The clanging of steel echoed across the training ground, sharp and deliberate, each strike a testament to the combatants’ skill. Dust rose in soft clouds from the packed dirt, kicked up by the rhythm of their boots. Master Terrance, clad in heavy plate armor dulled with age but unmarred by weakness, braced himself against the impact of another blow. His shield gleamed in the sun, the symbol of the Sword School etched deeply into its face—a sigil of protection that had withstood decades of battle.
Before him stood Grent, bare arms bulging with muscle beneath his sleeveless gambeson, a two-handed greatsword resting on his broad shoulder. Where Terrance was solid, a bulwark of stoic defense, Grent was swift and unpredictable, his strikes more akin to a storm than a duel.
“Again,” Terrance barked, raising his shield. His voice was firm, unyielding, a hammer against the anvil of the moment.
Grent’s grin spread wide as he stepped back, flexing his fingers against the hilt of his greatsword. “One day, old man, you’ll feel one of these blows in your bones.”
Terrance snorted. “I’ve heard that before. Show me, then.”
Grent obliged. With a guttural cry, he launched forward, his greatsword swinging down in a wide arc. Terrance met it with the flat of his shield, the clash ringing out like a bell tolling over the training ground. He shifted his stance, planting his boots firmly as he activated his skill.
“Indomitable Fortress!” Terrance bellowed, slamming the shield into the ground. A crimson glow enveloped him, radiating from the edges of the shield like a blazing sun. The force of it shook the earth, and the ground beneath him cracked faintly.
Grent stepped back, his eyes narrowing. He leapt high into the air, his greatsword raised above his head. “Meteor Strike!” The words echoed as he came down with tremendous force, the blade trailing fire and light as it connected with Terrance’s shield.
The resulting explosion of sound was deafening. Dust and dirt were thrown high into the air, obscuring both men in a choking haze. Grent landed heavily, rolling to his feet as the dust began to settle. Through the cloud, Terrance stood unmoved, his shield still planted firmly in the ground, the glow of his skill fading but his body untouched.
Grent let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he rose. “Of course. I might as well swing at a mountain.”
Terrance allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “A mountain doesn’t hit back.”
The two circled each other, sweat trickling down Grent’s brow while Terrance remained calm, the years of discipline evident in his every step. Grent feinted to the left, swinging wide, but Terrance anticipated it, deflecting with a quick motion of his shield and countering with a calculated strike of his sword.
The sparring match continued, their strikes measured, their skills clashing in a steady rhythm of combat. But the dance was interrupted by the frantic sound of footsteps, a voice calling out from beyond the ring.
“Master Terrance! Grent!”
Both men turned, their weapons lowered but their postures wary. Ryan stumbled into the training ground, his face pale, his breathing labored as though he’d run the length of the entire village. His clothes were stained with dirt, and his hand clutched at his side as though some unseen wound lingered there.
“What is it, boy?” Terrance asked, his tone gruff but concerned.
Ryan bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “I… I was killed,” he managed, gasping between words. “By slimes. Hundreds of them!”
Terrance’s brow furrowed, and he exchanged a quick glance with Grent. The greatsword warrior tilted his head, his earlier amusement replaced by a faint unease.
“Slimes?” Grent asked, lowering his weapon to the ground. “Hundreds, you say? You must be exaggerating.”
Ryan shook his head furiously. “No, I swear it! I went into one of the introductory squares—simple, like Mrs. Keys said. It was supposed to be easy! But there were so many of them. They overwhelmed me. I didn’t stand a chance!”
Terrance’s frown deepened, and he stepped forward, placing a gauntleted hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “You’re certain it was an introductory square?”
Ryan nodded, his wide eyes darting between the two men. “I wouldn’t lie about this, Master Terrance. Something was wrong—something’s different about that square.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. The silence stretched long enough that Ryan began to shift uncomfortably. Finally, Terrance turned to Grent, his expression unreadable.
