The drill punched through the vault door and twisted it into a knot. There was a flash of Kaia and the screech of torn metal.

The tank wound up flipped on its side, ensnared by jagged, curled slivers of the ruined door. The drill had snapped off and dangled as if hanging by threads. Blue sparks flickered through the blooming cloud of smoke.

Still carrying Leira and Ansoir under his arms, Gwil held his breath and approached the tank. A grin cut through his grimace.

Cort and Diom lay in a heap beneath the crumpled frame of the tank. They were both conscious and appeared to be bickering with each other.

Gwil dropped Leira and Ansoir next to them and then ran into the throne room.

The cavern was as black as the night sky, glittering with stars—obsidian sprinkled with gemstones. At the center of the room, a golden dais.

Sheriff Jackson stood there with his hat lowered over his face, flanked by a pair of his flunkies.

Gwil slid under two thrown spears and then bounced back up, his Nirva swelling, the voices rising with it.

He waded through carnage—broken limbs and split stone faces. Kaia oozed from their bodies and spread across the floor to form a putrid swamp.

The statues that could still move had become deranged. A stone horse with no front legs pushed its torso along the ground like a plow. The many-armed jade statue danced, heedless of her surroundings.

Gwil kept his eyes on the sheriff. The man had not even looked up yet.

Strange movements on the edge of his vision pulled Gwil’s attention. If not for the eyes, he would not have recognized the thing as human.

A petrified mound, with the droopy shape of a melting body. Besides the eyes, a toothless slit of a mouth was the face’s only feature. Irregular chunks of stone sprouted from the gray flesh like a fungus. The heap lay in the arms of a too-real, too-perfect statue of a woman. The Burger.

Gwil sank his Nirva into his legs and then jumped toward the dais.

The sheriff snapped to attention, a broken grin splitting across his face. He conjured a web of jagged silver ropes around the dais.

Gwil landed with his hands and feet in the rungs of the net, but even as he tried to steady himself, he was slipping off.

Landing on his back, Gwil looked at his hands. They’d been shredded—his palms looked like cherry pie filling. The ropes Jackson made were like razor wire.

Like parting curtains, an opening formed in the net, and a mix of Podexians and Taluses poured out. Stone fingers gripped Gwil’s ankle as he tried to scramble away. The crawling statue lurched forward and pinned him down beneath its weight.

A heavy blow blasted the wind from Gwil’s lungs, and the statue exploded into pieces.

Cort leapt over Gwil and engaged the Podexians, opening with a bone-crunching sweep of his giant hammer.

“I think that knocked one of my ribs back into place,” Gwil said, coughing as Leira helped him up.

Jackson raised his fist and whistled. Cort grappled with a pair of Podexians as the group retreated to the other side of the net. Blood splashed to the ground as the razor-rope gave Cort a nasty slice on his forearm.

“Well, well, well,” Jackson said. “What in the seven-legged donkey demon of Cocytus have we got here?”

Gwil threw himself at the conjured barrier again, but the gaps in the net shrank so that he couldn’t fit his hand through. The voices in Gwil’s head loosed a collective gasp as Nirva flooded his tattered hands.

“I’ll be damned, Ansoir,” the sheriff continued. “Ain’t a sliver of a chance I’d have ever bet that you had the guts to wrap yourself up with these animals.” He clapped his hands together twice. “Well played, you spineless bitch.”

Ansoir whimpered and crouched down.

“Ansoir?” said a voice like scattering gravel. Stondemaier Jaqlov’s milky eyes rolled in his crumbling face. “Ophelia? Is Ansoir here?”

The female statue rubbed his back while staring at the ground.

Leira tugged at Gwil’s sleeve. “That’s Ansoir’s mom,” she whispered.

“Huh?” Gwil mouthed back.

“Call him ‘lord’, Theodore, you damned ingrate,” Diom said. “He is your superior.”

Jackson and his comrades laughed. “In what fuckin’ capacity is this slimy wuss my better? Who the hell is this half-dead skeleton?”

Stondemaier groaned and slumped, drooping over the edge of the dais. He dragged himself down to the floor. “D-Diom? Is that you? My oldest friend is alive? My friend! Ophelia, my dear, do you see? Is this a dream?”

Ophelia climbed down and helped Stondemaier draw himself upright, shaping him like clay.

“Yes, it’s me,” Diom sputtered. “Oh, Stondemaier… what have you done to yourself?”

Stondemaier oozed out of Ophelia’s embrace and made to pull himself through the net.

The fool was going to dice himself into pieces. Gwil dashed forward and plunged his hand into the razor thicket to shove Stondemaier away. The Burger fell like a sack of rocks.

Diom turned and put his hands on Ansoir’s shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m so sorry.” Ansoir hugged him.

Jackson laughed like a hyena. “Fuckin’ hell! I don’t believe my eyes. Diom, you survived in the mines for two goddamn decades? Lucky sonuvabitch.” He laughed again. “Well, would you call it lucky?”

Diom stepped in front of Ansoir. “I would now, yes.”

