(Dylan)

The next morning…

Dylan woke up to hearing whispers just outside of his door again before it flung open.

“Present,” he said. His hammock rocked violently back and forth, threatening to toss him. Runemist and Wedge were standing in the hallway.

“Get him ready,” Runemist told Wedge and then walked off.

“Greetings, Dylan.” Wedge skipped his usual formalities—that was new. “I see you are adapting to your weaknesses.”

“What?” Dylan sat up, kicking his legs over the side of the hammock as he rubbed his eyes.

“You prepared yourself before going to sleep. It saves time, waking up late as you do with your excessive sleeping requirements.” Wedge gestured to the gear he’d slept in. “I am curious. Is this a trait all humans share?”

Dylan’s sigh morphed into a yawn. “It’s too early for this. Are you sure I can’t have any mana-tea?” He looked up at the big guy, pleading with his saddest puppy dog eyes. “Just one sip—we should test it.”

“No.” Wedge shook his head, refusing to entertain the idea.

Dylan’s shoulders slumped. “You’re mean…”

Wedge frowned and cleared his throat. “No one will be having any mana-tea. The brewing machine has been disassembled to fix the ship.”

Dylan’s head snapped up. Drowsiness vanished, replaced by dread. “Is… is that a joke? Please tell me you’re joking.”

Wedge met his gaze with a humorless expression. “I do not joke about mana-tea.”

Dylan huffed as he got to his feet. “Man… Now everyone’s going to be extra grumpy.” He froze, unable to move as a terrible thought ripped through his mind. Terrified of the answer, he forced himself to ask, “What about the deathwash machine?”

“It is safe… for now.”

Dylan exhaled, easing the tension in his shoulders. “Good, because I’m down to this shirt and two pairs of pants until we get back.” He bent down, swiped his dirty pants off the floor, and squeezed past Wedge to find the deathwash machine before it was too late.

“Yes!” He fist pumped, finding the machine empty. After tossing in his pants, he shoved his hand into the top feed slot. A sharp jolt ran up his arm, and he watched his pants as they started tumbling. “I’ll be back for you later,” he said to his pants.

The rest of Nightshade waited for him on the deck so they could all head out together. Quinten noticed him first, straightening from where he leaned on an annoyed-looking Ostello to give Dylan a friendly wave.

“G’day, mate!” Quinten called, grinning.

“Sorry I’m late,” Dylan said.

W’itney lightly jabbed Hay’len with their elbow, gesturing toward Dylan. “And I thought only princesses were heavy sleepers.” Their smile vanished under Eury’s withering glare. Hay’len did their best to hide a grin at the eldest twin’s admonishment. They weren’t particularly good at it.

To Runemist’s credit, she ignored the morning banter and waited patiently for them to finish before starting the meeting. She pointed past the ship and into the jungle.

“The arc beetle isn’t the only dangerous thing out there. I’d hoped to send out my team to get the lay of the land, but that’s not happening. Today, we’re all sticking together.”

Tome & Key stood alert, ready for action. Athrax’s cybernetic arms twitched with anticipation as the old soldier’s gaze locked onto the jungle. Even P’reslen appeared to have cast off the shadow of yesterday, standing tall and ready to face this new day. Dylan couldn’t help but wonder if they’d gotten to the brewing machine before Echo cannibalized it.

Runemist stepped in front of Dylan and his fellow initiates. “Give Wedge or one of my team a tap if you see something you think might be worth investigating. Stow the banter and if you do have to speak, keep it to a whisper. Are there any questions before we head out?”

Dylan raised his hand, and everyone turned to him, waiting for him to speak.

Hay’len leaned in toward him and said, “You know you don’t have to keep doing that, right?”

“Doing what?” Dylan whispered, feeling as if it was the appropriate response.

Hay’len glanced at his raised arm.

Dylan followed their gaze, smiled sheepishly, and put his hand down. “Sorry, how will we be graded?”

That wasn’t a question Runemist expected. “What?”

“For the trial, how will we know if we passed?” he clarified. Eury and the twins nodded in agreement with Dylan and looked expectantly at Runemist.

“Why don’t you worry about coming back alive first, yeah?” Athrax said. “And consider anything more a bonus.”

Wedge, the actual instructor and proctor of the trial, spoke up. “Do not worry about that. Focus on surviving.” That didn’t answer Dylan’s question, but it was solid advice.

There were no other questions, so they set off down the gangplank and into the jungle. Dylan had already made peace with losing his quilted armor, which would have been sweltering under the rising sun’s muggy heat.

He quickly discovered that maces were useless for cutting through underbrush, and his pink crystal dagger, though sharp, was too short for the job. Athrax’s mundane machete was ideal for the task, and he used it to great effect, driving a path through the vegetation.

