Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nobody ever talks about what happens when you're in a coma—when you're hovering in that nowhere-land between life and death. Maybe because most people don’t come back. Or maybe because even if they do, they don’t remember.  

But me?  

I remember.  

It had all started with a sharp sound, like static tearing through my mind. Then came the feeling of falling—not like tripping, but like the ground had been yanked away, and gravity had suddenly forgotten how to work. And when I opened my eyes...  

I was somewhere else.  

Confused. Alone. Lost.  

Those were the three words that came to my mind when I opened my eyes. My memory was fuzzy, blurred like the glass of a hot sauna. I was a blank slate, with barely any memories of who I was or who I was supposed to be. From whatever can be considered important, I only knew two things:

Error—my name.

And this place—not home. Not normal.

I sat up—tried to, anyway—and my clothes clung to me like wet paper. My shirt tugged in weird directions, and the static buzz in my brain wouldn’t shut up. My forehead was slick with sweat, my hair sticking to my face like I’d run a marathon in a freezer.  

The sky above me glitched. Stars flickered like broken pixels in an ancient monitor. I couldn’t even tell if they were real constellations or just leftover bits of corrupted code trying to fake the night. There was no moon, but luckily, the sky was bright enough. And that was just the beginning of the weirdness of this place.  

I was in a forest—If you could call it that. The trees were too tall. Too symmetrical. Like someone had copied and pasted the same model a thousand times.    

Everything was wrong.  

There were floating platforms off in the distance, half-formed ruins stuck mid-air, which was weird enough...but you know what was weirder? There, in the middle of the sky was a giant digital clock. Its glowing numbers illuminated the grass and trees, while it counted down from numbers way too big to read from a single glance. I didn’t know how much time it had, but I knew the second I saw it—it was a timer.  

And it had already started.  

[ * Welcome, Player! ]  

A female voice greeted me. Robotic. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Or maybe it was inside my head—difficult to tell.  

[ * You entered the game "Until The Last Breath"! ]

[ * You are now between worlds. One step from death, one step from life. ]

 [ * To return to the real world, obey the rules and survive! ]  

I should’ve been panicking. Screaming. But instead, I just stared at the screen like a kid at the dentist about to be told they need a drill.  

[ * Here are the game's main rules: ]

[ * 1 – Game Over means death, both in-game and in real life. ]  

I froze.  

“What the hell is this?”  

A cold chill crawled down my spine. I didn’t want to believe it, but the more I stared at the world around me, the more real it felt.  
Then came another message:  

 [ * 2 – Weapons and Items are a must for survival. Those must be crafted from fragments found throughout the world by a Player. ]  

I scrunched my eyebrows, then, gave a low chuckle. But, before I could start an angry monologue, another notification flashed before my eyes:  

 [ * 3 – Each floor has a countdown. You must complete the floor's main quest to proceed to the next floor. Reach the top floor before the time runs out. ]  

Suddenly, the ticking, ominous and imposing numbers on the sky made much more sense.  

 [ CURRENT FLOOR: 1 — New Home. ]  

 [ STATUS: The clock has already started. ]

 [ * Good Luck! ]  

I chuckled humorlessly. This game has a sick sense of humor to dare wish me luck. But I understood what the System meant almost immediately.  

The forest screamed.  

There was the sound—the faintest rustling in the trees, a low crack that didn't seem natural. My eyes darted to the shadows between the trees. There was movement, but not the kind of animal movement I was used to—this was too deliberate. Too heavy.

Snap.

A twig cracked underfoot somewhere in the distance. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, but before I could react, a growl split the silence—deep, guttural, wrong.

 [ WARNING: You have been spotted by a Beast! ]  

The ground shook.

Behind me, trees bent unnaturally, cracking as something big crashed through. The creature—if that’s what it even was—emerged. A dog. It could be compared to a hyena. A mutated, abomination of a hyena. Black fur rolled off its massive frame in jagged, crystallized spikes. Its jaw unhinged into a snarl, revealing gill-like slits steaming smoke on either side of its neck. It didn’t have eyes—just rows upon rows of unnatural teeth, and rage.  

Over its head, a screen could be found with red letters:  

 [ HELLHOUND — RARE ]  

 [ * The most dangerous Beast of Floor 1. ]  

"Oh, fuck."

The Beast howled again, deeper and guttural. It sent shivers through even the most apathetic of people.

It gave one huff, and started chasing me.  

I did not waste time, and ran. I forced my legs beyond their limits, straining my muscles to the point I felt like they could snap. Faster, and faster, even if I kept crashing through the brush. I ran like there was no tomorrow, dodging glitching terrain and floating fragments while the demonic hyena kept growling in hot pursuit, just a few meters behind me. 

I screamed for help, each word rolling off my tongue with puffs of air and despair. The system seemed to have taken mercy on me, since another screen appeared:  

 [ QUEST: Find the Safe Zone. ]  

 [ REWARD: 50 Gold and a Beginner Class Ability (1). ]  

 [ PENALTY: Unknown. ]  

“Safe zone?” I gasped, “Helpful.”  
But despite the message, the System did not tell me where to go. I was utterly lost, and all by myself.  

Is this what dying feels like? Or is this what fighting death looks like?

Soon, I passed the dense forest, ran through a bunch of tall grass, and then...

Then—the clearing.

Just a few meters away, a dome shimmered across a small outpost town like a protective bubble. Inside: cobbled streets, glowing neon signs, and weirdly cheerful market stalls. On top of it glowed a window with its name.  

“The Safe Zone!” I gasped, knowing that I was just a few steps away from safety.  

But the Beast wasn’t slowing.  

It ran and ran, its long creepy claws making indents on the ground. Snarls and growls too deep to be natural rolled off its mouth, leaving trails of saliva and smoke whenever it tried to bite off my back. But, just when the Beast came close...  

A whistle cut the air—sharp and shrill.  

“DUCK!” a voice yelled.  

A ceramic teapot sailed overhead. It exploded against the Beast’s shoulder with a fiery BOOM, colorful sparks and flame bursting out like a magical landmine.  

Then another. 

And another.  

Three perfect throws.  

The Beast screeched, slamming sideways into a tree.  

A person sprinted out of the woods—short, quick, and carrying a huge brown scarf around his neck. That guy...I knew him. He was familiar despite my fuzzy memory, and before I realized, I had already said his name.  

"Ink? What the hell are you doing here?"  

"Hi, Ruru!" Ink greeted with a smile, throwing me off route with the nickname.  

I blinked. 

Ruru?

That nickname bounced in my skull like a forgotten ringtone, familiar but out of place. But some memories did gain a bit of clarity. I could see the Ink of my memories better now, and he looked different than the one fighting a beast in front of me. The Ink from my memories wasn’t throwing teapots like grenades. He looked...normal. Softer. Like someone I trusted, even if I couldn’t remember why.  

Why is he here, then?

Ink's slightly long brown hair shone under the starlight as he slid into view, yanking a glowing teapot from his satchel and side-arming it like a grenade. It exploded midair with a force that knocked branches off nearby trees and sent the Beast scrambling.

"Why are you fighting that thing?" I paused. "Actually, scratch that. Why are the teapots explosive?" 

“It's ceramic death, baby!” Ink whooped. “Do not disrespect the kettle!”

"Why the hell are you using kettles as grenades?" I corrected, too dumbfounded to start making sense of anything.  

Ink grinned widely. “Oh, I’ve learned a thing or two about surviving on Floor One. It’s not all magic and muscles, you know? Sometimes it’s about improvising with whatever you can grab. And trust me, you don’t want to see what’s in my Inventory.”  

He twirled something out of sight—probably some other absurd item. And it was, in fact, a toaster with wires wrapped around it. He twirled it like a flail, slamming it into the Hellhound's face. The thing burst a "slow" effect on the Beast, who howled and retreated, whimpering while it tried to clean its eyeless face from the newfound injury.  

“You’re using kitchenware?!” I shouted in disbelief.  

“Correction: I am using the spirit of resourcefulness.” He flashed a grin.  

Another blast rocked the air as Ink threw what appeared to be a plush bear with a blue rune burned into its side. It exploded on impact and then turned into a fishing net that trapped the Hellhound to the ground.  

Ink grabbed my shoulder. “Time to bail! That won't hold the rabid dog for too long, y'know?”

Dragging me, we ran—through the grass, clearing, and diving straight through the shimmering dome. The blue dome opened up a human-sized door the moment Ink touched his hand on it.  

 [ * Welcome back, Player Ink! ]  

And another screen followed, this one sightly different:  

[ SAFE ZONE: Entry granted to new Player! ]

 [ * New Player has been identified as Error. ]

 [ * Welcome to the Safe Zone! ]  

Inside the barrier, everything changed.
Noise. Light. Relative calm.
We were in a chaotic marketplace that looked like someone mashed a fantasy bazaar with a post-apocalyptic neon strip.

Stalls groaned with strange fruit, glowing trinkets, and weapons that looked like they’d break before doing any real damage. NPCs with glassy eyes barked pre-recorded lines.

One of the NPC merchants, a woman with wide, vacant eyes, grinned too widely as she shouted, "Low-quality healing potions! May or may not kill you!"

Her voice crackled, then repeated the exact same line everytime a Player passed in front of her, like an old, broken record.  

I felt like I could finally breathe again, "That was insane." Ink agreed, nodding with a silly smile.  

It was then, that another floating notification hovered in the air:  

 [ QUEST: Find the Safe Zone — Completed! ]

[ REWARD: 50 Gold and a Beginner Class Ability (1). ]  

“You made it,” Ink said, brushing colorful soot off his scarf. “Congrats. That’s more than most can say.”  

Thud.  

A guttural howl echoed from outside. Free from its bounds, the Hellhound slammed into the barrier. Again—Harder. Its snarl vibrated through the dome, white static crackling across its surface.  

The NPCs hardly acknowledged the growls from outside the barrier. One man in the corner continued to shout the same line over and over, 'Buy one dagger, get one curse free!' with an eerily cheery tone, as if the hellhound outside wasn’t about to break the dome.

The Players, though? The Players froze.  

"Is that...normal?" I eyed the Hellhound—my heartbeat thundered in my ears—while the thing kept headbutting the dome as if that would break it in half.

Ink gave an awkward chuckle, then said, "I hope no one activates the door thingy right now. Or else we're doomed!" in a sing-song voice.  

“Okay, so this isn’t... permanent?”  

“Technically?” Ink shrugged. “It’s a buffer zone. No Beast can get in, not even the Hellhound. I mean...not unless someone really screws up.”  

“This place is insane.” I muttered, out of breath.  

“Yeah... Welcome to the game,” Ink said, smiling as if he was merely telling a gossip. “Now, business. Have you chosen a class already?”

“A...class?”

“So that’s a no.” Ink winced. "Oh, well...that's going to be an experience."  

As if following Ink's voice, out of nowhere, a window flashed. This one was different, more detailed, but somehow...it carried more urgency than the others I've seen in this place.  

 [ WARNING: A new Player entered the Safe Zone. ]  

 [ * Class Protocol has been activated. ]  

"Class protocol?" I scrunched my eyebrows, staring.  

A ping sound was heard and a new holographic panel shimmered to life in front of me, but this time, no voice followed.  

 [ Select Your Class! ]  

 [ WARNING: Selecting a class is necessary to ensure Player's survival. Choose wisely! A wrong choice could cost your life. ]  

 [ WARNING: A class must be selected within estimated time. Once selected, your class cannot be changed. ]  

 [ CLASSES: Magic | Melee | Ranged | Utilitarian ] 

 [ TIME: 00:01:00 ]  

"Well, damn. What now?"  

Ink answered me just as quick as the question left my mouth. "You have to choose something. Or else this place is going to lock a class for you. It did that for a few people here—and trust me, you do not want the system picking your class.”  

"Lock a class? Why?"  

Ink shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe the system doesn't like indecision?"

I just stared at him, then, at the screen with scrunched eyebrows. "So...you just choose at random?"    

"Pretty much." He nodded.  

"Without any tutorial?" I scoffed. 

"Yep!"  

"Can't you help, at least?"  

"Sorry. No Player is allowed to help with that. System's rules. I mean, I kind of already helped you..." He mumbled, then perked up. "Anyway! If I do more, I'll be penalized by the game. Stars knows how bad a penalty I'll get with that. Maybe even death! It's totally possible! Especially if the System is in a bad day... Just know that it's infinitely better to choose anything, even if it might be random, than let the System pick a class for you."  

My mind was at odds with the absurdity of this place. Ink's casual approach to it wasn't helping me either.

I gave a resigned sigh, and then questioned: "What did you choose? Or you can't tell me that either?"  

Ink blinked. "Oh! I'm a Crafter. Utilitarian class."  

"Oh...that explains the kitchenware, I guess. It oddly suits you."  

"Oh my! Thank you!" Ink giggled, his cheeks gaining a faint color.  

"That wasn't a compliment." I snapped.  

He blinked. "...Ouch?"  

As if on cue to Ink's previous warnings, there came a window retelling his words with a robotic tone. It really set my anxiety up.  

 [ WARNING: If a class isn't selected by Player within estimated time, the system will pick up a class for you. Class selected by the system will be random and will include subclass. ]

 [ CLASSES: Magic | Melee | Ranged | Utilitarian ]  

 [ TIME: 00:00:42 ]  

"I don't like this one bit." I sighed.  