“Woo, boy!” Jackson shook out his soldiers and started pacing atop the dais. “Y’all have really shot some life into this thing. ‘Spose I should’ve expected some craziness from people willing to set billions of doubloons on fire.”

Gwil patted down the torn strips of flesh on his arm. He felt sick to his stomach at all of this. Sensing the sheriff’s gaze, he looked up.

“I wish you would’ve just killed me instead of making me watch all that cash go up in smoke. What a fuckin’ waste.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Gwil said.

“Aye,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “Now we’ve gotta fight for scraps like two starving dogs.”

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Ropes spawned and curled around Jackson’s underarms. He swung forward and landed on the floor right in front of Gwil. Only the net separated them.

Gwil sent Nirva into his fingers and started trying to rip the ropes apart. Cort was slamming his hammer into the net, but it went rigid, sturdier than any metal.

“Settle down,” Jackson said, unflinching. Ropes sprouted from his fingertips and coiled around the net, and those strands were ablaze with translucent, prismatic flames. The sheriff bared his teeth, sweat streaking down his face, his neck bulging.

Every blow of Cort’s hammer bounced away with a metallic clang. Gwil’s hands began to burn, and they were shaking when he pulled them away. Jackson was pumping a huge amount of Nirva into the net.

“You’ll get your fight,” the sheriff said. “Don’t worry, I wanna know, too. Which of us fools will the fickle World favor?”

Cort bellowed and slammed his hammer against the shimmering barrier. The ropes there splintered, creating a momentary gash before they reformed.

“You should know you’re dead,” Cort said.

Jackson shrugged and packed a lip of tobacco. “You should learn not to count your chickens too early. You look stupid as hell when you’re wrong.”

“You would know,” Leira chimed in.

Jackson made a face at her and then moved to stand over Ansoir, who knelt on the floor with Diom. Stondemaier was just on the other side of the net.

The sheriff spat tobacco juice into his afro. Ansoir either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Stondemaier babbled while clawing at his body, scraping off bits of gravel. Ophelia stood over him, trying to keep his hands at bay.

“Two baby-back bitches,” Jackson said. He kicked the Burger in the face and then looked back at Gwil. “I can’t figure you out, kid. You turn this little kingdom into ash, and you take this worthless brat under your wing? Ain’t he exactly what you came here to destroy? What the fuck is it you’re trying to accomplish?”

“This is disgusting,” Gwil said.

“Eh?” the sheriff said. “C’mon, tell me. Are you Vermin? Just some idiot playin' hero? You think you’re Prothea or… or Enkai the goddamn Giver?

“You’re doin’ a bloody piss-poor job of that, let me tell you. If you’re tryna help these slaves, you wouldn’t have destroyed all the Kaia. Fuckin’ idiot. Those insects could’ve gotten rich. Fuck’s sake, they can’t even live without the stuff anymore. Buncha dead men walkin’. But that’s freedom for ya, ain’t it?”

Leira clicked her tongue. “Kill this guy, Gwil. What a shit-eating asshole.”

Gwil just kept staring at the sheriff.

“I hate delusional bastards like you,” Jackson continued. “Acting all righteous while you do more harm than good.”

Gwil shoved his fingers into the net and felt the muscles in his shoulders rip as he pulled.

Jackson butted his forehead against Gwil’s, baring his teeth. Spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed, “You fuckin’ animals don’t even deserve the dirt. I’ll string y’all up by your guts and make you watch as I butcher every single fucking slave! Goddammit, shut up!”

The ropes in Jackson’s hands reformed into a cluster of rearing serpents. Gwil ducked as they lashed out.

He needn’t have done so. He was not the target.

A fountain of blood spewed out of Diom’s neck. His wizened, feeble hands went to his punctured throat.

Gwil gritted his teeth at the blissful expression on the man’s face.

Ansoir lowered Diom to the ground. Leira appeared and pressed a bundle of cloth over the gushing wound. Cort unleashed a barrage of hammer strikes against the barrier.

The Burger wailed and wailed. He’d been struck too; a rope had speared the molten flesh of his shoulder. Jackson yanked the rope, and the lump of a man slumped over. Ophelia was beside herself, stuck with her placid smile.

Ansoir rushed the net, but Gwil caught him and threw him back.

Not one death. Gwil launched himself into the net. His flesh be damned, he’d force his way through the tiny holes. Pop.

And then Gwil was on the sheriff like a rabid demon. He crashed into Jackson’s face. The man staggered back and then fell over.

Gwil made claws of his fingers and began slashing Jackson’s nose like an animal digging a hole. A river of blood rushed over Gwil’s feet.

***

Catatonia had Ansoir in its clutches.

Leira clawed at the roots of her withered, dormant eyeflower. “Bleed, you wretched thing, bleed!” she screeched through clenched teeth.

The Megrim flower could exude a sap that staunched bleeding. But the bereft thing cared nothing for her pleas.

“Fucking help me, Cort!” she cried. The fool was still attacking the cage with his useless hammer as if mundane strength was worth a damn.

“Where did Gwil go?” he shouted back.

“Who cares? He’s not the one bleeding from his neck!”