They continued marching single file under trees, over roots, rocks, and through bushes, stopping frequently to stay hydrated. Dylan knew he was slowing them down, everyone knew, but they were kind enough to let it remain unspoken. Sweat poured down his face, his sleeves too damp to dry his brow. His legs burned, then ached, and now felt like rubber, but he never complained.

His foot slipped on a moss-covered rock, and he teetered on the brink of falling before Eury’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm and steadying him.

“I’ve got you,” she said, holding him upright. Auto-manners was about to thank her. But as quickly as she steadied him, she was gone, already marching on with the group.

“This is going to take forever,” P’reslen complained, frustrated with being grounded. “You sure I can’t just—” He held his arm out, mimicking flight. “I’ll stay under the tree line.”

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“No,” Runemist said. Her fur was matted and damp from the clinging humidity, her tail flicking irritably behind her. “I’ll consider it after we’ve located the arc beetle.” The jungle air hung thick around them, sapping their strength. She glanced back over her shoulder at Dylan, noticing the wobble in his legs again. “Let’s take a quick break.”

Dylan took another pull from his everflow flask, the cool water refreshing and, most importantly, safe to drink. A triple combo of dimension, fire, and frost magic provided hot or cold water on demand, all in a lightweight canteen that stored gallons. Dimension magic was quickly becoming his favorite.

Glancing down at his midsection, he noticed it looked smaller than he remembered. Experience told him hunger would strike in less than an hour. Flak sustained him for just over a day, and his last meal had been almost exactly twenty-four hours ago.

He wished Nathan had come along on the trip. As a physician, he’d know how many days would be safe to go without eating. If the internet was to be believed—a big if—he could survive about a month without food. Of course, those estimates probably didn’t account for daily treks through rough terrain.

Flak was supposed to provide all the nutrients a person needed for a day, but Dylan had a theory he wanted to test—one that would have to wait. Hopefully, in five days, he’d see if one serving of flak could fully resolve any malnutrition. Everyone got to their feet as the water break ended. Their trek resumed.

Athrax led them to a small clearing, almost big enough for all of them to stand shoulder to shoulder. A large leaf slapped Dylan across the cheek with a damp smack, like it had a personal vendetta. He slapped it away from his face. Another smack landed on his other cheek as the stubborn leathery leaf came back for round two. Eury chuckled to herself as she watched Dylan square off against a plant.

“Stop it,” he whispered angrily. “You stupid piece of—” He gripped the stem firmly in both hands, finally getting the upper hand as he tore it from the rest of the bunch, and then threw it to the ground in triumph. His cheeks flushed red from contact, exertion, and embarrassment—in that order.

“Are you done?” Runemist asked. The group stared at him with a mix of amusement and annoyance. Dylan stopped himself from pointing out that the plant had started it.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, glancing down to pick at the grime under his nails.

The clearing was perched atop a ridge, where exposed roots, rocks, and dirt twisted steeply down toward a sprawling meadow below. The trees loomed side by side, forming a thick tree line along the ridge but stopping short of the lowlands.

Athrax descended the cliffside like he’d done it a thousand times before, carving a path through the loose dirt and rocks without a second thought. “Keep moving. No time for fancy footwork.”

“Why can’t we use your door thing to get down there?” Dylan whispered to Quinten.

Quinten leaned toward Dylan. “Look at you, trying to figure out all my secrets.” He playfully tapped Dylan’s chest. “It’s got two charges, mate, and every time someone passes through, it uses one. Runemist told me to keep it handy for a sticky situation. Listen, I’ve got a cousin—”

Runemist shushed them. Athrax made it down safely, and the rest of them followed suit. Nine of them slid down the cliffside, the sharp clatter of falling rocks echoing around them. The old soldier dodged to avoid the cascade of debris chasing after him.

Ostello whispered, “That was too loud.” The ground shifted beneath their feet as deep rumbles echoed around them. In the lowlands, it was impossible to pinpoint the sound’s direction.

“Quiet!” Runemist hushed them. Everyone’s heads swiveled around, trying to locate the source. The rumbles grew louder, shaking the air with each ominous vibration, as something very large headed their way. A cold chill raced down Dylan’s spine, the hairs on his arms standing on end.

“There he is. Big bastard,” Athrax muttered, his cybernetic arms flexing for a fight. “Stay low, and don’t do nothing stupid.”

Dylan crouched as each new rumble brought him lower. The sound bounced off the cliffside, making it impossible to determine the source.

“We’re sitting pups here,” Athrax growled. “What’s the play, Runemist?” He glanced at her, looking for direction.

They didn’t need to find the source of the rumbles; it had found them. The titanic bug lumbered into view on their right, its iridescent shell glinting faintly in the sunlight. It was far bigger than he expected. The five-story tall, six-legged kaiju trudged toward them. Each time another leg made landfall, the ground shook. His childhood obsession with Animal Planet told him he was looking at the galaxy’s largest Hercules beetle.