My heart was divided. Choosing something important is one thing. It's a decision you can't regret later because you thought about it. And now this sick system wants me to do that under pressure? That's bound to have consequences.  

What do I choose?  

What does fit me?

Each one of those classes must be good choices, but only one of them will truly make me shine. I need something that fits me like Ink's class does to him. Something that define me... But...I have no memory of who I am.

I just remember waking up in this place clearly. Any other memory is fuzzy, like a veil covering a window. I barely remember Ink at all.

How do I choose?

"Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Time is passing, pal!" Ink hurried me, his voice still a bit sing-song-y. "If you wait any longer the system is going to choose for ya!"  

I ignored Ink like my life depended on it, and, in a way, it does. But still...even under pressure, a thought gnawed my brain like a rat did to cheese.

What do you choose when you don’t even know who you are? 

My memory was a mess—patchy, broken. I couldn’t remember birthdays, favorite songs, the name of my parents... Nothing. Just Ink, and even that was fuzzy at best.

Magic. Melee. Ranged. Utilitarian.  

They were just words. Titles. But each one could mean the difference between survival or death.

This was clearly a test.  

Was I going to fail?  

I didn't have time to think. I didn't even have the luxury of thinking. The system was breathing down my neck, and if I waited too long, it would pick for me.

I hated that.  

I needed control—some control. And between all of those options, I knew exactly which class was going to give me the most control.

So I chose.  

 [ * Player selected Magic! ]  

 [ DESCRIPTION: Magic class allow Player to utilize mana and magical things easily! ]

 [ * From now on, your body will be filled with mana! ]

With no time at all between the screens, another one appeared:

 [ * You have been rewarded with Beginner Class Ability (1): Mana Knowledge — LVL 1. ]

 [ DESCRIPTION: Mana Knowledge is a basic-level Skill for all Players of the magic class. It lets Players feel and interact with mana instinctively, helping Players with the previously unknown concept of magic. This ability naturally evolves with Player's understanding of magic spells. ]

"Funny. Now it decides to explain things." Ink chuckled with my sarcastic, slightly angry response.

 [ Select a subclass! ]

 [ SUBCLASSES: Druid | Healer | Summoner | Sorcerer | Wizard. ]  

 [ HINT: Subclasses can be evolved when Player reaches Maximum Experience Points! Try to evolve your class to have better chances at survival! ]  

 [ TIME: 00:00:12 ]  

The weight of the decision sank into me like a stone in a cup of water. One wrong choice could be the end. There were no guides, no real hints.

Nothing.  

The silence stretched long, time was running mercilessly, and in the end, the only choice was to act.  

There was no turning back now.  

 [ * Player Error chose Wizard! ] 

 [ DESCRIPTION: High intelligence, high damage, low defense. Masters of elemental and arcane forces. ] 

High damage, low defense. Yep, sounds like a fast ticket to death.

As if reading my thoughts, Ink said:
“Good choice, a glass cannon with a big brain. You’ll either be amazing or immediately dead.”  

"That doesn't help lift my spirits, Ink."  

The Crafter smiled sheepishly. "Sorry?"  

Well, fuck it. I won't die here.

"Well, if you truly sorry, why don't you show me around?" I asked, trying hard to change the topic.

"There are many places here to show ya." He chuckled. "That could take days! You need to get a place to stay first, no? Sleep a little."

"Yeah, that...that would be great." I smiled.

I smiled, but the weight in my chest pressed harder. It wasn’t just the broken trees, the weird sky, or the strange clock ticking in the air—it was knowing that this place was real.

Too real. I was in a limbo. In a coma. And I could do nothing but try to survive. Survive to wake up. To have my life back.  

A tight knot twisted in my gut. I wanted to scream, but the silence in my head felt heavier than any sound could be. I glanced around the bustling market, the cheerful NPCs, and the Players wandering between stalls, as if none of them realized the danger outside the dome. As if none of them understood the rules. Or did, but chose to ignore it for their sanity's sake.

This game was real, and so was the ticking clock above their heads. Our heads.

My head.  

No tutorials. No respawns. No exit screen.  

We're all trapped. 

The thought made my stomach churn. The lack of choice, the strange classes I just chose, and the dangerous, very real Hellhound outside made it clear: This was no accident. This was no dream.  

We're all in a limbo game, and unless we find a way out, we're all going to have to survive each floor of this nightmare until the game releases us back to life.

This is insane.

I had no idea what the other floors held, and I'm not sure if I want to find out. The Hellhound was traumatic enough. But it is clear that Floor One was just the beginning.  

And as we turned to leave the market, the distant howl of the Hellhound sounded once more. The game had already started, and it wasn’t going to be kind.

We were trapped.

And we would have to keep playing—Until our last breaths.

Chapter Text

{ INK'S POV }

Error.

Well, color me glitched. Out of everyone the game could’ve dumped into this mess, it had to be him. And I don’t even remember why that feels so important.

I was just out gathering shimmering flowers for the Guild’s quest wall when I heard a Hellhound’s growl. Then came the scream. A scream that didn’t just sound like a “newbie” scream—it sounded familiar.

Of course, me being me, I couldn’t just keep walking, pretending I didn't hear it. So, naturally, I helped.

Now, that’s a huge problem.

“Ink, if Undyne knows about this, the game System won’t be the only thing you’ll have to worry about! Are you out of your mind?” Blue scolds, his eyes darting everywhere like he’s trying to avoid my gaze... or a trap.

I notice how tightly his shoulders are pulled back—he’s not just annoyed; he’s nervous. Like I’m the one who’s about to explode, not the game. And damn it, that makes me feel guilty.

It’s been a full day since Error “logged” into this game. It gave him some time to calm down, adjust to the bizarre mechanics here. He’s still jittery, though. Funny watching him try and fail, even though part of me knows it’s only a matter of time before the game really drags him through the wringer.

The sky is now hanging in this perfect sunset, frozen in time like someone forgot to press “play". The sun is clear on the sky, but it's not hot. It looks more like someone painted it than an actual sun. Considering this game's weird rules, I'd believe it if that was actually the case. The sky is a perfect breed of orange and pink, and I’m betting it won’t change for another hour or so—until night drops like a heavy footstep, unsettling the air.

The Safe Zone’s streets are buzzing with NPCs hawking their goods. A couple of bards are singing, but their lyrics? Total nonsense.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock—when the breath runs out, you must act…” A bard NPC hums, mostly off-key, as Blue and I wander through the cobbled streets.

As usual, their gibberish goes straight past me. My focus is somewhere else entirely—on Error.

Why him?

Why now?

Will I fully remember him?

Why, why, why?

“Ink? Are you listening to me?” Blue calls out, waving a gloved hand in front of my face like I’m a distracted goldfish.

Of course—I play the fool. People talk more when they think you’re not listening.

I grin. “Nope.”

Blue splutters, clearly exasperated. “Seriously! Listen to me just once! You can’t keep spacing out like this!”

I walk on, ignoring him for a second. A little fresh air would do me good—well, as fresh as this place can get. The air’s always thick, like you can almost taste the pollution. The smoke from the Council core’s chimneys stains the dome, making the sky darker. It’s like a layer of grime you can’t scrub off.

Thank the System the dome opens up for the smoke to vent—otherwise, we’d all have croaked by now.

“Come! Magical books with weird effects! What's inside? Buy and find out!” yells a chubby woman from a nearby stall.

“Knives! Sharp or blunt, rusty or new—take your pick! 10 G each!”

I watch Players hawking their finds, pretending to haggle with the NPCs. Everything they sell is overpriced, abusing the fear some have of going out the Safe Zone—like flies on rotten food.

A stubby NPC behind a stall grins at me as I pass. Red cap. Mustache twitching. “Mushrooms! Power-up or poison—who knows? 5 G a pop!”

Another one yells, “Magical Rubik’s Cube! Stops time and maybe your heart! 30 G! Only today!” I chuckle. Well, these NPCs have my sense of humor.

At least the market's lively.

“Ink!” Blue whines behind me, still trying to drag me into whatever "serious" conversation he wants to have.

“Alright, alright. I’m listening,” I mutter, putting on my most “unamused” face. I think I nail it—Blue looks like he might explode. His frustration is amusing, though.

“Recap: you can’t just help new Players. That’s breaking the rules!”

“Correction: the Council’s rules.” I raise a finger to the sky like some kind of philosopher. "I'm not going to follow the rules of a bunch of Players who decided to play as if they're the highest authority here. The System said nothing about following those tyrants, and nowhere does it say I have to follow them. I’m just saying…”

“Yeah, well, they haven’t been punished by the game... yet.”

“Yet.” I add, voice dripping with irony.

“Ink…” Blue says, his voice sounding more like disappointment than concern.

“So what, I’m supposed to let them die?” I snap, my voice heated. “Enough people are dying from the game rules alone, Blue. I don’t need some megalomaniac tyrant telling me who I can and can’t help. If I can do something, why shouldn’t I?”

Blue throws his hands up, looking like he might start a fire with how much frustration he’s radiating. He might, if he were from a magic class. Luckily, he can't. He's a ranger.

His frustration is amusing, though.

“Ink, it’s not about letting people die! It’s how things here work! You can’t save everyone! You have to follow the rules!”

“But I can save someone!” I shout back.

Blue just stares at me, like he’s searching for a clue in my face. Players all around pause and look at me for a second before shrugging and going back to their business—either because they know who I am—the troublemaker, the odd one, the...utilitarian—or because they can sense the storm brewing in my expression. Either way...

I hate this game.

But then, that face—Error’s face—pops back into my mind. Lost. Panicked. Trapped. It’s the kind of look that screams: I have no idea what’s happening, but I know it’s going to kill me.

And suddenly, I don’t give a damn about the Council, Undyne, or the game System.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe it's because I can’t stand the thought of him dying. Maybe it’s because—hell, maybe it’s because I remember him from my life before this world, and I’m not just some nobody stuck in a game. But I don’t want to say that out loud.

I hate this game, but now I have one more reason to keep going.

“Ruru would've died if I hadn’t stepped in,” I say quietly. “And then I would’ve had to watch him die. Would you have preferred that?”

Blue falters. “That’s not what I’m saying—”

“It kinda is…” I mutter.

The silence between us feels heavy, like someone left milk out in the sun for a week. But then, the sky flickers, signaling it’s time for night to drop.

[ WARNING: Nighttime timer will start now. ]

 [ TIMER: 00:00:30 ]

The NPCs spring into action, hiding their wares and vanishing into code like they're little more than static. It’s a normal glitchy occurrence here. But I’m still not fully used to how weird it all is despite the months of experience I already have of this place.

Soon, new NPCs appear with their fresh stock, and I roll my eyes—here we go again.

"Hello, Player! Infernal fruit, half the price for half of your HP!" Shouts an NPC, another following suit.

"Holy silver—a bit corrupted, but still holy! Only 20 G!"

"How about your scarf for a bit of parchment? It comes with a blessing—or bleeding—enchantment!" The excited NPC yells as I pass, nearly shoving a basket in my face. "Blessing or bleeding? What’ll it be? What’ll it be?!”

I flinch, dodging the man. “No thanks, I’m good.”

[ TIMER: 00:00:00 ]

The sky turns black in the blink of an eye. A screen pops up for every Player, almost like a reminder:

[ CURRENT FLOOR: 1 — New Home. ]

[ STATUS: Evening. ]

New Home—funny name for a place that won't ever be a 'home'.

Night brings back the glitchy stars, the broken clouds, and that cold wind that can make your bones ache. But the best part? The Hellhounds outside the dome, growling as if they can’t wait to come inside.

The streets are filled with the usual suspects—floating Light Jellyfish. One of the few Beasts allowed inside the Safe Zone—all because they're not actively trying to rip Players apart. They treat the air like it’s water, gliding through the atmosphere, lighting up every dark corner—including a poster peeling off a wall with old promotional art: “Train, Survive, Level Up—Face Your Fears in the Arena!”

I glance at it, and mentally scoff.

Yeah, right. It used to be training. It used to be a useful level up mechanism the game system provided for the Players. But the Council got their "authority" on it, and now it’s just a death sentence.

Pricks.

Blue also notices the poster—he looks away, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “I’m worried about you. If Undyne finds out…”

I don’t answer. My eyes drift back to where Error disappeared into one of the alleyways—headed to the library, probably trying to figure out how to wizard without making anything explode.

I’d laugh, but knowing him? Yeah, something's probably already scorched.

“I just don’t get it. Why him?” Blue asks, his voice soft but confused.

“That’s…” I mutter, struggling for a solid answer.  “He’s just a Player I happened to save.”

And maybe a friend. Maybe more—Shut up!

Seems like my hesitation, and my half-hearted response is everything Blue needed to piece together the puzzle.

He's smart—for someone who wear his heart on his sleeve.

“You know him!” Blue gasps, his turquoise eyes wide while he looks at me. “You remember him from the real world, don’t you?”

Yeah, I do.

He was one of the first persons I remembered from my life before this game. After weeks here, I already had plenty of memories about him, which shows his importance to me. But—it’s more like an old photo someone tried to delete and only half recovered. Vivid memories in some places—his laugh, the way he used to scold me for my recklessness—but the rest of it? Scrambled.

He is special, though.

“Yeah.” I admit, more to myself than anyone else. “I know him. I guess...”

His eyes light up, clear as glass—but as much as I want to smile, the thought of everything going wrong here makes it hard. We both knew each other in real life… and now we’re both stuck in a game we can’t escape. All the memories are fuzzy, and I have no idea what’s going to happen next.