“It must be his mistake,” Terrance said firmly, though his tone betrayed the faintest edge of uncertainty. “No introductory square could produce that many slimes. Perhaps you underestimated their number, or your own strength.”
Grent nodded, though the unease in his stance remained. “He’s right. It sounds more like bad luck than anything else. But if it’s bothering you, Ryan, you should stick to training for a while. Work on your fundamentals before trying again.”
Ryan’s face fell slightly, but he nodded, unable to argue against the two veterans’ calm reasoning. “Yes, sir. I’ll… I’ll train harder.”
Terrance offered a small, reassuring nod. “Good. You’re alive to try again, and that’s what matters.”
As Ryan trudged away, his head bowed in thought, Terrance and Grent turned back to each other. For a moment, they said nothing, the weight of the boy’s words hanging heavy between them.
“A hundred slimes in an introductory square,” Grent murmured, resting his greatsword against his shoulder. “If he’s even remotely telling the truth…”
Terrance’s gaze lingered on Ryan’s retreating figure before shifting to the horizon, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Then there’s a Master out there who’s stronger—and more dangerous—than they should be.”
Grent’s grin returned, though it lacked its usual mirth. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
******
The new shelter stood firm in the soft light of dawn, its structure an odd testament to Kael’s growing understanding of his domain. What had once been a crude arrangement of twigs and leaves had transformed into something more stable, more deliberate. The slimes had left their sticky trails as they moved about, and Kael, ever the observer, had used the viscous substance as a kind of adhesive, binding together the twigs, stones, and moss into a solid framework.
It was no masterpiece—certainly no labyrinthine stronghold like the ones his fragmented dreams teased him with—but it was shelter. It would do.
The air in the square was still, the faint hum of the blue walls surrounding it a constant companion in Kael’s ear. He had grown used to their glow, their soft light giving the square a sense of containment, of protection. But now, as the seventh day since his awakening dawned, the walls began to shift. The blue faded to a deep crimson, the hum growing louder, more insistent, until it seemed to reverberate through Kael’s very bones.
“What’s happening?” Kael asked, his voice sharp. He clutched the crystal orb tightly, its surface pulsing faintly in response to his growing unease.
Skrindle appeared in a burst of smoke and embers, his wings beating lazily as he hovered just above the ground. “Ah, it’s about time,” the imp said with a grin, his small teeth gleaming. “The weekly gathering of the Masters. Didn’t I mention it? No? Well, it’s not something you’d forget once you’ve attended.”
Kael frowned, his gaze darting between the crimson walls and Skrindle’s mischievous expression. “The gathering of the Masters? What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what it sounds like,” Skrindle replied, his voice practically dripping with glee. “A chance for all the Masters of the Squares to convene, exchange pleasantries, plot against one another, and—of course—show off. It’s a grand tradition. You can’t miss it.”
Kael’s mind raced at the thought. Other Masters of the Squares. Rivals, allies, threats. He felt a strange pull, a desire to see what lay beyond his own square, to glimpse the faces of those who shared his strange existence. “I’ll go,” he said decisively, taking a step forward.
“Not like that, you won’t,” Skrindle interjected, darting in front of him. His sharp eyes roamed over Kael’s appearance, lingering on the tattered loincloth that hung loosely from his waist. “You can’t meet other Masters of the Squares looking like… that. What are you, a savage?”
Kael glanced down at himself, his expression darkening. “It’s all I have.”
Skrindle smirked, his wings fluttering with glee. “Not anymore. Focus on the orb, Master. It’s more than a tool for summoning slimes. It’s a reflection of you, your domain, your essence. With it, you can alter your appearance—within reason.”
Kael gripped the crystal ball tightly, the light within flickering at his touch. He closed his eyes, focusing as Skrindle had instructed. The orb’s glow grew brighter, pulsing with energy that seemed to flow through Kael’s very veins.
“I want to look powerful,” Kael muttered, his voice low and determined. “A god among Masters of the Squares. Smoke, lights, the works.”