Cort stomped over. “Look. Jackson is being ripped apa-”

“Shut up and hold this,” she said, nodding toward the cloth. Her blood-sheathed hands shone like rubies. Diom’s weak fingers fluttered against her grip.

Cort shook his head. “You can’t. Let him go.”

She slapped him in the face.

Diom reached toward the net. Stondemaier reached back with a stubby, rocky limb.

Cort took Diom under the arms and moved him closer.

“No! Idiot—don’t move him,” Leira yelled, but she did not try to stop him.

She shoved her fingers into her eye socket and locked them beneath the flower’s bulb. Roots tugged at the inside of her face as she wrenched at the greedy, hollow sliver of the dead goddess Megrim.

Ansoir crawled along behind Cort.

Diom’s eyes bulged from his chalk-white face. He sputtered and gagged; blood bubbled from his mouth. Cort adjusted the soaked crimson cloth.

“Stondemaier… this… is no way to live,” Diom said.

“My friend,” Stondemaier groaned. “Ophelia, wake me up, please!”

“You… we… deserve this,” Diom said, choking on every word. “Punishment. Ansoir?”

“I’m here, Diom.”

“A new… life. Never… too late.”

Diom grasped at the empty air in front of his face, as if clinging to his fraying threads.

Ansoir caught the old man’s hands and clasped them. He could not speak, and words were weak, so he nodded.

“Ophelia!” Stondemaier screamed.

The silver net dissolved into mist. Jackson’s underlings surged forth to overrun their battered foes. With spears leveled, they screamed their charge.

A dozen men, eight-and-a-half statues. Cort raised his hammer and met them.

***

A hand as big as Ansoir’s red skimmer came crashing down on top of Gwil. Fingers as thick as tree trunks closed around his body.

He went flying through the air and then bounced against the ground a few times before skidding to a halt.

Gwil scurried further away even as he got back on his feet, fleeing from the massive creature that had just struck him. He had no idea what was happening—he was surrounded by towering objects.

And then he registered Sheriff Jackson, looming over him, as tall as a building.

“Wahaha!” Gwil yelled. “Why are you giant?” He turned and ran, looking over his shoulder as he went.

He crashed into what he thought was the wall but was actually an enormous tea kettle.

“What is going on?”

Jackson had gone down on his hands and knees, crawling around like a hunting dog. Ropes uncoiled from his fingers to probe the ground like little snakes.

Gwil ducked behind the tea kettle and then peeked out. The cavernous ceiling looked as vast as the sky. Oh no! More massive figures were swarming Cort and the others. And… his friends—they were giant, too…

“Whaa! I’m tiny!” Gwil screamed, and his voice sounded like a squeaking mouse.

But Jackson heard him. The man came thundering over, lumbering like a bear. Gwil dashed away, tripped over a fork and found himself surrounded by the contents of an overturned dining table.

Gwil crouched to lift the fork—it was about three times as long as he was tall. He heaved, slipped and fell over.

Nirva rose through his legs, his body, his arms and he flung the fork away, sending it skittering across the rocky ground.

Jackson lunged for the fork, snaring it in a tangle of ropes.

Gwil chased after his projectile. He jumped and soared—he was so light!

He landed amidst the sheriff’s mustache. He grabbed two tiny fistfuls of wiry hair and started yanking.

Gwil gripped tight as Jackson spasmed and began rolling around on his back.

The sheriff’s screaming mouth was like a crushing pit of death. Gwil felt the warm, damp air rushing out of that ravenous maw. He crawled up Jackson’s cheek as the man began smacking himself in the face.

Gwil made it up to the eye, grabbed hold of the eyelashes, and raised his foot. Focusing all the Nirva he could muster, Gwil stomped down on Jackson’s squeezed shut eyelid.

Once, back in Reverie, Margaret had enlisted Gwil to help her make wine. His job was to stand in a bucket and stomp on grapes.

This felt a lot like that.

Again and again, he slammed his feet down as the ocular surface on which he stood caved in. Jackson bombarded him with huge hands, but Gwil held fast.

With a stomach-churning squelch, Gwil’s next stomp sank deep, and he fell over, his leg trapped up to the knee in swampy gunk.

Jackson was gasping with pain, and his attacks had become weak and desperate. The sheriff clamped his hand over his eye, but Gwil tucked himself down under the bridge of Jackson’s nose and continued tearing out eyelashes while wrestling his leg free.

It came away caked with blood and bits. Crawling beneath the canopy that was Jackson’s palm, Gwil made it back to the gouged eye and began slamming his fists into the wound.

“This?” he squealed in his small, high-pitched voice. “I waited all those years for this?” Minced, gelatinous chunks spewed out. “This sick carnival? Is this really the World?”

Jackson pinched Gwil’s body between two of his fingers. The sheriff pried Gwil off and slammed him down on the ground.

On impact, the bones in his arms snapped like twigs and Gwil bounced away. He scrambled behind a pile of rocks and then fell over.

Through a gap, he could see the sheriff lying on his side, his hand covering his eye. Blood streamed between his fingers and down his face. His remaining eye was frantic, wild.

“It’s so… disappointing,” Gwil said to himself.