Perfect time for a reunion, right?

After wandering through the market with my conflicted thoughts, I finally made my way to the aisle—trying to track down my wizard friend. There is a door with a funny entrance, since it has a typo—librarby. And it's exactly where I'm heading to.

[ *You have entered the Library. ]

Contrary to the market, the atmosphere here shifts—quieter, colder, and filled with the musty smell of old pages. It’s one of those places that feels stuck in time—like the dust on the shelves might have been there for a century. The lights are dim, but they flicker every now and then, as if the System can’t decide if this place is supposed to exist or if it’s just a glitch.

The library itself is boring—as expected. A few rows of bookshelves filled with magical textbooks that only look impressive. Some enchanted books, a couple of normal stories, but nothing that screams "important" to me. Except for one section:

The Magical Fragments of Last Resort.

A small grin creeps onto my face. Despite the scary name, that shelf always has something fun. It’s a collection of the game’s worst-kept secrets—objects with abilities the System doesn't want Players getting their hands on.

Though, if they really wanted Players not touching it, the System should have invested more on security.

The shelves are tall and large, and the objects are all displayed behind a glassy system window of "do not touch".

Yeah, as if.

Each artifact's fragment is interesting. And, small perks of being from an Utilitarian class, because I instinctively know which one do with a single glance. Words either enter my brain instinctively, as if the System is whispering them inside my head—or they appear through a game-like window.

There are fragments to craft an enchanted rope that makes people tell the truth. A weird ring that let people open up portals. A pen that can becomes a sword when the cap is lifted...

Useful stuff!

It’s just a coincidence if one or two of those things end up “disappearing” from the section. The NPCs certainly won’t mind. They never notice until it’s too late.

Though, not all of this stuff click on my mind as needed. I can't really think of any way I can make use of it in a dire situation, despite what many of my fellow Players might say.

These Items are not what they look to be. That much should be obvious—but it's not. As the second rule says—and as their name implies—they are just fragments. Some of these can't even be used now without some creativity. Their full potential is hidden, not tapped into yet—not unless unlocked, used in combination with another artifact... And other things.

It's funny when my fellow Players think the second rule is just a thing to scare us. That the game is lying, or broken. That crafting our own Items is unnecessary. Afterall, the NPCs sell Weapons and Items all the time! Why bother, right?

Fools—the bunch of them.

These are mere fragments. Just like a puzzle can't be complete without all the parts. Sure—you can understand what the final picture is by just having a few pieces. But it won't ever be a completed puzzle with a missing piece. For now, these things are just that—pieces of a whole.

They're still useful, though.

The objects glint and glitch as I pass the shelves, sliding my fingerless gloved hand through the dark wood. Many of them disappear and are immediately switched by another interesting Item when I dismiss them. But only one manages to catch my full attention:

 [ ITEM: Prism Core — ??? ]

[ DESCRIPTION: ??? ]

Weird.

An Item that I can't see its power level, description or what it does. Which other fragment I need to mix with it—nothing. That can only mean two things: either it's more than it looks, or it's a ticket to death. Knowing my luck? Probably both.

Isn't that exciting?

My hand pass through the protection window as easy as if I was a ghost and I grab the object. The transparent white cube glows in my hand, as if it's warning me of its dangerousness. Even then, I have a growing suspicion that this might be not so dangerous. There is this certain...pull towards it—something I still don't understand. And while I can't grasp why I feel like this, I won't pass up this chance. Not in a million years.

I glance around, making sure no NPCs or other Players are nearby. No one’s watching?

Good.

The System doesn't seem to agree with me, though.

[ * You have stolen the Prism Core — ??? ]

Hey!

Technically, I'm not stealing! I am just borrowing an indefinitely suspiciously heavy cube from the library’s “don’t touch unless you’re suicidal” shelf.

I would scoff at the System's message if I had the chance, but then, there is a BOOM, and an annoyed voice. "Fuck!"

I know exactly what that means.

It doesn’t take me much to find Error. He’s not being very stealthy right now—hunched over a fortress of half-open books like they personally offended him. Theory of Magic, The Magical Schools, Elemental Magic Theory—many different titles, all with a common theme from what I can read from afar.

Sparks dance off his fingers every now and then, sizzling and fizzling into nothing. His new spellbook is flopped open like a dead fish—an ugly, judgy dead fish.

I can’t help but chuckle.

I decide to creep closer, just to watch him fail for a bit. Maybe get a few laughs in while he struggles.

He has been muttering something under his breath—either casting or cursing for a while. Maybe both. Hard to tell with him. He has always been a very all-or-nothing type of person.

Maybe that's why I... Yeah, whatever.

"This makes no sense!" he grumbles, his hands flailing in exasperation as he pulls a chunk of his black hair out, looking like he's about to set the whole place on fire with his frustration. And unlike Blue, he actually can.

I raise an eyebrow, strolling up behind him and glancing at the open pages of his book. "Of course it doesn’t make sense. Look at that chicken scratch. How can you even read those?"

Error glares at me. "It’s not the glyphs... If it was just that, I could manage. But no. It’s the spell writing. This stupid book’s full of glitches—half the text is broken."

"Hey, that’s the System's fault, not yours." I say, glancing at the thick magical text. Some glyphs keep morphing into different forms, while others don't move at all. It makes me feel dyslexic just from watching them dance on the pages.

Yeah, I prefer runes. They're easier to understand. 

Error just sighs dramatically, dropping his head into his hands. Sparks flare up again, but this time, they actually do something—just enough to burn a small hole into the side of his sleeve. He curses under his breath, trying to pat out the tiny flame.

"Great," he mutters, "my magic's more glitch than wizard."

I lean against one of the dusty shelves, watching him mutter and spark like a human bug zapper with anger issues. There's something weirdly comforting about this chaos. Like… despite everything, we're still... us, somehow.

And I'm not sure if that's a good sign yet.

That being said, I can’t ignore the pull in my pocket any longer. That cube. It’s practically humming against my coat—like it wants to be noticed.

Heh... Attention seeker.

I really need to figure out what this cube does. The thing’s heavy, odd—definitely not a piece of a normal artifact. Feels like it’s got a mind of its own. I turn it over in my hand, trying to make sense of the weird runes on its surface—curly, just like vines. Just then, Error looks up from his book, catching sight of the cube in my hand.

His eyes narrow. “Seriously?” he asks, voice flat. “First the food on the market, then the dagger on the forge, but you’re stealing from the library now?”

“Borrowing,” I correct. “Totally different, Ruru.” I flash him a grin. "You of all people should understand the fine art of…art."

"You mean—stealing is now art?"

"You make it sound bad." I pout.

'Cause it is bad—horrible, even. I know. What I'm doing is a terrible thing—and not just the borrowing. But I can't explain—not to you, not to anyone.

You wouldn't understand. 

No one would.

Error deadpans, giving me that skeptical look. “You’re stealing it. You’re not even pretending to collect them anymore. This is thievery.”

“Hey, art must come by whatever means necessary!” I hold the cube up. “And this little piece of art? It’s practically begging to be studied.”

I turn the cube in my hands again, its etched lines catching the dim library light. It gives off a faint hum now—one that pulses in sync with my heartbeat.

That’s… new.

It glitches briefly, like static on an old screen, and I swear for a split second when it sparks a shock in my grip. There is a small drip of blood in the hand where it zapped me.

I frown. “Okay, that hurt.”

The cube brightens considerably and then turns dull all of a sudden—with a pulse—healing my cut with it. The engravings start to look less like magical runes and more like drawings now, which makes me consider that whole interaction.

Error catches the change too. “It’s reacting to you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it has taste.” I smirk, but the unease doesn’t fade.

Will you call me out on it?

Will you hate me?

“You do realize,” Error says, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself, “that there are probably warnings about that thing, right?”

“Warnings make things interesting,” I reply, my eyes gleaming. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

Many things... And you know that.

He shakes his head, clearly trying to fight off the laughter. “I’m guessing you’re the type of person who’ll open Pandora’s box just to see what’s inside?”

I don't wait a single beat to reply. "If this game has a Pandora's box, I'm definitely opening it." I shake the small cube in my hands, "But this is no Pandora's box. It's just a weird cube."

Error’s smirk fades as he watches me, clearly distracted by my antics. But then, as if realizing something, his expression shifts.

“Wait…” His voice lower, uncertain. “Where do you even keep all that stuff? You’ve been grabbing random things left and right since the market, and yet I don't see any of them on you. Where do you put them?" He gestures to me, all of me.

Oh, fuck.

He’s got that look—the one that makes me feel like the world’s closing in a little, and the decision ends up being made even before I can think of it.

Don't say it—Shut up.

“Er, about that…” I murmur, glancing around the library again, making sure no one’s listening. “It’s an Skill.”

His brow furrows. “An Skill?”

“Yep.” I wince at the thought of explaining it fully, but I can’t really hide it anymore. “A Skill. I can store things through the system. It's called Inventory."

He'll tell. He'll use it. He will—He won't. Error's not like them. Calm down.

I gulp, weirdly shaken for no reason. "You shouldn't tell anyone I have it, though. It’s… rare.”

"Rare?" He raises an eyebrow. "You mean like... You're cheating?"

I give him a sideways glance, keeping my voice low. “Not cheating. Just—I don’t trust anyone here to play fair, so I’m keeping it a secret.”

Error stares at me, clearly intrigued. “I’ve never heard of anyone else who could do that. Sure, I have just been here for a day, but... Normally I just see people carrying their things on backpacks or strapped on their bodies. Never heard of an Inventory before."

I shrug, my shoulders tense. “That’s because most people don't have an Inventory. It was a gift given to me by the System by mere luck, I guess. Which is why I can’t let anyone know about it. If someone—especially someone from the Council finds out, they’ll take it from me—no questions asked.”

"Take it from you?" He asks, eyes wide. "Is that possible?"

"If you have a Steal skill—which someone from the Council does, then yes. Totally possible."

“Then why show me?” His voice softens, the suspicion still there, but more concerned.

Good question. And I hate how I don't even hesitate before answering.

I'm an idiot.

“Because I trust you.”

I trust you—I don’t know why I said that.

Maybe because it’s true. Or maybe its because, out of everyone here, Error’s the only one who makes this place feel less like a coffin wrapped in code and more like… I don’t know...

A glitch with a heartbeat—Less like a mistake.

Error stares at me, his face awfully soft, as if he knows exactly how much it costs me to say something like that.

"Well, I won't disappoint you, then." He says, smiling. "Y'know that I trust you too, right?"

That’s new—That’s… dangerous.

"I do." My voice breaks a bit. "Thank you."

Uncomfortable—Change the topic, Ink!

There is a pregnant pause now, but it's far from uncomfortable—until I decide to break it with a question. "Uh...so, how is your studies going?"

And he answers me with a loud, frustrated, and absolutely done grunt—as he drags his hand across his face and flicks at another book like it insulted his family. The sparks at his fingertips flare once more, but this time they flicker out before they can even reach the page. He groans, slumping further down in his seat, arms sprawled like a defeated boss fight.

“Terrible. Painful. The worst! Why doesn’t this work?!” he hisses. “The glyph sequence is right. I checked. Twice!”

“You also set your sleeve on fire,” I point out helpfully.

“Yeah, well, third time’s the charm. Or maybe the charm is cursed. That’s also possible.”

I chuckle, leaning against the table while he keeps fidgeting with the pages, clearly trying to brute-force an understanding of the glitchy spell work. It’s like watching someone try to hack a vending machine with a toothpick—funny, until it explodes.

He tries again, this time, more deliberate.
The sparks gather at his fingertips and spiral upward like a ribbon of static. It almost looks right. Then—snap—the magic short-circuits and zaps him in the face with a puff of blue smoke. His hair frizzes instantly.

He blinks through the haze, eyes wide. “Did I just tase myself with a fireball?”

I cough, trying really hard not to laugh. “You’ve officially achieved ‘self-cooking wizard’ status.”

“This book is cursed,” he grumbles, slamming it shut. “I swear, it’s either broken code or I’m cursed.”

“Or both,” I say. “Welcome to the game.”

He’s breathing heavier now, whether from the repeated casting or just sheer frustration, I’m not sure. But even with the failures, he’s still trying. Still fighting the System—even when it spits in his face. Honestly, it's kind of inspiring. In a chaotic, potentially-combustible way.

Yeah... There is no doubt now why I did that in the real world—why I'm still doing it now.

Just when Error finally stops sparking like a malfunctioning toaster and starts thinking, someone clears their throat behind us.

Soft, low, polite.

And somehow louder than a Hellhound's scream.

We both turn.

He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s been there the whole time—arms crossed, cloak trailing around him like it belongs in a cutscene.

Error make good use of the skills he'd learned in the one day he'd been here. He pulls up the guy's check—though I'll admit that I knew who it was even before the System's window appeared.

[ CHECK ]

[ PLAYER: Nightmare — LVL: 06. ]

[ CLASS: Magic — Sorcerer. ]

[ WEAPON: Magical Ring (Common). ]

[ ARMOR: Dark Cloak. ]

[ * Just wants to talk. ] 

"Nightmare," and of course that’s who it is. Half the Safe Zone whispers about him like he’s an anime protagonist in disguise.
No one knows how he levels up. No one’s ever seen him fight. But his name's always at the top of the ranking board on the Guild's walls, and the rumors?

Wild.