Skrindle burst into laughter, the sound sharp and mocking. “Oh, that’s adorable. Maybe one day, Master. For now, let’s start small—perhaps a change of clothes, a touch of refinement. Save the godlike visage for when you’ve actually earned it.”
Kael scowled, opening his eyes. The orb’s light flickered again, and a shimmering image of himself appeared within its depths. He studied it for a moment, his green skin, his small horn, the faint glow of his eyes.
“Fine,” Kael muttered. “I’ll keep the skin the same. But the loincloth… it needs to go.”
Skrindle nodded approvingly. “A wise choice. Now, let’s see… something simple, clean. A robe, perhaps? Functional yet respectable.”
Kael focused again, and the image within the orb shifted. The tattered loincloth was replaced by a plain robe of deep gray, its edges trimmed with faint silver thread. It was unadorned, practical, but it covered him properly, lending him an air of quiet authority.
“Better,” Skrindle said, circling Kael with a critical eye. “Still no god of light and smoke, but you’ll at least look like you belong at the gathering.”
A portal shimmered into existence at the center of Kael’s square, a swirling mass of colors too vibrant, too alive, to be part of Kael’s otherwise muted domain. It pulsed with an unnatural energy, its edges crackling with faint arcs of light. Kael stared at it, his claws tightening instinctively around the crystal orb in his hand.
Skrindle appeared at his side, the imp’s grin wide and toothy as always. “Oh, don’t look so grim, Master,” Skrindle said with a playful flutter of his wings. “It’s only the Sunday portal. Nothing to fear.”
Kael glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “Sunday portal?”
Skrindle nodded, folding his spindly arms. “Every Sunday, adventurers can’t invade. Keys don’t work and your square is, for lack of a better word, closed. It’s tradition.”
“Now, if you’re ready, step through. The others are waiting.”
Kael hesitated for a moment, then steeled himself. The portal’s pull was faint but insistent, like a distant whisper beckoning him forward. With a deep breath, he stepped into the swirling light.
******
The first thing Kael noticed was the sound. A low, constant hum filled the air, the murmurs of hundreds of voices blending into an indistinct roar. He emerged into a vast hall, its ceiling arched and impossibly high, supported by towering columns of dark stone that shimmered faintly in the glow of the room’s light. The air here felt charged, as though the space itself were alive.
At the center of the hall, a massive orb like Kael’s own floated above the ground, its surface swirling with images and light. It was enormous, the size of the hall itself, casting a radiant glow that bathed everything in a soft, otherworldly hue.
Around him, dozens—no, hundreds—of figures moved about, their forms eerily similar to his own. Green skin was scarce; instead, Kael saw Masters with skin tones of deep purple, vivid blue, and pale pink, their bodies adorned with outfits ranging from elegant robes to gleaming armor. Some were larger than Kael, towering over the others with an air of authority, while others were smaller, hunched and wiry, their eyes darting nervously about the room. A few stood out even more—one Master’s skin burned with a constant flame, while another seemed to ripple with shadows, their form shifting like smoke in the air.
Others were smaller, hunched and sharp-eyed, their hands clutching weapons or artifacts that pulsed with faint power. Many had auras of light or energy surrounding them, marking them as far more advanced than Kael. The sheer weight of their presence pressed down on him, a reminder of how new he truly was.
Kael swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the room. His simple gray robe suddenly felt woefully inadequate, his lone horn almost laughable next to the display of grandeur around him
“Come along, Master,” Skrindle said, nudging him forward. “Find a seat. Best not to look too lost, though you clearly are.”
Kael scowled but followed the imp’s advice, weaving through the throng of Masters until he found a spot near the back. He settled onto a stone bench beside a Master with deep red skin and two curved horns. She glanced at him briefly, looking as nervous as he felt.