‘Jesus Christ, I hope it’s the galaxy’s largest beetle,’ he thought.

The black shell shimmered with purple and green hues as it continued to approach. It wasn’t a perfect match for the beetle from Earth. The horns were reversed, and this beetle’s bottom horn was longer.

Three minutes ago, they’d been safely atop the ridge, where they could have slipped back into the jungle unnoticed. Now, they were trapped between an arc beetle and a goddamned cliff. The kaiju wasn’t heading straight for them, but it wasn’t veering far enough away either. Its rhythmic plodding shook the ground as it grew closer and closer.

“Nobody move,” Runemist said.

His hands trembled; their entire defense was to hope it didn’t notice them. His mind ran because his feet couldn’t. How many bugs had he crushed in his life, simply because he could? Hundreds? Just as the uncommon-ranked kaiju began to turn away, someone decided to be a hero.

Dylan heard P’reslen mumble, “What would Lo’kai do…” He assumed P’reslen had been inching away from the beetle like the rest of them. But as soon as the noble draconi had enough distance, he turned to Runemist with determination etched on his face and said, “I’ll lead it away and meet you back at the ship.”

“No!” Runemist growled, spinning around and lunging to grab him. But P’reslen had planned his escape perfectly, launching into the sky with a gust of wind before she could reach him.

The beetle veered away from the group as P’reslen shouted, “Over here!” His voice faltered as he realized his error too late.

A deep thrumming pulsed through Dylan’s chest, vibrating his breaths and quickening with every beat. Arcs of electricity crackled between the beetle’s horns, the flashes growing brighter and sharper.

Undeterred, P’reslen stuck to his plan to lure the monster away. “Come now, mighty beetle! You’ll—”

A sudden, terrible pressure surged through the air, faster than Dylan’s ears could adjust, cutting P’reslen’s speech short. The world fell utterly silent in the moments that followed.

P’reslen plummeted out of the sky as he covered his ears, crashing hard into the ground. Runemist shouted silently, her ears flattened as she clutched them, but Dylan couldn’t read her canine lips. Quinten opened a door and dove through it, appearing beside his fallen friend.

Quinten ignored the green blood running from his elven ears. He grabbed two handfuls of P’reslen’s clothes and hurled him through the door. Out of charges and on cooldown, Quinten looked up at the arc beetle. Dylan watched the emotions flicker across his face: determination, acceptance, and finally defiance, just as the bright ball of arc energy annihilated him.

The explosion was brilliant, powerful enough to shove even the beetle back. More than strong enough to knock the rest of them off their feet, sending them tumbling.

Dylan’s ears popped painfully as the barometric pressure released, followed by a high-pitched ringing that left him deafened. There was a boulder to his left that he barely missed. Runemist hadn’t been as lucky—her blood marked a purple stain where she’d struck the boulder. Her body lay crumpled at its base.

He forced himself to stand, his legs shaking as his head pounded and the world spun around him. He fumbled for a potion in his pocket and shuffled toward Runemist. Before he could get the potion in her mouth, Dylan watched Athrax leap high into the sky at the beetle like a madman.

The brawler hadn’t fully recovered—cascading purple droplets trailed from his wounds as he launched himself forward. He dove in with nothing but two clenched cybernetic fists, no armor, no mender.

Dylan cursed under his breath as the vial slipped from his fingers, spilling the green liquid contents into the thirsty soil. Distracted by his fumble, he didn’t see what happened to Athrax. But the aftermath was clear: the okamijin lay in two pieces. Neither his torso nor his legs moved.

Wedge stood firm with both shields raised as he kept his distance. He held his ground between the beetle and the other, more sensible initiates, who huddled behind him.

Dylan slid the black reaper-round from the buttstock holder Ni’ot had given him and loaded it into the shotgun. He jammed his hand into the bag around his chest, grabbing a fistful of shells and loading them into the magazine as he stumbled forward.

When the next shell wouldn’t fit in the magazine, he figured that was enough for what he had in mind. He had a plan to fix this, to save them all, but he had to act fast.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered, raising the barrel as he pressed the stock against his shoulder.

He aimed to get its attention and pulled the trigger. The black round’s recoil nearly knocked him off his feet. It should’ve punched through the armor and detonated a second later. Instead, it ricocheted off the beetle’s head plating, exploding harmlessly in the sky.

“Aw come on!” Dylan groaned, realizing he’d wasted his best shot. Disappointing Ni’ot would have to be a problem for Future Dylan—right now, there was an arc beetle to deal with.

He fired shot after shot at the five-story building bearing down on him. The damn thing was the fastest building he’d ever seen. As he tried to pump the shotgun for the fifth time, movement to his left caught his attention. The fucking legs had bladed armor… He finally figured out what happened to Athrax just before it hit him. Dylan died before both halves of him hit the ground.