They say he leveled up without ever hunting Beasts. That he broke the game’s System just by existing. Some say he cracked the class trees. Some say he read a spell once and gained five levels. I believe it—even if I know none of those are likely the real reason.
He’s got that kind of calm you don’t get unless you already won something.

“Greetings,” he says, his voice cool and deliberate. “Trouble understanding the Arcane Tree, or just setting the library on fire for fun?”

Error stares, stunned.

I elbow him.

"What do you want?" He asks, suspicious.

Nightmare steps closer, glancing between us like we’re pieces on a board he’s already seen ten times. “You’re both... interesting.”

Ah—Here we go.

"Oh, cool. I've always wanted to be someone's side quest." I grin.

Nightmare hums, amused, then pulls something from his belt—a small, blue necklace and a silver one. Both etched with shifting runes. My eyes immediately see them—a little differently. My class react to the Items, telling me things other Players can't see. Both of them read the exactly same thing:

[ ITEM: Necklace — Safe Point. ]

[ DESCRIPTION: A common necklace that was imbued with strong magic. When broken, gives one desired effect from the following list: Healing, Teleportation and Shield. ]

“I’m forming a party. Not a casual one. A real one. Multi-floor. Strategic. High stakes. I’d like both of you to join.”

Error blinks. “You don’t even know us.”

Yeah, Error. That's clearly not how Nightmare thinks.

“I know enough.” He looks at Error. “You came here only yesterday and can already cast, even without a wand or understanding the runes first.” Then at me. “And you’ve been surviving with a death sentence of a class for months now.” A faint smile. “I find that... statistically improbable. And therefore, useful.”

I fold my arms, squinting. “And what do you get out of this?”

“Survivors,” Nightmare answers. “Ones that might actually last long enough to finish this game and get out of here. And you two get a higher chance of survival in a group. It's a win-win deal for everyone involved.” He places the blue necklace on the desk beside Error’s mess of books, and the silver one directly in my hands.

"We have not said yes." I blurt out.

Yet—I don't say that.

“You don’t need to decide now,” he says, already turning. “But remember—the game doesn’t like indecision... And neither do I.”

Before I can do anything at all, he’s gone—like he glitched out of existence. But my shock don't last long when I manage to spot the faintest bits of shadows moving on the wooded floor of the library. My mouth is starting to hurt from how hard I'm smiling.

Showing a card to gain a full deck, huh?

Smart.

"How–?" Error blurts out, head turning in all directions in hopes of finding the sorcerer.

"Teleportation—Not many mages have that skill," I grin wider. "It's on the same level as rare as my Inventory Skill."

Which means that he might be the only Player currently alive that has that Skill—Just like me.

He's really something else, isn't he?

"Great!" Error sighs, twiddling with the Item that was given to him. "Now we won't know how to find him."

I glance at my necklace. "But he can find us."

Error’s still staring.

I mutter under my breath, “I don’t trust him.”

But I do—I respect him.

I knew the first time I got my eyes on Nightmare that, while everyone here keeps playing this game like toddlers, he is playing like a tactician. Predicting, strategizing... Surviving. So far, it's working.

Yeah... I really respect him.

We stood there, the air between us charged with everything Nightmare said and didn’t say.

Error puts the necklace on his neck, and, just when I put the necklace on mine—hidden under my scarf—the temperature in the room drops. Not literally, but close enough.
Then we hear it—heavy metal boots slamming against the marble floor outside the library.

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

Each step like a countdown.

Error whispers, “What the hell is that?”

I don’t answer. Because I know who this is. There is only one reason that can make this type of sound—immediate doom.

BANG!

The doors blast open, not with magic—but with pure brute force.

Rolls upon rolls of guards stand at attention around us, blocking every escape route possible. The ground tremble and the windows rattle with their armored footsteps. The door is passed through by the troops of alienated Players until the spots around me and Error have been filled to the brim with them.

And there, blocking the door, she stands.

Undyne—The Council's pet.

Clad in a heavy silver plate armor and a cloak that sways like she wants it to catch fire. Her spear hums with built-up magic like it’s aching to be thrown. She takes off her helmet, showing her beautiful long red hair. That grin she wears? Not friendly. It’s the kind you wear when you’ve already decided someone’s guilty.

“Ink,” she says, dragging out my name like it’s the punchline to a bad joke. “Found you.”
Her eyes flick to Error. She frowns. “And you too. The unworthy Player.”

How dare she—!

I stand up, stepping in front of him with a casual grin. “I didn’t knew we were expecting guests.”

Undyne walks in like the whole library belongs to her. “You broke three rules of the Council, Ink. And have been charged as guilty."

Oh, woe is me.

I scoff. "Since when is the Council authority enough to give out rules? As far as I know, the System is the only one who rules this place. And that System isn't the Council."

She continues—ignoring my comment. But her scowls tells me that she heard me very well. "Here are the following rules you broke."

Error stands up too, slower, and inches closer to me. Quiet, but tense.

"Rule number one: every Player must give 40% of their Gold to the Council for each day on the Safe Zone. Rule number two: every Player must give 50% of their Drops to the Council." I start to feel dizzy as she says the last broken rule—her eyes hardening with pure tyranny. "Rule number three: no Player is allowed to help new Players with their first quest: find the Safe Zone."

Idiots. Haven't your mother not warned you not to play with fire? Don't blame me when you inevitably burn.

Error is the one who scoffs now. "So you just let people die? Because why not?"

"Council wants both of you,” she continues, voice cold. “Alive. Preferably.”

“Preferably?” I scoff. “Charming.”

She tilts her head. “You’re coming with me. Now.”

I glance at the exit blocked by her guards—Players like us, but twisted by loyalty or fear. I don’t know which—Maybe both.

I start to weight my options. Running is impossible unless I'm suicidal—I'm not. Throwing my pocket-sized smoke bombs is not the best of ideas in a closed off space like this—too much smoke. Explosive kettles are not even options at this point, not unless I want to loose an arm. I don't know how to swing the few swords inside my Inventory—and I'm not gonna show that skill to someone from the Council. And Error can't use magic efficiently yet—a pity.

Do I really have no options here?

The Prism Core pulses again in my pocket, like it’s waiting. But I still don’t know what it does—it's too risky.

Error whispers, “What do we do?”

Honestly?

"I don't know."

Chapter Text

{ INK'S POV }

Cheers.

The Arena is filled with them—row after row of Players screaming like they’re at some rock concert, not about to watch two unlucky idiots get slaughtered for sport.  

It’s funny, really—how easy it is to twist a crowd. Give them something to fear, then promise them a show. Promise them blood. And boom—instant loyalty.  

The ground keeps trembling with the cacophony of voices outside. The walls of the cell shake like a badly arranged song.  

Error stands beside me, his hands gripping the bars. There’s muttering, a spark—and then a sharp crackle. His hair lifts slightly from the static charge before he curses and jerks his hand back, shaking it out.  

The walls shimmer faintly under the weight of the anti-magic spell—dull, grey, and buzzing like a dying fly. Error’s magic, though, prickles against the field, snapping and sizzling like it’s itching for a fight.  

“The bars have anti-magic spell,” I deadpan.  

“I can’t believe they put me here too,” he grunts. “Just you would be bad enough, but me too? I got here yesterday!”  

I shrug. “They see you as a liability.”  

"Why?" He whimpers, throwing himself on the ground near the bars.

Because I fight against their rules. Because they're scared of me. Because they don't know what I'm able to do—but can see my potential.

I don't say any of that.

"Because you're the Played I helped." I say through gritted teeth. 

Error stares at me. "Why is that not allowed?" 

Because fear is easier than courage. And cowards build kingdoms from it.

I sigh, knowing very well that I will end up monologuing. "At the beginning, the Council was just a group of Players—a party like any other. But then, they started to be scared. Of the System's rules, of penalties, of the Beasts...and of other Players. Then, they had the great idea to turn this place into a political hierarchy where they could become stronger without having to move an inch."

"That's—"

I interrupt him, fists tight around my scarf. "And to assert their dominance—really, what better tool than fear?"

“...They're crazy.”  

Unfair would be a better term.

I shrug. “Well, think of it this way—we finally got a change of scenery,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.  

“We’re in a prison cell, Ink,” he states dryly.  

“We’re under the Arena, Ruru,” I chuckle. “It’s far worse than a prison cell." My voice lowers. "This is a theater where people die."

[ WARNING: The Arena has been activated. ]  

Suddenly, there is the sound of engines moving, and the whole cell starts to rise up. Soon, darkness gives way for the sun's light and warmth.  

The cheers get louder.  

The arena looks very much like a gladiator scene now. Tall walls divide the Players watching from the Players inside the training grounds—now death grounds.

The earth is dry and dust keeps rising up, which makes breathing difficult. The air is thick with tension, charged with an electric hum that sticks to your skin like sweat, never letting you forget you’re being watched. The bars of the cell are high, impossibly high, and all around us. There's a sense of being on display — like animals in a zoo, except the crowd is hungry, and they aren't here to admire.

They’re here to see blood.

The stench of sweat, fear, and the distant memory of death lingers in the air, a permanent mark on the stone floors.

This isn’t a prison—it's a stage, and every fight is a performance. There’s no escape.

Only spectacle.  

Asgore—one of the Council Players—stands proudly on the highest seat, taking the best view of the whole stadium. He is an old man with a huge beard. A Wizard—exactly how the stereotype of his subclass dictates he should be—and the opposite of Error, even though they have the same subclass. Once, he had been a kind man, but I guess being trapped inside this game twisted his mind beyond recognition.  

What a pity.

His voice rumbles across the Arena like a war drum: "As everyone knows, the Council has decided a punishment!"  

More cheers.  

More fists pounding against broken stone railings. More howls for blood that hasn’t even been spilled yet.  

I shift in place, the rough scrape of iron cuffs biting into my wrists.  

Error stands next to me, breathing slow, his shoulders squared in that way that says he’s about to either make a run for it or punch someone in the face. Probably both.  

I glance sideways. He catches my look, scowls, and mutters under his breath, “This is so messed up.”  

You haven't seem the worst yet, Error—this is just the surface. 

"Yeah." I sigh. "Tell me about it."  

"As we all know," Asgore continues, gesturing to both me and Error down on the sandy circle of the Arena grounds. "These two broke up the rules of the Council, and now they must pay!"

The cheers get unbearably louder.

That's when I see her, Undyne, looming right beside Asgore—with the Arena-controlling device on her hands.

"In accordance with Article 7 of Council Law, punishment is to be carried out without delay. And the punishment chosen by the Council..." She pauses for dramatic effect, but then her voice hardens. "Is death."

She pushes the button.  

[ * A Beast has been selected! ]  

"Oh, fuck." Error says.  

Right in front of us, puffs of wind start to gather, twirling around a center point. The wind keeps howling through my ears, and even without the windows of the system, I already know what this is shaping up to be.

It's so sad—seeing a mechanism that was meant to help be twisted to do the opposite.

 [ ELEMENTAL GOLEM (WIND) — EPIC ]  

[ * A Beast made by the Arena. ]  

The Golem looms over us, its form swirling and crackling with raw, furious power. It looks like a storm cloud with arms riding a tornado. Its eyes are white slits over a not-very-solid form, and makes me shake when it targets me.  

It roars.  

The wind picks up, tearing at the ground around us as if it senses the threat we pose. My pulse thunders in my ears. Every instinct is telling me to move, to get out of here. But before I can think, I feel Error's hand on my shoulder, his grip tight, pulling me into the chaos. He’s not just reacting anymore—he’s alive in this moment, his body shaking with tension, his mind already formulating his next move. It’s like he’s already accepted the fight, like he’s ready to face the storm head-on.  

But even as he stands there, wild-eyed and breathless, I can’t help but feel the gravity of this place—of what we’re up against. The crowd's noise is deafening, their chants blending with the howling wind, but none of that matters. Not anymore. What matters now is survival.  

I gulp once, sharply, eyes locking on the Golem as it prepares to strike.

"Get ready," I murmur. "This is gonna get real messy."

Understatement of the year.

The Golem swung—  

I drop.  

Sand sprayed as it missed.  

Then, I drag Error out of the way by the sleeve.  

"This is fine," I hiss through gritted teeth. "Everything is perfectly fine."  

It's all under control.

I'm not scared.

My legs are shaking. The Golem’s roar makes my spine lock up, but hey—it’s all under control, right?

Error stumbles beside me, already gathering magic between his hands—a clumsy, frantic shape of a fireball. I see it forming, flickering and unstable, and I want to scream at him to stop, because that spell’s going to blow up in his face. Because fire is the worst combination against wind. Because he's gonna wear himself for nothing.

But before I can, it snaps.

A crack like a thunder roaring splits the air. Blinding white light arcs from Error’s hands, jagged and hungry, and slams into the Air Golem's chest.

The creature shudders—wind stuttering—chunks of its swirling body flying loose like scattered leaves.  

 [ HP: 87/100. ]  

Lighting?—a mid-level spell?

How?

I stare, wide-eyed, heart hammering against my ribs. Error blinks at his own hands, just as stunned, lips moving but no sound coming out.

"That...wasn't a fireball,"  

"No kidding," he mutters, shaking his fingers out like they’re burned. "What the hell was that?"  

The Golem roars, its massive form twisting and reshaping.  

I grab Error’s arm, pull him, and run.  

"Ask later! Run now!"  

{ NIGHTMARE'S POV }  

Interesting.

They're both fascinating. One is a wizard who just appeared yesterday and immediately gained Ink's trust and friendship. And the other is... Ink.