At the base of the massive orb, a figure rose—a towering imp, far larger than Skrindle. Its crimson skin gleamed under the light of the orb, and its wings stretched wide as it surveyed the gathered Masters. The imp’s horns curled like a ram’s, and its presence filled the hall with an almost suffocating weight.
“Welcome, Masters,” he said, his tone both commanding and amused. “For those of you who are new—and I see a few unfamiliar faces—allow me to introduce myself. I am Zibbit, Grand Overseer of the Squares, and the one who ensures that you all play nice. At least, on Sundays.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the hall, though it was more nervous than genuine. Kael shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on Zibbit. The imp’s orb was mesmerizing, its surface alive with motion. He could see faint images within it—squares like his own, each one unique, each one filled with dangers and treasures.
“I say welcome again,” Zibbit said, his deep voice reverberating through the chamber, “to those of you who have survived your first week.”
Scattered cheers and murmurs broke out, though Kael noticed that the applause was reserved, measured. It was not the exuberance of triumph but the acknowledgment of a hard-earned milestone.
Suddenly, lights sprang forth from the orb, beams of white light that shone down on a handful of Masters scattered throughout the hall. Kael squinted as one of the beams landed squarely on him, his green skin glowing faintly under the bright illumination. Beside him, the horned Master with the red skin was also bathed in light.
“These have endured,” Zibbit continued, his voice stern, “but surviving is not thriving. One week is nothing in the grand scheme of your existence as Masters of the Squares.”
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“And now,” Zibbit continued, the orb shifting again, “let us look to the leaderboard. For the least kills.”
The orb’s surface rippled, and Kael watched as names appeared, glowing faintly in the shimmering light. His breath caught as his own name came into focus: Kael — 2 Kills.
A smattering of whispers rippled through the hall, followed by a low chuckle from a group of Masters farther down the bench. Zibbit’s gaze turned toward Kael, his lips curling into a frown.
“Kael,” the Overseer said, his voice cutting through the murmurs, “two kills in a week. That is all your square has managed to yield? And Skrindle!” Zibbit’s eyes flicked toward the small imp hovering sheepishly at Kael’s side. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Skrindle flinched, his wings fluttering nervously. “Well, you see, Overseer, it’s been… a delicate week of adjustments for my Master. He’s—”
“Excuses,” Zibbit snapped, silencing Skrindle with a wave of his claw. “Two kills. Pathetic. An insult to slimes across the lands.”
Kael’s face burned with shame, his claws curling into fists. He felt exposed, small beneath the weight of Zibbit’s reprimand and the judgmental stares of the other Masters. Beside him, the horned Master leaned closer, her expression softening.
“Don’t let it get to you,” she whispered, her voice low enough to avoid drawing attention. “You’re not the only one with a slow start.”
Kael glanced at her, surprised by her tone. “I guess,” he muttered.
She smiled faintly. “I’m Lira,” she said, offering a hand. Her claws were smaller, more delicate than his, but they carried the same faint magical spark of a Master. “I only managed three kills. The last one was yesterday. It was pure luck, honestly. If it makes you feel any better, I went for spiders at first, thinking they’d be fast and clever.”
“And?” Kael asked hesitantly.
The smile faltered. “Spidey died in his first encounter with an adventurer. Took an arrow straight to his center. He didn’t stand a chance.”
Kael blinked. “You named your spider Spidey?”
Her red cheeks darkened slightly, though her smile returned. “I did. And you? Did you name your slime?”
Kael hesitated, his embarrassment flaring anew. “Jello,” he finally admitted.
To his surprise, Lira laughed—a soft, genuine sound that eased the knot in his chest. “That’s not so bad. Better than Spidey, at least. I think it’s nice, naming them. Makes them feel… I don’t know, real.”
Kael nodded slowly. “It does. Jello’s still alive, though. Stronger than I expected. I’ve started summoning more slimes, but I haven’t named them all yet.”
“Probably for the best,” Lira said. “Most of my spiders don’t last long enough to name. It’s hard, losing them, even knowing they’re just part of the square.”
