lie. The slimes [...] are basically dragging me. "Let's go."

  Into the unknown.

  The darkness gradually lightens. Houonas [...] takes point as we approach the glow.

  What greets us steals my breath.

  The cavern opens into an expansive hideaway, illuminated by shard-lights. Desks overflow with papers and books—some stuffed with shards to bursting. There's amenities: a bath, a withered garden, a small kitchen where cups sit crusted with maroon residue like dried earth.

  But two things command attention:

  A table bearing a book and a white stone tablet pulsing with palpable essence [...].

  A dark red box of impossible craftsmanship—razor-edged, flawlessly smooth, containing a humanoid-shaped hollow filled with multicolored light.

  Shards. No question.

  "Do you know what this is, Houonas [...]?" I sure as hell don't.

  "It seems this sanctum belonged to someone long ago," she murmurs, running fingers through the dust. "Though time has touched it lightly—just this dried dirt, this musky air, this dead garden where only a few fungi cling."

  "Right. This book's gibberish to me. I'm crashing for an hour—wake me then." I'd sleep a week if I could, but our hunters won't wait.

  "As thee wishes." She's already devouring the text, that eerie delight undimmed by hell itself.

  Through mindspeak [...]: "Is Din okay?"

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  "...Will survive. Needs time. Din sleeps now. Din well Din well..."

  I don't know how they'll handle losing another sibling. "Alright. Rest well."

  I collapse onto the dusty bed. Just one hour to forget this nightmare.

  "...Wake up Henrique, the big woman has something to tell you. Din is recovering—don't move your arm! Din strong Din strong! Xeen is doing all it can!..."

  The fact that Xeen is talking now—is that good or bad? I can't even feel my arm. No pain. Nothing. I don't know if that's better or worse.

  Even if my arm is severed, I could theoretically raid a high-tech [...] hospital and get a new one. Not that I see how without stealing supplies or taking someone hostage. Too much hassle, especially when I don't even know what country we're in or if any civilization is nearby.

  I'll pay any price to survive, even if it costs me an arm. Could the slimes [...] operate it without my direct control? If the neural connections remain intact, I might control it like cyberware. That's also an option—if I can find the right surgeon to steal from or bribe, and pray I don't get hacked afterward.

  Not that my country had those capabilities—only some criminal organizations could afford such procedures. And nobody championed neutrality like nations clinging to "pure humanity." Unless you consider mutations as making someone non-human. If the law says mutations are acceptable but implants aren't, who am I to argue?

  The world keeps changing—that's war for you. Would I even recognize my state capital anymore? It's been years since I visited. Like all those fools hiding in the countryside, praying the war would never reach us.

  But I already know it did reach us—just not from our own species this time.

  Enough of that train of thought. At least sleeping in this slime [...] armor beats my old bed—A+ quality comfort.

  Better see what Houonas [...] discovered. Those shards look promising.

  Getting up from the dusty bed proves harder than expected. My whole body feels wrecked, even though only my right arm took that hit from the vampire [...] bitch—Aurore Sangecarious. She nearly killed one of the slimes [...] too, the one who chose to follow me voluntarily. Who am I kidding? I'm not in the mood for dark humor right now. I need power now more than ever.

  It's not just Aurore—that titan knight is on another level entirely. The Gardens heir was a skilled fighter, even if I took her down with a cheap shot. Maybe her speed could have matched Aurore and the titan.

  Slowly, I stand up. The place looks mostly the same, except Houonas [...] has consolidated all the books, scrolls and documents into one massive pile on a central table. Where she dumped the contents from, only the gods know.

  "I see thee has awoken. This place is a haven of knowledge. The owner—deceased now—found peace here in his twilight years."

  So he just retired here? I can think of a dozen better places off the top of my head. Then again, in this new reality, maybe sewer hideouts have their appeal. I can see the logic.

  Not that I have a choice. If I don't move, those assholes will reach my territory and summon me to my death. Better to die on my own terms, fighting back. At least then I might get in an ambush or cheap shot—my specialty.