I noticed him the moment I saw him, months ago. The type who hides sharp intellect under layers of jokes and recklessness.  

No wonder people overlook him.  

"You think they'll bite, moonlight?" Killer asks, spinning a dagger lazily by my side.  

The Arena's already buzzing — Players pressed close, some anxious, some curious... Most just here for the blood.  

"Yes, Killer," I murmur, smiling faintly. "If Ink is even half of what I believe he is... they'll survive."  

Killer hums. "So... why bring the wizard too if you just want the crafter?"  

"Error turned out to be an anomaly. Just like Ink. Besides..." I pause, watching the two Players running for their lives on the Arena grounds, "they know each other from the real world."  

Killer lets out a low whistle. "And you picked all that up from one meeting?"  

I chuckle. "And lots of observation, yes."  

"Damn, boss. You're creepy."  

I laugh, genuine. "I'm smart, Killer. That's rarer around here than you'd think."   

The air golem howls a ball of wind to them both, missing by mere inches. Ink—being the fastest of them—keeps dragging Error around, using what little cover they've got as vantage points.  

This is getting painful to watch.  

The Council made a smart choice and picked up a terrible matchup for both of their classes. A wind golem is perfect to counteract Ink's class—there is not enough time to create anything and even if he managed, the golem could just dematerialize to not take the blow.

Magic would be a better match, but Error's still too inexperienced to cast even a low-level, much less an effective medium-level spell. And the fireball he's been trying to cast would be unsuccessful even if he managed to fully form it. That thing he did earlier would have a higher success rate, but I doubt Error did that one on purpose—much less be able to replicate it.  

"They both won't be able to do much against that Beast." Killer says.  

It's a death sentence, afterall.  

I grin. "That makes my plan more satisfying, don't you think?"  

"They'll be furious." Killer says with a smile.  

"Let's move." I stand, adjusting my hood. "If they live up to my expectations, they'll figure it out in five minutes."  

"Alright!" Killer sing-songs, hopping after me. "Newbie interception, yeah?"  

I glance down the arena one last time and smile, slow and sharp. "Yes."  

{ INK'S POV }  

The Golem is absolutely merciless. It twists and makes the air hum with forced energy. The air is charged with magic.

I am not worried.  

How many of my cards will I have to show here?

"This is insane!" Error shouts.

I agree.  

Error yelps as another wind spear tears through the sand inches from his arm. The Golem isn't just fighting—it's hunting.

The golem shot a wind blast.  

We dodge.  

"We can't keep dodging forever!" he gasps, ducking behind a half-crushed fighting dummy with me.  

"Yeah, I got that from the murderous sky-tornado trying to kill us," I snap.  

The golem gives no warning before it hurls a hurricane our way. The sand and dust rise up around us, making me cough. Error gets lifted from the ground and shrieks before I grab him by the leg and push him back down. The golem doesn't seem to like that and takes a sharp turn, whistling another wind attack. It takes me too long to react, and we're sent flying towards the other end of the arena.  

I hit the ground.

The impact ends up knocking the air clean out of my lungs.  

For a moment, everything is just noise—wind screaming past my ears, the crowd roaring above, my own heartbeat hammering like it’s trying to escape my chest. My vision swims. Shapes blur. The world feels crooked.  
I push myself up, blinking grit from my eyes—and spot Error a few feet away, groaning, curled around what might be a dislocated shoulder.  

“You okay?”

No answer.

I snort. “Ruru, come on. Don’t make me play medic. My first aid skill is literally zero.” He doesn’t move. My stomach drops.

Everything is fine.

"Ruru," I rasp, dragging myself toward him.   
His only response is a wheeze. Still alive, then.

Good.

As I reach him, my scarf slips loose around my neck, flapping in the dying winds. My fingers brush the smooth surface of the silver necklace—the one Nightmare handed me back in the library. I hold it up. It hums in my palm, the runes shifting like ripples on water.  

It’s glowing.  

"That's it!" I say, grabbing my friend's attention.  

"Wait—you're gonna use that now?" Error asks, his voice a bit constricted.

"There is no other way. No other option." I glance up at the roaring Golem, winds rising into a cyclone. "But we do have an exit."  

He blinks. “You think it’ll take us outta here?”
“No,” I say, and crush the charm. “I know it will.”

[ ITEM: Necklace — Safe Point. ]

[ STATUS: Activated. ]  

[ EFFECT: Teleportation. ]  

A blinding light explodes beneath our feet, a circle of runes spinning outward like a blooming flower. The ground cracks, energy screaming against the pressure— 

And then the world rips sideways. For a split-second, we’re weightless. Cold. Empty.

Then: impact.  

We crash onto hard stone—somewhere dark and humid, the only light coming from a floating cluster of faintly glowing jellyfish above. I lie still for a beat, staring at the cavern ceiling. I don’t look at Error right away.

Because if I do, I’ll remember what it felt like to almost lose him.

[ * You have entered a Safe Point. ]  

"We escaped," I gasp, my shoulder pressed tight against Error's arm.  

"Yeah," he pants, shooting me a look. "You're insane!"  

I grin, breathless—but before I can fire back a reply, a slow clap cuts through the heavy air.

 
"Four minutes and a half. Impressive."

There he stands. Same dark cloak, same gleaming cyan eyes catching the faint light of the floating Light Jellyfish above.  

A smirk tugs at his mouth — like he’s been waiting.

Yeah, smart indeed.

I can't help but grin wider. "Nightmare."  

The cavern is quiet—eerily so after the chaos. The glowing jellyfish above pulse gently, casting everything in a ghostly blue hue.

"You again." Error says.  

"You're... How?" My tone is measured despite my confusion.

“I knew you’d pick teleportation,” Nightmare says.  

Holy Stars—!

My blood chills even before I turn my head. He looks the exact same from the library, dark cloak, quiet and grinning. But this time, I see more than just his presence—I see the calculation behind it.  

“You knew the Council was behind me." I say slowly, "You knew they would take Error as well. And you gave us the necklaces."  

“Correct.”  

“You knew they'd throw us in the Arena.”  

“Indeed.”  

“And you’re okay with that?” he smiles.  

"I also knew they’d choose a Beast neither of you could win.”  

Error blinks. “Wait, what?!”  

I ignore my friend in favor of making my nagging thoughts come to life. "Why us?" I say, "Why me?"  

Nightmare doesn't disappoint me with his answer.  

"You got the Council's attention, Ink. It is exactly what I wanted. A fearless soul that is not scared of breaking rules. You gave me the pieces I needed, and I put them together." He grins, "The Council believes it controls the system. I needed someone to prove otherwise, and not just one, but two Players did that.”

My mind snaps the puzzle pieces together like magnets.

“You wanted us to escape. Publicly.” I look up at him, the adrenaline finally giving way to awe. “You wanted everyone to see us break their rules and live.”

Nightmare’s faint smile is all the confirmation I need.

“The Council’s power is based on illusion,” he says, stepping closer. “Fear. Applause. Order.” He leans in slightly. “Break that, and we break them.”

Error sits up, staring like a dead fish. “That’s... that’s kind of genius.”

I exhale. “It’s a revolution.”

Nightmare glances at me, something like approval flickering in his eyes. “You figured that out faster than Blue said you would.”

I stiffen. “Blue?”

“Ah!” Nightmare chuckles. “Right. You didn’t know. He’s part of my party—one of mine.”

Error explodes: “What?!”

“I needed someone to verify you were worth the risk,” Nightmare says. “He vouched for you.”

“He whined me about helping a new Player!” I exclaim. "How is that—"  

"That was part of your plan..." Error whispers, making the sorcerer nod in approval.

“Exactly,” Nightmare says smoothly. “You two broke the Council’s rules. Which triggered the first Karma Point.”

A silence settles. The cavern seems to listen.

Oh, stars...

"You're a scary person." Error says, awed.  

"I know."  

"You'll make the System punish someone on purpose?"  

“Yes,” Nightmare says. “And we’re going to make sure it matters.”  

Error rubs his arms, still shaking a little. “So... What now?”  

“Now?” Nightmare turns, already walking deeper into the cave. “You recover. You learn. You get stronger. The Council will want answers, and there's yet some pieces to fall into place.”  

He stops just once. Looks back.  

“For now? We'll give them doubt.”  

And then he's gone, cloak brushing the ground like ink trailing across a map.  
I look at Error. He’s pale and wide-eyed, mouth hanging open.  

I just laugh, breathless and half-delirious.  

“Well,” I say, falling back against the floor. “This game just got interesting.”

Chapter Text

{ ERROR'S POV }

The cave glows with an eerie blend of blue and white light, cast by bioluminescent mushrooms and strange flowers that pulse softly in the darkness. It’s beautiful in an otherworldly way, but it feels distant, almost unreal.

"Are you hurt?" Ink asks between gasps, worried.

"No," I say, rubbing the shoulder that feels a little stiff, but not broken—or dislocated.

After recuperating our breaths from being chased around by a golem, Ink is the first one to stand.  

"We should follow him." 

"Really?" I scoff. "Now you trust him?"

Ink gives me that knowing smile—the kind that makes me feel like I missed a punchline. "Yes."  

Ink’s smile says he trusts Nightmare. I trust Ink. That should be enough. But it’s not—and I hate that it’s not.

"You're crazy. You saw him! Nightmare is like...the last person I would willingly trust my life with."

Ink chuckles. "If that's so, then, you're an idiot." I sigh. He continues, "I have been here for...more or less a month, and if there is someone that can be trusted—that's Nightmare."

"He doesn't look like it." I say, trying to reason.

"Looks deceive." He gestures to himself with a half-smile. "Take me for example. Not much to look at, right? And yet, I lasted months. Alone."  

He does make sense.

The cave walls glisten with moisture, the air thick with damp earth and a faint metallic tang. Mana hums through the stone—quiet, and it seems like the very walls are alive, thrumming with an ancient energy, as though the cave itself is holding its breath.

We round a corner and step into a wide cavern. In the center, a pond shimmers with an iridescent glow, its surface rippling as if stirred by an unseen force. The temperature here is cooler, the air fresher, almost like a different world. And there, by the edge of the water, sits Nightmare.

He’s not alone.  

"Oho! There they are!" Greets a man with a smug grin, his voice dripping with amusement. Black hair and eyes reflecting the light of the floating Light Jellyfish, but also the smooth surface of a dagger jiggling in his hands.

The other two men stand nearby—one wrapped in a hooded cloak, the other clad in heavy silver armor. All of them clearly watching us.

"Uh...who are you?"  

Nightmare’s voice cuts through the silence, calm and sure. "This is Killer, Dust, and Horror. My allies." His eyes flick to me, the briefest of glances, but I can’t read it. "They're part of the team."  

I don’t trust them—none of them. Not for a second.

But Ink seems to know a few things more than me, especially now, when his eyes light up in recognition.

"Wait—aren’t you that guy who attacked the Council?" he asks, and I can see the surprise in his voice.

Killer smirks. "Guilty as charged."

He throws a quick glance toward the others, and the armored man, Horror, chuckles quietly.

Ink’s brow furrows as he processes this. "But—didn’t Undyne—?"

Killer shrugs nonchalantly. "Never believe the Council's version of events. It’s all just a bunch of lies."

Ink recovers fast—too fast. The moment he steps into company, it’s like he’s flipped a switch.  

His eyes dance as he approaches Killer with an eager grin. “Wait—was it true you stabbed the Minister with his own quill?”

“Pfft. Close—used a letter opener. But I’ll remember the quill for next time.”

Dust leans lazily against a jagged log, arms crossed, his hood casting most of his expression in shadow. "He got lucky. The Minister slipped on his own feet."

"Hey!"

I go cold.

Assassin subclass—Of course. That grin. That dagger. That laugh...

But before my thoughts can spiral—as if reading them, Horror adds: "Don't worry. Killer might be from the assassin class but this softie never killed anyone."

"Are you kidding me? Of course not! Taking the risk of getting Karma Points?" He shudders. "Never!"

Ink’s expression tightens as his gaze shifts toward Nightmare, who stands apart—watchful, unreadable as ever. “And you really trust him?” he asks. “All of you?”

A pause. Not defensive. Just quiet. Like the kind of silence that follows a decision made long ago.  

Horror is the one who answers. "Yes, we do." His voice is low, rough. “He gave us something no one else did. A chance.”

Ink nods, but slowly. Like he’s turning the idea over in his mind, searching for the cracks. “Still doesn’t line up with everything I’ve heard.”

Dust snorts. “Then you’ve been reading what the Council wants you to read. Reports written by liars.” His tone is dry, biting. No room for sentiment. 

The group lapses into a tense kind of calm. Not warmth—never that. But an uneasy rhythm. Ink keeps talking—not to entertain, but to probe. Each question is a feeler, like he’s mapping out their boundaries.  
I’m watching them all. Measuring them.  

They seem nice—despite everything.

Killer leans back, flipping his knife between his fingers, expression unreadable as he analyzes Ink. “An Utilitarian that lived for months, killed Beasts alone and even escaped the Council. You’re either the luckiest bastard alive,” he says eventually, “or the most dangerous wildcard I’ve seen.”

Ink just grins. “Pick your favorite.”  

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t need to. That’s the part that sticks.  

Ink... What the heck are you're doing?

But then, things shift, and I'm not paying attention to them anymore.

The murmurs of conversation from the others fade into the background as Nightmare steps closer to me, his presence commanding attention.