A flicker of understanding passed between them, and Kael felt a faint sense of relief. For all the isolation of his square, all the pressure to survive and grow stronger, there were others like him. Others who struggled, who failed, who felt the loneliness gnawing at the edges of their resolve.
“It’s nice,” Lira said after a moment, her voice soft. “To talk to someone like this. It’s easy to forget there are others out there when you’re stuck in your square, surrounded by adventurers trying to tear you down.”
Kael nodded. “It is nice. I didn’t think much about what was beyond my square until today.”
Lira’s yellow eyes flicked toward the orb in the center of the hall. “There’s a whole world out there, Kael. I wonder what it’s really like.”
Kael followed her gaze, the orb’s swirling surface casting faint shadows across the hall. For the first time, he allowed himself to wonder, too—not just about the dangers that lay beyond his walls, but the possibilities.
******
“Gold!” Zibbit, the large imp shouted. “The leaderboard for most gold collected this past week.”
The Sunday meeting was in full swing, the other Masters getting restless at the thought of their own treasures.
Kael leaned forward slightly, a faint unease gnawing at the back of his mind. He had little interest in the leaderboard, knowing full well his place on it—or rather, his lack of one—but the tension in the room was palpable. Around him, Masters shifted in their seats, some whispering excitedly, others watching the orb in tense silence.
The swirling colors within the orb solidified, revealing a single name at the top, writ in bold, glowing letters: Tyrannix, the Greater Dragon – 1,100,000 Gold.
The hall erupted into applause, the sound a wave of claps, cheers, and roars from some of the more monstrous Masters. Kael blinked as the light shifted, casting its beam on a towering figure near the center of the room.
Tyrannix was immense, even by the standards of the hall. A dragon of midnight black, his twin heads surveyed the crowd with an air of disdain. His wings, folded neatly at his sides, still loomed like walls of living shadow. Each head seemed to move independently, their glowing eyes scanning the hall as if daring anyone to challenge his dominance.
“Behold!” Zibbit boomed, gesturing grandly toward the dragon. “Tyrannix, the Greater Dragon! One million, one hundred thousand gold collected this week alone!”
The applause grew louder, though Kael noticed some Masters clapping more out of obligation than genuine admiration. Beside him, Lira’s yellow eyes widened in disbelief.
“One point one million?” she whispered, her voice barely audible beneath the din. She turned to Kael, her expression a mixture of awe and panic. “How much did you collect?”
Kael hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I didn’t collect any gold. I… lost ten.”
Lira blinked, her mouth opening and closing before she finally managed to speak. “You lost gold?”
Kael nodded sheepishly. “Paid an adventurer to leave without a fight. I didn’t exactly have a plan at the time.”
Lira let out a small, humorless laugh, though it quickly faded. “Well, you’re not alone. I lost all of mine.”
Kael turned to her, surprise cutting through his embarrassment. “All of it? How?”
Her red cheeks darkened slightly, and she looked down at her hands. “An adventurer came into my square. I panicked, dropped my orb, and…” She trailed off, her voice soft with shame. “They took it. Everything. One hundred gold.”
Kael stared at her, stunned. He had thought his own failures were bad, but Lira’s story carried a weight of vulnerability that struck a chord in him. “Did you try to get it back?” he asked cautiously.
Lira shook her head. “I don’t know how. I don’t even know if it’s possible.”
Before Kael could respond, a voice behind them broke through their quiet conversation. “Pardon my eavesdropping,” it said, dry and gravelly, “but listening to your tales of woe is becoming downright painful.”
Kael and Lira turned to see a figure looming behind them, leaning casually against the edge of the bench. He was granite in color, his skin rough and textured like stone. One eye glinted in the light of the orb, like a cyclops, giving him an unsettling visage. Despite his rugged appearance, there was an easy confidence in his posture, and the faintest hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Let me offer you a morsel of advice. When adventurers die in your square, they drop their equipment—swords, armor, trinkets, whatever they carry. You can turn them into gold.”