  "So some guy chose to die down here? Anything actually useful besides the shards?" I gesture at the glowing fragments on the nearest desk.

  "I have compiled a summary of this illustrious Erythocetes [...]' life. I believe thee will find his story both comforting and... familiar in ways."

  I highly doubt that. Not wanting to disappoint Houonas [...] or waste her effort, I take the offered papers. She's apparently condensed all these documents into a manageable report. Might as well read it.

  What did I do to deserve such unruly children? Couldn't they wait for me to die before fighting over my throne? That's the whole point of the succession!

  I can't even play with my great-grandchildren properly now. This new succession will unleash another bloodbath.

  Poison in my blood vials. Poison in my clothes. Poison in my livestock, even in my bathwater! No—I won't give them the satisfaction. They'll wait until this old man breathes his last.

  Everyone thinks ruling means having ultimate power. How wrong they are.

  Your greatest weakness stands before you—your own children, the future of your dynasty. Their mothers' whispers fill their heads, their strategies for outmaneuvering siblings.

  Could we survive without the succession? I've heard of domains [...] that tried, where rulers held no real power. They all ended in tragedy as other domains exploited their weakness.

  As if they're not trying to exploit us now!

  So here I hide in my refuge—one of the first things I built as ruler. My old friend constructed it for me (may the gods keep his soul). I nearly had to kill him to maintain secrecy, though I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't brainwash him like we did the workers—I lacked a mentalist daughter like he had.

  My own daughters? All brawn and fashion sense, nothing practically useful.

  Now my notes turn to my final project—what I've done with this stolen time.

  Work.

  Relentless work to prove that insufferable bastard Rowan wrong once and for all.

  From our first days as students under the same tutor, I knew he'd be a viper. His jealousy poisoned every interaction.

  I remember clearly when that fool declared that an elemental-blood hybrid archetype could never match a pure elemental's power.

  Houonas [...], what exactly is an archetype?

  "Affirmative. Archetypes are the formal classification for what thee calls constellation focal points. A ward novice represents the basic tier, while a wardmaster denotes advanced mastery. Specializations further differentiate them—for example, a protection ward novice versus a spy ward master. Essentially, they describe the structure of one's starlit space."

  "Thanks." That makes some sense. So archetypes are like character classes. What would mine be? Blood-fire novice? Maybe I'll invent something cooler later—if I survive this mess.

  Back to the dead man's writings:

  Of course that cretin would say that—his bloodline produces pure ice wielders. As a Sangecarious, I had no choice—blood is our heritage.

  Despite all our teachings, all our knowledge... he was right. Completely right.

  How he reveled in rubbing my face in it at every opportunity.

  As heir, I could have killed him. But he was the son of a powerful governor, his city a crown jewel of the domain [...].

  My tutor offered wisdom: "A dead man cannot appreciate his ruined reputation."

  I've balanced the scales somewhat, but even as ruler, that vile rat still uses our childhood as dinner party amusement.

  Now I understand part of my father's hatred for the governors. Even with my position, I can't simply strangle them—the cost to my family would be too great.

  So here I skulk like a geriatric mouse while my rival enjoys his dotage surrounded by family. If only his line had adopted artificial succession, I might die content. But no—he gets to avoid that particular hell.

  He's undoubtedly savoring my predicament.

  So I enact my final plan—one strike to wound two enemies.

  You, my rebellious children reading this, and that bastard Rowan!

  You want my shards? They're in my crystal coffin. But to claim them, you must prove me right by mastering the magnificent skilltree I discovered!

  It's easy to dismiss a dead old man as a fraud, but a living heretic? That's harder to ignore.

  I could have registered this with the Sangecarious domain [...] shard, but who would have championed it? Even I doubted its viability—I would have been first to ban it as useless had initial tests failed.

  Now let me teach you, my ungrateful whelps.

  "Perfect. Now a dead elder wants me as his test subject." Well, he experimented on himself first. Let's see what he actually accomplished.

  twice a week—Mondays and Saturdays—to give myself some breathing room.