The others are still talking—Killer’s smirk never leaving his face as he banters with Dust, and Horror’s low chuckle every so often adding a strange rhythm to the conversation—but it feels like the entire world around me has grown distant.

It’s just me and Nightmare now.  

His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that sends a chill crawling down my spine. "Error," he says my name with such a casual, almost playful tone, but there’s an undercurrent of something urgent. "I need you to come with me."

My heart skips a beat as I blink at him. "What? Why?" 

He doesn’t answer immediately, only gestures for me to follow. There’s something in the way he moves, like a predator guiding prey—calm, controlled, but purposeful.

I glance at Ink, about to ask for his opinion, but he’s too busy chatting with Killer about some past escapade I don't quite follow. The others seem distracted as well. I’m left alone with my decision, and the weight of Nightmare’s quiet expectation presses on me.

I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Fine, whatever," I mutter, though I don’t really know why I agreed. Something about the way he said my name makes me follow without fully thinking about it.

We walk past the pond, the soft glow of the water casting shifting reflections on the walls.

The air here feels charged, as if the mana itself is gathering around us, thickening, pulsing. Each step echoes, but it's not loud. The whole cavern seems to hold its breath, like the earth itself is listening.

We slip through a narrow archway, and the atmosphere shifts again. The cavern around us opens into another space, smaller and more secluded. It feels different here, almost intimate—like Nightmare’s personal space, something he’s offering only to me.

The warmth of the room wraps around me, heavy and comforting, in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I feel like I’ve been led into something sacred, something private. I’m just not sure if it’s a good thing yet.

I can’t deny that this place feels...different. There’s an aura of calm here, a strange sense of security.

The air grows even thicker as we move deeper into the cave, the faint glow from the bioluminescent mushrooms just a distant memory now. The cavern around us feels both ancient and untouched, as if time has slowed down to a crawl here. The floor beneath my feet shifts from smooth stone to a rougher texture, and the soft hum of the mana seems to vibrate through my chest.

"Then... what is this place?" I ask, eying everything.

"A private room of the Safe Point," he replies.

“This feels like a Safe Zone..."

He hums, considering. Then shakes his head. "Close—not quite. The main difference is: no NPCs. No shops, no libraries, no restaurants. Just protection. No Beasts can enter here."

I narrow my eyes. "Then... why bring me here?" 

Nightmare stops in the middle of the alcove, his figure casting a long, looming shadow against the wall. I take a tentative step inside, scanning the area. The shelves of books that fill the walls are impressive—ancient tomes that look like they’ve been taken good care for years. The air smells of dust and something else I can’t place, like old magic.

But what draws my attention the most is the heavy iron-bound chest against the far wall.

Nightmare motions to the chest with a smooth flick of his wrist, and before I can protest, he’s already moving toward it, his fingers brushing lightly over the lock. With a soft groan, the chest opens, revealing an assortment of items—each one more mysterious than the last. But what catches my eye immediately is the gleam of something glass, something shimmering faintly under the dim light.

"I saw that spell you cast in the Arena," he says without missing a beat, his voice smooth as silk, making my skin crawl in a way I can’t explain. "Do you know what you did?"

I shake my head, still trying to wrap my mind around everything that happened. "No... I just—It was supposed to be a fireball."

"And yet..." He prompts.

"And yet—I don’t even know how I did that. Much less what I did."

Nightmare’s grin widens, and for a brief moment, I almost feel like he’s enjoying my confusion. "Well, I know," he says, glancing back at me with that knowing look. "Do you want to know too?" 

I hesitate, but I nod.

He pulls a crystal ball from the chest, its surface smooth and glassy. The faintest pulse of energy seems to emanate from it, almost like it’s alive. My hand itches to touch it, though something inside warns me to be cautious.

"Every mage has an affinity," he says as he inspects the crystal, his fingers tracing its surface with a reverence I can’t ignore. "It’s the kind of magic you're most attuned to. Easier to cast, more powerful and easier to control. Some mages never figure it out, and others... well, they learn it the hard way." His eyes lock with mine, his smile unsettling. "Mine's darkness, ice, and a bit of space."

Ice is a surprise, but not really unexpected considering... Well, Nightmare. The other two elements are more... Guess-able. But not unexpected either.

I nod slowly, remembering the teleportation spell he cast on the library. "Yeah, I saw that."

He tilts his head, his grin widening as if he knows something I don’t. "Now, the real question: what’s your affinity?"

The question lands heavy, like a stone dropped into my chest. I swallow hard, trying to push past the feeling of being exposed. Trying to ignore the unease swirling in my stomach.

"I... I don’t know." 

Nightmare’s voice softens, but there’s no mistaking the edge of anticipation in it. "Well," he hums thoughtfully, "we’ll find out soon enough."

He steps closer, holding the crystal ball out toward me. His eyes never leave mine, and I can feel the weight of his gaze, pressing down on me.

"Both hands on the crystal ball, Error," he commands, his voice gentle but firm. "Let’s figure it out."

I hesitate for only a second—hovering my hand near the crystal—before obeying, my fingers brushing against the cool, impossibly smooth surface of the crystal.

But as soon as both my hands make contact, the cavern fades away.

Everything stops.

Not in a metaphorical way—not like the world feels quiet. I mean literally. The air freezes in my lungs. The hum of mana silences. Even Nightmare, who had been breathing so steadily beside me, is still—locked in time like a paused recording.

And then it starts.

First, there's a crack—like lightning, but not the kind that strikes from the sky. It's like the universe itself is splitting somewhere deep inside me, ripping open a seam. My bones hum. My teeth ache. Something sharp and electric threads through my bloodstream, sizzling in my veins like coiled storm clouds just waiting to burst.

Then the pressure hits me—a force dragging me down, like gravity just decided it was tired of playing nice. My knees buckle, but I don’t fall. The weight is internal, like my soul is suddenly heavier. The floor below me pulses, cracks forming in slow motion. I swear I can feel the shape of the world around me warping, like I'm pulling it inward, like everything has just tilted slightly off-axis around me.

It’s not just that things move slowly—it’s that I can see it. Every breath of dust in the air. The flicker of Nightmare’s eyelids, frozen mid-blink. The way the ripples in the pond beyond the alcove have stopped mid-crest. Time isn’t passing normally anymore. I feel like I’m outside of it, or maybe beneath it, like I’ve fallen through the cracks of the moment itself. 

And then... everything goes quiet again. But this time, it's different. It's not the silence of stillness.

It's the silence of emptiness.

A void opens in my mind—cold, clean, absolute. Not darkness. Absence. I can't explain it, but I know it: It's not about destroying—it’s about removing. Erasing. I feel it hum beneath the other sensations, the sharp current of lightning, the crushing pull of gravity, the frozen drip of suspended time. This magic isn't loud. It's not flashy. But it’s final—

It's control through absence.

The crystal pulses beneath my palms, reacting to the storm brewing under my skin. My vision blurs. Colors bleed into one another. I want to pull away—but I can’t. It’s like the magic itself doesn’t want to let me go.  

And then, as suddenly as it started, it ends.

I stagger, breath coming in short bursts, heart pounding in my chest like it’s trying to break free. I grip the edge of a shelf to steady myself, but it doesn’t help much.
My knees threaten to give. Like the spell drained my bones.

"Take a moment to breathe.” Nightmare’s eyes sharpen, fixed on me like he just saw something he didn’t expect. He doesn’t speak right away—

And neither do I.  

Finally, his voice breaks the silence, quiet but laced with something between reverence and amusement. "Well," he says, "you’re going to be very interesting indeed. Do you understand now?"

"No—?"

But I do.

I’ve never felt anything so terrifying... or so right. This wasn’t something I learned. This was something that had always been there, waiting to be unlocked. 

Time. Gravity. Lightning. Nullification.

My chest tightens. I came here barely able to control a fireball. Now I’ve got four magic flavors trying to eat my brain. What even are the rules anymore?

Meant to be explored—of course.

"This was your affinity revealing itself," Nightmare explains, his tone turning strangely proud. "Time. What you used back in the Arena: Lightning. The dangerous pull you felt—Gravity. And the last one... Nullification."

Each word hits like a hammer to my chest.

"You saw it?" He nods, slowly.

Damn.

I don’t know much about this world—its rules, its magic—but even I understand what that means. With affinities like these... I could be one of the strongest.

Maybe the strongest.

Still, one question won’t let go. "Why are you helping me? Why the crystal ball? The Arena... Why any of this?"

Nightmare shrugs, expression unreadable. "You have potential. Raw talent. I want to help you develop it."

"Why?" I press, frowning.

He smiles—tight, evasive. "It wouldn’t be fun if I handled you all the answers on a silver platter, would it?"

I grunt—Still not buying it.

"Even so," he adds, "I’m not unwilling to answer... certain kinds of questions. Just ask the ones I can answer."

I squint. "Why are you always so cryptic?"  

That actually makes him laugh—sharp and unexpected. It startles me. 

"My apologies. I don’t mean to be. It’s a flaw, I suppose."  

Convenient, I think.

"What are you going to do now?"

That smile again. This time, dangerous. "Now you’re finally asking the right questions." 

He flicks his hand, and the shadows on the far wall peel open like a curtain, revealing a hidden chamber.

[ * Player Nightmare used Teleportation. ]

"There is a time for everything," he says softly, his gaze glinting. "And right now... it’s time for you to learn."

Or so he says. But I wonder—what exactly am I being trained for?

Nightmare didn’t give me time to recover.

He just said: “Follow.”, passed the teleportation spell—and me? I actually followed him. And now? I’m standing in a forest that looks like it swallowed the sun.

A forest as deep as it is creepy—which is saying a lot.  

[ * You exited the Safe Point. ]

The air is thick with damp fog, and the trees twist like they’re listening. Each branch droops as if weighed by secrets, and the silence? Too deep. Like something’s watching.  

“Okay… why did you bring me here?” He chuckles.  

“To train you.”  

I frown. “Train? I don’t need training.”  

“Of course you do. You can’t even cast a simple fireball without setting yourself on fire. I’ve seen your attempts.” He grins. “Very amusing.”  

I grit my teeth. “Fine. Maybe I need help.”  

“Very well.”  

“But—not from you. What makes you think you’re qualified to teach me? You're a Sorcerer and I'm an Wizard—Our magic input is inherently different.”  

He hums, leaning casually against a tree a few meters away from me. “Let’s see... I understand the arcane tree, and you don’t.”

He lifts a finger.  

“I can cast reliably, and you can’t.”

Another.  

“I know my magical affinities very well.”

A third.  

“And…” He raises a final finger, just to twist the knife. “I’m more experienced than you in every way.”  

Damn it.

I exhale through my nose, thoroughly humbled. “Fine. Teach me.”  

He grins wider. Then the shadows beneath his feet spread.  

[ * Player Nightmare used Teleportation. ]

My eyes widen. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just summoning a bit of practice.” He tilts his head. “A few fields from here, there are slimes. Attracted to magic. Resistant to uncontrolled spells.” 

I pale. “Slimes?” 

“They’re perfect opponents for you.” He says it like he’s offering me a birthday cake.

The ground rumbles. This isn’t a summoning—far from it. Nightmare isn't a Summoner, he is a Sorcerer. This... This is teleportation.

What a weird way to use a rare skill...

[ SLIMES — COMMON ]

[ * Slow Beasts that feed on magic. Not very smart, but a challenge for low-level magical classes. ]  

Slowly, one by one, green, glistening, eyeless creatures begin to emerge. Round and oozing. Of all sorts of sizes, but never bigger than me. And they take no time to sense the nearest magical source. 

Me.

[ WARNING: You're now surrounded by Slimes. ] 

"Thanks, System. Really helpful." I say through gritted teeth.

The slimes start to circle me. Slow, but far from quiet. They make loud gurgling noises that are disgusting. They don't have much of a smell, but they leave a trail of green behind that burn the grass—that has a smell. Putrid, burning. The smell of death. 

What kind of insane teaching method is this?!

“Do you wanna kill me?!”  

“No. I want you to improve.” Nightmare remains calm, stepping away as the slimes begin to creep closer to me. “You have potential. You cast without a wand. You’re rare. I think you’re worth my time.” 

What?

"But you also cast without a wand!" I retort.

One of the slimes lunges on me. I panic, stumbling back.

"No, I don't." He shows me his left hand, tapping a ring resting on his index finger. "I might not use a wand, but I do need magical Items to cast—differently from you."

I can't even hear him anymore.

There needs to be a way to win. There needs to be. I need to try something. Maybe my affinities? I don't know—can't think. 

The air hums again. Not like before, not like the crystal. But close. There’s pressure building—like a storm wants out.

And I’m the bottle. 

But, even though I know that, my magic still passes harmlessly through the slimes. The lighting bolt I tried dissipates like sugar in a cup of water.

“I’m gonna die!”  

Nightmare laughs. “How dramatic.”  

Honestly, If this is how he treats people he likes, I’m terrified to meet his enemies.

One slime lunges. Its body grazes mine—not physically, but magically. I feel it drain a bite of my energy. Not pain, exactly—just loss. Like something hollowed out part of me.  

[ MANA: 80/100. ]

This is scary. I've read about these guys. They eat chunks of magic, bite by bite, and slowly, when the target doesn't have any mana left—they start to eat their victims' life.

“Nightmare…” I whimper.

“Error—focus.”  

“I can’t!”  