Lira straightened, her eyes lighting up with hope. “Really? We can do that?”
The figure nodded. “Of course. It’s basic square management. You’d know this if your guides weren’t too busy being useless.” His one eye flicked to Skrindle, who fluttered indignantly at the insult.
“And who are you?” Kael asked cautiously.
The granite-skinned Master smirked. “Avaris,” he said simply, extending a hand to each of them. “And before you ask, no, I’m not here to mock you. I’ve been around long enough to know that even the best Masters were once as clueless as you are now.”
From a pouch at his waist, Avaris drew two small golden cards, pressing one into each of their hands. The metal was cool and heavy, the surface engraved with intricate patterns. “These,” he said, “are invitations to my conclave. Join, and you’ll get advice, resources, maybe even protection. We look out for each other.”
Lira studied the card, her expression wary but intrigued. “What’s the catch?”
Avaris chuckled. “No catch, not for newbies. All I ask is loyalty. In return, you get to learn from someone who knows what they’re doing. Think it over.”
Lira hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll join.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, the golden card in her hand glowed brightly. She gasped as a searing pain flared on her arm, and when the light faded, a brand remained—a golden sigil burned into her skin. She stared at it in shock, her eyes darting to Avaris.
“Don’t worry,” Avaris said, his tone almost soothing. “It’s just a mark of membership. Nothing more.”
His gaze turned to Kael. “And you? I wouldn’t wait too long to decide. Opportunities like this don’t come twice.”
Kael glanced at the card in his hand, his thoughts churning. The weight of the room pressed down on him, the stares of the other Masters, the gleaming gaze of Tyrannix, the calculating smirk of Avaris. He shook his head slowly, handing the card back.
“Thank you,” Kael said, his voice firm, “but I’ll decline. For now.”
Avaris studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just remember, the world outside your square isn’t kind to loners.”
“And now,” Zibbit intoned, his voice low and resonant, “the leaderboard for most kills this week.”
The crowd leaned forward, the anticipation in the room palpable. Kael felt it too—a strange mixture of unease and curiosity, though he already knew his name wouldn’t be anywhere near the top. His fingers tightened around the edge of the bench as the first name appeared.
Third Place: The Dark Lord – 32,450 Kills
The murmurs began, soft and reverent, as a figure emerged from the shadows near the back of the hall. The Dark Lord was skeletal, his fleshless face adorned with a tarnished crown. A faint, malevolent glow pulsed from within his hollow eye sockets, and the black robes that hung from his form seemed to absorb the light around him. Zibbit gestured toward the lich.
“The Dark Lord,” Zibbit announced, “whose necrotic army marched against the Men of the North, leaving a trail of ruin in its wake.”
The applause was scattered, subdued, as if those gathered feared attracting the Dark Lord’s attention. Kael shivered at the sight of the skeletal figure but said nothing.
Second Place: Pathox – 73,890 Kills
The name burned brightly in the orb, and the hall erupted into a mix of cheers and gasps. Pathox was small, no larger than a child, his hunched form swathed in robes of deep green. Vines and tendrils of living flesh sprouted from his back, writhing with a life of their own. His eyes were deep-set and glowing with a sickly light.
“Pathox,” Zibbit said, his voice heavy with mock admiration, “the biomancer who unleashed a plague upon the Kingdom of Avon, bringing it to its knees.”
Kael glanced at Lira, whose violet skin had paled. “He did all that?” she whispered. Kael could only nod, his throat dry.
Then the hall grew quiet again as the orb displayed the final name, the letters burning brighter and bolder than the others.
First Place: Vor, the Demon General – 100,240 Kills
A roar of approval erupted as the towering ogre rose from his seat. Vor was massive, his sheer bulk making him a colossus even among the gathered Masters. His armor was ornate and brutal, plates of blackened steel etched with glowing runes that pulsed with molten energy. On his back, he carried a blade of molten lava, its heat so intense that the air around it shimmered. Even Zibbit seemed small in comparison as Vor stepped forward, raising a gauntleted hand to acknowledge the applause.
“Vor,” Zibbit said, his voice booming with authority, “whose armies clashed with the Golden Legion, leaving their champions broken and their lands in ash.”
The applause was thunderous, shaking the very walls of the hall. Vor basked in the attention, his burning eyes scanning the crowd as if daring anyone to challenge his dominance
Behind him, Avaris chuckled. “With enough mana,” the granite-skinned Master said, his voice dry, “you could be like them too. Appearance, abilities, power—it’s all yours to shape if you have the strength.”
Lira tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “What would you change into?” she asked Avaris.
The granite-skinned Master chuckled. “I’ve had my fill of transformations, girl. But you? You’re young. You must dream of wings or claws or... whatever it is you think makes you strong.”
Lira smiled faintly, her gaze distant. “I’d be a bird monster,” she said softly. “Something that can soar the skies. Above all of this.”
Kael glanced at her, surprised by the wistfulness in her tone. “And you, Kael?” Lira asked, turning to him. “What would you become?”
Kael hesitated, his mind racing. He had no grand visions of wings or fire or darkness. “I think I’m fine as I am,” he said at last, his voice quiet but firm.
Avaris barked a laugh, his one eye gleaming. “And that, my boy, is how some Masters are. Content with their lot—until they’re not.”
The orb shimmered again, drawing all eyes back to its surface. Zibbit’s voice boomed, cutting through the murmurs. “And now, for a moment of reflection. Vor’s impressive tally this week in comparison to the all-time record for kills in a single week.”
The names in the orb vanished, replaced by a single line of text that burned brighter than any before it.
The Dread Architect – 14,000,000,000 Kills.
The hall erupted into chaos. Gasps, shouts, and disbelieving laughter filled the air. Kael’s heart raced as he stared at the number, the sheer impossibility of it crushing any coherent thought. Around him, Masters muttered and whooped, their voices tinged with awe and fear.
Zibbit raised a hand, his expression grim. “Yes, fourteen billion. The Dread Architect’s labyrinth claimed entire worlds. That record stands, and it may never be broken.”
Zibbit raised his hand again, silencing the crowd. “This week’s gathering is concluded,” he announced. “Return to your squares, Masters. Prepare yourselves for the week to come.”
Portals flickered into existence around the hall, their swirling lights casting strange shadows. Lira stood, her brand faintly glowing on her arm as she turned to Kael.
“It was nice meeting you,” she said with a shy smile. “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
Kael nodded. “Yeah. It was nice.”
Lira followed Avaris toward one of the portals, her steps hesitant but determined. Kael watched them go, the golden card still heavy in his memory.
Back in his square, Kael stood silently as the red walls flickered back to blue, the cool light of his smaller orb casting long shadows. The numbers didn’t matter to him now—not the leaderboard, not the kills, not the gold. What mattered was a name and a question that gnawed at him with every beat of his heart.
Who was I?
******
The tavern was dimly lit, its corners steeped in shadow and its hearth crackling softly with a fading fire. Master Terrance sat at a sturdy wooden table, his armor creaking faintly as he shifted in his chair. Across from him, Grent leaned back, his greatsword propped against the wall behind him, the firelight glinting off its blade. The tavern was quieter than usual, save for the occasional clink of mugs and the low murmur of voices from the other patrons.
Terrance took a long sip from his mug, his gaze distant. “What Ryan said,” he began, his voice low, “it troubles me.”
Grent snorted, lifting his own drink. “Ryan? He exaggerates more than a bard on market day. He probably saw five slimes and called it a hundred.”
“No, Grent. Something about it feels... wrong,” Terrance shook his head, setting his mug down with a soft thud. “A new Master, in an introductory square, shouldn’t have more than seven monsters. They only have enough mana for one summoned per day. That’s how it’s always been.”