He sighs, “Fine. A hint. Just this once. Area of attack spell. Book of Magic Theory, Volume 1. School of Lightning. I know you've read that on the library. I saw the book on the table.” 

And I did. I know exactly what he's talking about. Thunderclap... Area of Effect spell. Mana cost's high, cast time's short. But... 

damn it, how did it go again?

I groan, heart pounding in my chest. The air around me is thick with tension, and I can feel the magic crackling just beneath my skin. I have to cast something—I have to remember how to do this. 

Thunderclap. Thunderclap, I think. The spell from the Book of Magic Theory, Volume 1. The one that I thought would be a bit hard to do when I read it in the library. I can do this. I know I can. 

But the words slip away from me, like water through my fingers. I try to visualize the page—picture the words, the intricate glyphs, the way it felt when I first saw it. 

It’s all a blur. 

My heart races. My breath is ragged. Panic claws at me from the inside.

I can’t remember—why can’t I remember?

The slimes are still there, slowly closing in, their gelatinous bodies quivering. I have to focus. My magic is almost gone, and if I don’t cast something soon, they’ll—

The incantation. The words. They were simple—weren’t they?

No. No, that’s not it. I can’t even recall the starting syllable. The spell slips away from me like it was never there. But I know other spells, don't I? I’ve read them before. There’s—there’s Fireball. But it’s too dangerous, too messy. I can’t afford to burn myself again. Water hose—Water hose's too hard.

I can’t focus. 

I run in circles. The slimes continue their slow crawl toward me, unfazed, unfriendly. One lunges again. I dodge, barely, but my foot catches on a root. I stumble and barely manage to right myself before the next one takes a bite.  

[ MANA: 60/100. ]  

I grit my teeth.

Think, think, think!

A flash of memory—Thunderclap. I know how it’s supposed to feel. The sharp, crackling sound of the storm before it strikes. The pressure building up in my chest, the way I felt like I could almost command the sky to split open. 

But the feeling doesn’t come. I can’t summon it. It’s all just too much—the panic, the slimes, Nightmare watching me, his cold gaze pressing in. 

Another slime attacks, its body pressing against my side—not with force, but with an eerie, draining pull. My mana dips again, and I feel a cold emptiness wash over me.  

[ MANA: 40/100. ]  

I gasp for air. This isn’t working. I’m failing, and I know it. I’m about to collapse into desperation when I hear Nightmare’s voice. “Error—focus.”  

“I can’t!” I scream, feeling the weight of my own failure pressing down on me.

“You can, but you’re not thinking clearly. You have to approach it logically. Look at the enemy and think.” He’s not yelling. He’s not even angry. Just… detached. 

Think. Right. That’s it. Think.

I squeeze my eyes shut—I’ve got this. I can do this.

I groan, running in circles. Another slime bites. My magical reserves dip lower. I grunt in frustration.  

I can't do this.

“Nightmare!” I shout again, now halfway in panic and exhaustion.  

He sighs.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, and a sparkle from his ring—the shadows around me tremble. Spears of darkness shoot from the ground, striking down every slime in an instant. Green ooze sizzles into the soil.  

Many System windows appear, all with the same message:  

[ * You have killed a Slime! ]  

[ * You have killed a Slime! ]  

[ * You have killed a Slime! ]  

What is left of the slimes ooze on the plants, and the "training ground" quickly becomes smelly. I stare, dumbfounded.  

I'm nowhere near his level, I realize.  

I have been struggling all this time, but for him...it was so easy. Just a flicker of his wrist, and they're gone.

Nightmare steps closer, unamused. “The answer,” he says flatly, “was Thunderclap. Basic area control. Page forty-two.” 

I know.

I manage the urge to say that by biting my lips. And the heavy weight of failure falls heavy on me—just like a broken boat being eaten by the ocean—and I collapse to my knees. Not from injury—from the weight of adrenaline, fatigue, and failure. 

But then his voice softens. “This world won’t be kind to you, Error. It won’t wait until you figure things out.” 

I look up at him, half-expecting more scolding. Instead, I get a quiet smile.

“But don’t worry.” He reaches out a hand. “I won't give up on you.” 

Nice words for a stoic face. I'm not sure if that makes him trustworthy, or just a master manipulator. Whatever it is, I don't know—I'm too exhausted to think.  

Great. Day one of training and I’ve already unlocked the “screamed-for-my-life” achievement.

“Rest up,” Nightmare says, already turning away. “Tomorrow’s worse.”  

"There is a tomorrow?" I blink. “Wait—Worse?!”  

He just chuckles.  

Day two of training. Slimes: round two. Morale: critically low.  

I'm surrounded by slimes. But today, the greenish Beasts are bigger, faster, and deadlier. To make matters worse, Nightmare decided to "summon" even more of them this time. 

The good news: I'm actually getting better at casting. Who would've guessed that casting elements of your affinity was actually easier? So far, fireball—a low-level spell—has been much harder to cast than thunderclap—a medium-level spell. I guess Nightmare hold half the reason why I have been so successful recently. Even if he is a sadistic bastard that likes to see me struggle. 

And, I have actually been studying diligently. Day and night. Reading, practicing...and thinking. So far, my efforts are giving results. Slower than I'd like—but still...results.

The bad part is that my mana is quickly depleting. Both from half-successful attempts of making my spells work, and from the slime's bites.  

As if on cue, a slime lunges—I dodge. Barely. Still, it manages to take a bite out of me.  

[ MANA: 45/100 ]  

"Fuck."  

I didn’t think rock bottom would involve slimes. And yet, here we are.

"You barely managed to do that spell earlier, Error." Nightmare says, sounding annoyed. "Try again."  

"What do you think I've been doing?" I shout, and cast a lightning strike. 

One slime explodes, but it's not enough—now there is two, smaller ones, instead of just one. I grunt in frustration.  

They just don't die!

"You can't just attack aimlessly like that. Think, Error—think!" 

"I am thinking!"  

"No, you're not. You're panicking."  

There is another downside to working with Nightmare. Since I don't understand most of his intentions, I'm getting annoyed rather fast with him.

It's getting on my nerves.

"You need to think before you cast. Think of what would work better against your enemy—" He says, annoyingly calm. "Be it magic, or not."  

The slimes are closing in again. My heart’s pounding in my chest, but my brain is finally catching up. The panic’s been too much, and now I need to think.  

Think, damn it.

I glance around, trying to find any advantage. The slimes are too many. Too persistent. And no matter how many times I try to throw a spell, they just keep eating through my mana. The thought of being drained to nothing… it’s real. And that’s terrifying.  

But then, something clicks.  

I remember what I read about the slimes being drawn to magic. They don’t care about anything but that. They feed on it, like parasites. But… that means they won’t stop at just me. They’ll go after any magical source.  

Including Nightmare.

I look at him again. He’s standing off to the side, his hands in his pockets, observing the scene. A wicked grin starts to tug at the corner of my lips. If I can get them to go after him instead of me—that’s my way out.  

I concentrate, feeling the burn in my veins as I shape the magic. I can’t cast something too strong—can’t risk it. But I can manipulate the magic just enough to make them notice the stronger source nearby. I push my energy out, making sure it’s not direct, just enough of a signal to draw their attention.  

I send the magical flare in Nightmare’s direction. Not enough to hurt him—just a beacon. Something subtle that’ll lure the slimes toward him.  

The slimes halt for a moment.

One of them shifts, a slow quiver running through its body. Then another follows. And another.  

I bite down on a grin, heart pounding as I watch them slowly begin to move toward Nightmare, the green masses slithering toward the stronger magical source.

It’s working!

Nightmare hasn’t moved an inch. Not even a twitch. But I see the faint glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. He knew this was coming.

He's scary—indeed.

The slimes start to swarm around him. At first, it’s just one or two, cautious, but then more and more join in, drawn to his magic like moths to a flame.  

I stand back, breath shallow, watching closely.  

The slimes start pressing in around Nightmare, their bodies sliding against him, trying to consume the magic. I hold my breath, waiting.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Nightmare’s magic erupts. Ice shards take shape in the air like big stalactites, cold and sharp. 

The slimes crystallize, impaled with deadly force. Each one that touches him turn into ice statues under the pressure of his magic. It's as elegant as it is powerful, and I can’t help but watch, dumbfounded.  

The slimes don’t stand a chance. They’re gone in seconds. Mist lingers in the air around their frozen bodies, and...  

I can feel the cold from here...

Nightmare steps forward, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield. He doesn't look at me, but I can feel his approval in the way his body relaxes, in the way his stance softens.  

"Well done," he says, his voice a little softer than usual.  

I blink, the words catching me off guard. “You… you’re not mad?”  

He gives me a side-long glance. “Why would I be?”  

I don’t have a chance to answer. The praise is enough. His words settle into my chest, heavy with something I don’t want to think too much about.  

Instead, I just look at him, trying to stay focused. "So, that was clever, huh?"  

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even smirk. But his eyes glint with something—pride, maybe? "It was a predictable move. But... You finally started thinking instead of reacting."

For a moment, I’m struck by the truth of that. It’s like a punch to the gut. I’ve been panicking, flailing, trying to force everything to happen. But Nightmare’s right. I wasn’t thinking. I was just reacting to my fear.

I have a tendency to do that, don't I?

Then, to my utter shock, I feel his hand on my head.  

I freeze.

His touch is light, almost careful. He ruffles my hair once, twice, before pulling his hand away.

I stand there, wide-eyed.  

Did he just—?

Nightmare doesn’t look at me as he speaks again. “Keep that up, and you might actually be worth my time.”  

His words should feel dismissive, but there's something else in the air now. Something that feels... almost genuine.

I want to say something—anything. But the shock of his sudden praise and unexpected touch leaves me at a loss for words. All I can do is watch him turn away, his figure disappearing into the shadows.

What just happened?

I place a hand on my head, the warmth from his touch still lingering there. His actions—his calm praise—it’s the first time I’ve seen this side of him. I'm pretty sure this is the first time anyone has seen him like this. It’s so... unexpected.

I shake my head, trying to focus. There’s no time to dwell on whatever that was. I’ve got slimes to deal with tomorrow. More slimes. Bigger ones.  

But for the first time today, I don’t feel like I’m completely alone in this.  

Maybe... I can actually survive this training after all.

Chapter Text

{ NIGHTMARE’S POV }

Hm... Complicated. That’s the word. Three steps forward, one step back.

My predictions are playing themselves out. The Council is freaking out—realizing their doom is close. Players are starting to question what is wrong and what is right. Ink proved to me that he is in fact, the piece I needed to shatter the lie they’ve built. There are enough people capable on my group already... I already set motion of the key thing too.

Everything—checked.

But then, this game threw an unpredictability at me. Error is the wild card in my plan—and, interestingly, Ink genuinely cares about him. Somehow, that makes things work better… and worse:

I sigh. “That... Complicates everything.”

Killer blinks, stopping the sharpening of his knife mid-motion. "What, exactly?"

"Nothing."

We're in the "private chamber" inside the cave of the Safe Point—one of the many Safe Points that exist. The shelves are full of books—all chosen by the game System, and not me—despite what many may think. I tried replacing one for a more interesting book once. The previous book came back—clashed with the new one, and both ended up catching fire.

A disaster.

He hums. "I was thinking... Why haven't you said anything to them? Y'know that they mistrust you, right?" He points to the other chamber, the wider one—where everyone is sleeping. "Error seems to be warming up to you with that crazy training, but Ink still seems mistrustful—even if he pretends otherwise."

He's right—but also wrong.

“Killer, tell me,” I say slowly, making my point land. “If someone that acts shady came up and said, ‘Oh hey! I’m not manipulating you—trust me,’ would you believe them?”

He laughs, realizing the absurdity of what he said. "Yeah, no. I wouldn't."

"Then, you can see why I refuse to do that. I’ve learned that control lies in silence—not explanations. Let them figure out who I am. That way, the trust is real."

I don’t want blind followers—I want a team.

And if I forced them to follow—to trust... In which way would I be different than the Council?

"You could act more approachable, though." He adds, now sheathing his knife on his belt and taking another one in his hands.

I frown. "I know how. It just feels awkward—like the world’s waiting to laugh. You know what I mean."

He grins. "And yet, you pat Error's head that one time, haven't you, moonlight?"

He saw. Unbelievable.

I can feel my cheeks burning, and it's a little uncomfortable. "Well, Error's the type of person that works better if forged under pressure and later be rewarded with affection. And, if I want him on my team, he needs to get better. It's a necessity, both to ensure that he can follow my plans and... to survive."

I'm explaining myself again—great. His charisma works on me too, apparently.

"You’re terrible at it—yet did it anyway." He coos teasingly. "Getting soft already?"

I grin. Killer plays the fool, but he's sharp—and still, somehow, my friend.

I roll my eyes and stand up. "Enough talking. Let's work."

He laughs, joyously—loud. "Alright! I'ma spy the Council!"

I glance at him. “No—not today.”

Killer pauses, one brow lifting. “Why?” His tone is light, but I catch the flicker of curiosity beneath it.

“I want to talk to someone.”

“Ooh, mystery friend? A long-lost lover?” He waggles his eyebrows.

“The Engineer.”

He whistles. “Fancy.” Then more serious: “You’re talking about her, aren’t you?”

"She's the only Engineer alive, Killer. You know that."

One between the two Utilitarians alive—the other being Ink. That alone says everything.

“She’s still undercover?”

“Yes. She deviated. I want to know why.” I say, turning toward the cave mouth.