Grent raised an eyebrow. “And you think this new Master broke that rule? That they summoned hundreds in a week?” He chuckled, leaning forward. “Terrance, you’ve seen the boy. He’s barely a competent hunter, let alone a reliable witness.”
Terrance met Grent’s gaze, his expression grim. “Not hundreds,” he admitted, “but more than usual. It’s happened before, Grent. You know what that could mean.”
Grent’s amusement faded, replaced by a faint unease. “The Dread Architect,” he muttered, the name hanging in the air like a blade poised to fall.
Terrance nodded solemnly. “If it’s true—if they’re back—it’s only the beginning. The Dread Architect was never ordinary, even when they first rose. They always had more minions, more traps, more power. Even as a fledgling Master, they were... different.”
Grent sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re jumping at shadows. Even if Ryan saw something strange, it doesn’t mean—”
Before Grent could finish, Terrance’s eyes flicked to the empty space beside their table. He gave the faintest nod, and Grent turned, his hand brushing the hilt of his greatsword. A moment later, a figure stepped from the shadows, as if the air itself had folded to reveal her.
The woman was clad in a green cloak that flowed like water around her lithe frame, its edges frayed from countless journeys. Her hood was drawn low, but her sharp eyes glinted beneath it, green as the forest in spring. She moved with the quiet grace of a predator, her steps making no sound as she approached their table.
“Lyanna,” Terrance said, inclining his head. “You’ve returned.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on the square, as you asked,” Lyanna replied, her voice calm and measured. She pulled back her hood, revealing a face framed by dark hair, her eyes sharp and clear, like those of a hawk. “I used my Eyes of the Forest to observe from a distance.”
“And?” Terrance asked, his tone urgent.
Lyanna hesitated, glancing between the two men before speaking. “I couldn’t see the Master. My skill isn’t high enough for that. But I did see their creatures. Eleven slimes, all active in the square.”
“Eleven?” Grent leaned forward, his brow furrowing. “That’s not possible. Not for a new Master.”
Terrance exhaled slowly, his expression darkening further. “It shouldn’t be. A new Master shouldn’t even have the mana to sustain that many. Unless...”
Grent’s fingers drummed against the table, his unease now plain. “Unless they’re like the Architect.”
Terrance nodded grimly. “It fits. How there are more minions, we’re not sure. But it’s enough to warrant concern.”
Lyanna remained silent, her sharp eyes watching the two men. She had seen enough to know the weight of the conversation, even if the implications remained unspoken. The Dread Architect was a name that carried dread wherever it was uttered, a specter of devastation that haunted even the bravest of hearts.
“So,” Grent said finally, breaking the heavy silence. “What do we do? If it is the Architect—if they’ve somehow returned—we’re not equipped to handle that.”
Terrance met his gaze, his expression firm. “What we always do. Gather a party of adventurers.”
Grent snorted. “You forget—introductory squares are off-limits to us. We’re Gold level, Terrance. We can’t set foot in that place.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Terrance said. “That’s why we’ll use the best of our recruits. This is their level, their fight. You’ll choose them, Grent. Pick only those who can handle this.”
Grent sighed, draining the last of his ale. “And you?”
Terrance’s eyes hardened, his resolve like steel. “I’ll go to Ironmire. The platinum-level adventurers there need to know what we’ve heard. If this is the beginning of something larger, they’ll want to be prepared.”
Lyanna nodded. “And I’ll return to my people in Highhaven. Let them know of the threat.”
Terrance pushed his chair back, standing with the weight of decades of duty on his shoulders. “This may be nothing,” he said, his voice steady. “But if it’s not—if the Dread Architect or another of its evil machinations truly stirs again—we cannot afford to be caught unprepared.”
Grent rose as well, hefting his greatsword onto his back. “Then let’s hope it’s nothing.”
Lyanna lingered a moment longer, her green cloak blending into the shadows once more. The three of them parted ways without ceremony, their steps carrying them into the uncertain night.
******