And that’s true—more than anyone knows. The Engineer's been working beneath their notice, feeding the Council its own poison. Blueprints disguised as stories. Drones hiding inside bookcases. Facts woven into fiction. The System keeps forgiving them, pretending to not see what the Council is doing. But with her help in gathering enough evidence to elevate their Karma Points?

Soon, it'll have to act.

I suppress a smile. “Coming or not?”

Killer bounds after me, with another blade spinning lazily between his fingers. “You know I love a good underdog meeting.”

We leave the Safe Point behind. The Guild greets us like a storm in full swing—Louder than usual.

I step inside the cramped-looking house, Killer trailing behind me like a shadow with attitude. 

[ * You entered the Guild. ]

“Still hate how this place lies to my eyes,” he mutters, scanning the suddenly-vast atrium. “Looks like a rat’s den outside. Feels like a whole cathedral in here.”

A strange place, unlike anything else on Floor 1. Outside, it looks like a humble house. Inside? White-walled, two-storied, cathedral-like. Room for everyone—and then some.

The first floor buzzes—Players shout over task boards, the Guild Wall flickering as quests vanish faster than candy at a kid’s party. Low level, medium or high level—if they're desperate, or just want to die with an excuse. The air’s sharp with the scent of rust, sweat, and barely-washed fabric. But what catches me most isn’t the chaos.

It’s the change.

Whispers ripple through the crowd. "Did you see it? Arena footage—actually escaped—”

"They survived the Council's punishment, man. Someone survived!”

“Council’s scrambling. Like they weren’t expecting it—"

I pause at the stairs, listening without turning.

"Someone’s leaking their weaknesses…”

I smile. Good. Doubt is growing roots.

Blue's work—of course. I knew he would do a good job—he always does. He knows how to twist a crowd, and that is an ability I can't pass the opportunity to use, especially when the System needs majority to judge the Council. A quiet step—but a big one.

“We heading up?” Killer nudges my elbow, clearly bored.

“Yes.”

[ * You entered the Guild's upper floor. ]

Quiet. Cooler. Bookshelves buzz faintly with System static. Bestiaries line the walls like hunting trophies. Hellhounds, Light Jellyfish, Elemental Golems, Slimes, Twinkling Pixies... they show it all. This place showcases all kinds of things, even more than the Library. Because, where the Library is made for those who wants to know about classes, magic, fighting styles, and what they can do on the surface. This floor teaches about the deeper layers—Beasts, mechanics, things the Library barely touches.

This floor is for those who think before they move.

It’s been my second home since I arrived—three months ago.

A bored receptionist NPC eyes me warily as I approach the private wing. She doesn’t ask for my name—just nods once, tight, and gestures to the last room on the right.

The second floor hums—too quiet to be normal. It’s not the silence of peace. It’s the silence of calculations. Of people listening for the next move.

Killer mutters beside me, scanning the nearby quest wall. “Council’s getting sloppy.”

Not just sloppy—Desperate.

I glance sideways. “Hm?”

He plucks a parchment from the wall like he’s unwrapping candy. “This quest? Supposed to be a delivery gig. But look at the reward data line—encrypted strings. Coded with the Council's personal code. Bet it’s a report they didn’t want couriered officially.”

I blink once. “You’re sure?”

“Moonlight, I’ve read their code in every font they use.” He taps the edge of the paper. “They’re leaking scared.”

I file that away. More useful than most things people say aloud. Killer notices the things that don’t want to be seen. A very particular skill.

There is a reason why I brought him here, afterall—something above just friendship.

As we near the private wing, he mutters again, eyeing the closed door. “You think she sleeps? Or just plugs herself into a wall somewhere and recharges?”

A snort escapes me. “She’s not a machine.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure? ‘Cause every time she looks at me, I feel like she’s running diagnostics on my soul.”

I consider, pausing at the door. Then: “She doesn’t need to be a machine. She’s already something else." I wait, then slowly add: "And if she ever turned on us, even I’d hesitate.”

Killer stares at me, for once without a retort. “Damn. That bad?”

“Worse,” I say, and push the door open.

[ WARNING: You entered a Private Room. ]

[ * This room has a Soundproof effect to ensure maximum comfort to Players. No sound can leak while the door is locked. ]

[ * This room has a Disturbance + Suppression effect—maximum level of efficiency. No Player skills work here, no matter the class. ]

Indeed, the System is right. As soon as I enter, I can feel the mana on my body being suppressed—as if someone surrounded my ley lines with tight threads. I can't use my subclass skills now—but I don't need to.

My sharp intellect is all I need—and that wasn't something I got from the System.

The room is simple, more closely resembling a classroom than an office. The wood creak under my boots, and System's magic swirls in the air—suppressing it. There is three round tables surrounded by cushioned chairs here, but only one table is being used. Papers, spreadsheets and a few tech is laying on the top. But it's on the far wall—near the window, that she awaits.

The Engineer—Core.

Not sitting—standing, hands behind her back, spine straight, eyes locked on the door before it opened. She’s always like that. As if she calculates your footfalls and prepares accordingly.

No, not as if—she really does that.

"Nightmare,” she says, neutral.

Her short black hair fall over her ears, giving her an innocent appearance. Her clothes are a far cry from the regal thing the Council demands. But it's still eye-catching—noble. As if she were...

Killer whistles under his breath. “Didn’t knew we were crashing a meeting with royalty,” he mutters.

Her gaze shifts to him. Not hostile. Not curious either. More like she’s mentally sorting him into a category. The attention don't make Killer waver—he's too experienced with my gaze for that—but he is hiding his discomfort.

One second. Two seconds. And Killer's already sorted out.

"You're the one who keeps invading the Council...."

Killer pales. "You saw?" He mutters, "I thought I was being stealthy..."

You were, Killer. For most people, not for Core.

I gesture to my friend, "This is Killer,” I say. “He’s loud, but useful.”

“Hurtful,” Killer says, but steps back and stays quiet. He knows better.

This is not the first time Core has seen Killer. But it's technically their first formal meeting, a bit of theatrics and formality won't hurt.

She doesn't greet him, but—she doesn't ask for him to leave the room either. I smirk, knowing what she's thinking. She probably dismissed him as just a nuisance, but can't fully do that because I said he's useful—and wants to know why now.

I approach slowly, letting the quiet stretch. “You’ve been busy,” I say, more prompting her to talk then anything.

Core nods once. “Two more drones complete. Five more passive data points added to the Council’s priority logs. I’m embedding the findings in daily quest templates. Hidden, but traceable.”

"You’re not afraid they’ll find out?” Killer asks, frowning.

"They will,” she replies. “That’s the point.”

I smile. Sharp. “Good.”

As I approach, Killer lingers back—but not idle. His eyes keep taking in the room. The blackboards on the left walk, the paper stack on the table, the graphics, runes—everything. Including... No. Especially how Core behaves.

That's one of the reasons why I brought him here. I understand rules and outcomes. But Killer? He understands people. And in a world where we are all forced into a survivor mindset, that is a vital skill.

Normally, I would leave that function to my brother—but he is not here.

Core's already looking at me.

Her expression flickers—just faintly. Almost approval. “You brought me here,” she says. “Dangerous move. So something’s shifting, isn’t it?”

I nod. “Ink broke the illusion. Error helped him do it. The arena stunt worked better than expected. And the rumors? They’re starting to stick.”

"Then the System will act soon.”

“Yes,” I say, stepping closer. “Which is why we need the next phase.”

Core’s fingers twitch—barely. She’s already calculating, already five steps ahead.

"I’ll need more visibility,” she says. “And more options. With only two Utilitarians alive, it's hard to go unnoticed.”

“Then we’ll loosen them,” I say. “By deceit or by force, if necessary.”

Killer laughs under his breath. “You two sound like war generals playing chess.”

"We are,” Core says. Still not looking at him.

Dismissive—bold move when it's directed to someone like Killer.

I interrupt her before he says something dumb. "You deviated... Why?"

Core steps around the desk—measured. “I’ve preprogrammed thirty drones with passive data collection sequences. If we embed them in the Safe Zone, they’ll gather Player behavior records. The System can’t ignore that. The patterns will reveal manipulation and—”

“No.” The word is out before she finishes.

She tilts her head. Not surprised. Just... calculating again.

“I’m not requesting permission.”

“And I’m not letting you make a Council out of us,” I answer coolly. “That’s Council logic, Core. Dress it in your data. Still smells like control.”

Killer shifts behind me, silent.

Core's brow twitches. “We need leverage. The System’s watching, yes—but not reacting. It needs evidence.”

“It has evidence,” I counter. “What it lacks is motive.”

“So we force it,” she replies, sharper than before. “And I will not sit idle while that window closes.”

“You’re playing the long game too fast,” I counter. “If you send drones into the Safe Zone, we break the one illusion we’ve upheld: Safety.”

“It’s an illusion you built,” she retorts. “I only want it to crack where it’s weakest.”

For a moment, we just stare. Her ice versus my moonlight. Neither willing to give up.

Then—Killer cuts through.

“Y’all are out here calculating checkmates while the pawns are starving.”

We both look at him.

He tosses a folded page onto the table, over layers of paper and more. Core steps forward. Unfolds it with slow, clinical precision.

While Core is busy reading the lines—and the in between. Killer looks at me, searching for clues that he did anything wrong—I don't give any. I was waiting for this.

"You did good." I whisper. He brighten up.

Core's eyes scan the lines—once, then again. She frowns. “A tunnel... Under the Guild.”

Killer crosses his arms, a lazy grin returning. He sits down on one of the chairs, starting to make paper planes with the sheets she brought and throw them around the room. That attitude makes Core's eyebrow twitch in irritation, which makes me chuckle.

He's being casual on purpose—to try to low down Core's walls. It'll be hard, but he'll be successful, eventually.

If it worked on me, it'll work on her too.

“Saw a disguised NPC vanish into a wall two nights ago—you might know her as Muffet." Core nods. "Followed her. Found a half-built passage guarded by a Beast on a leash.”

She looks up. It’s subtle, but something shifts in her expression. “You see what I miss.”

A beat.

“That’s rare. Good.”

Killer’s smile doesn’t falter—but it gets quieter. “Was starting to think I was just your pretty accessory.”

I glance at him, something rare stirring in my chest. Not pride. Not quite—but close.

“I’ve said it before,” I murmur. “Imagine if I had a hundred Killers.”

Killer clicks his tongue. “You’d all go mad. I’m the only tolerable one.”

Core actually chuckles—soft, but real. Then she turns around and brings back something to the table: A chessboard. Simple. But the pieces are already arranged—all in different positions. And somehow, I know she’s been waiting for me to sit at this board for a long time.

Because—of course! It's Core we're talking about. She thinks in patterns and things she can predict—and what better to showcase that than chess? It's not the first time she have brought up that board to a meeting and compared our moves to that of the pieces—and probably won't be the last.

Still... It's an interesting choice—cliché, even. This board works… until it doesn’t. If pieces stop behaving, the smartest move isn’t strategy—it’s upending the game entirely.

"What is your move then, Nightmare?”

"Are you serious?" Killer laughs, incredulous. "A chessboard? You two are ridiculous!"

I don't answer Killer—that's not needed. I watch her a moment longer. Ink may be brave. Error may be the spark. But Core?

Core is the fuse.

"This." I move the black king of the board like a queen, immediately putting the other king into a... "Checkmate."

Core blinks, frowning. "That's illegal."

I laugh, crossing my arms over my chest. "Oh, really? Why you think so?"

"Kings can't move like that, much less checkmate."

I grin. "You're thinking wrongly again. Such rigid thinking won't take you too far, Core. "We're dealing with humans, not pieces. And oftentimes, they behave erratically."

That's his clue—and he takes it.

Killer nods, adding: "And not always the board has the same type of pieces on their side." Then, he proceeds to take out a few pieces from the board and throw them to the ground. "Sometimes, there is a knight missing, or maybe a queen. Heck—there might not even be a king!"

Yeah, being near me for so long is starting to rub off on him.

He hums, staring at Core. “You ever think maybe you’re not playing chess at all?”

Core eyes us—bewildered. The most emotion she's shown since I've met, and became allies with her. "That... No."

I look at her, with my eyes softening. "Do you get it now?"

"You're not playing chess..." She takes the white queen on her hands, rubbing it.

I nod. "Who said I’m playing just one game?”

For a while, quiet. Then—

Killer grins—admiration and loyalty bleeds out of it. “So what’s next, boss?”

Core is the one who answers, putting down the white queen on the table and taking some pieces off the board to the safety of outside. Then—she flips the board, sending the rest of the pieces flying around the room.

"We checkmate?"

I smile. "Exactly."

[ * You exited the Private Room. ]

We walk down the halls—quiet, for once.

Killer speaks first. “You trust her?”

“Yes.”

“But not enough.”

“Exactly.” A beat. "It's a problem we, tacticians, always have." Then, two. "No one trust people like us."

"I do." He says, quietly. "I don't trust her, she's weird. But I trust you."

"You're an anomaly."

And it's true. Because people like Killer are not born on trees—beautiful and obvious—just to rot later. They're forged under pressure—ugly, messy—Until they become diamonds.

Can only show their true value after they've been discovered—and I've already found one.

Outside, the noise of the Guild rolls back in. The upper floor has nothing to offer but dust and quiet, and the first floor is still the same mess of noise and movement.

I pause by the entrance, watching the flickering Quest Wall. “She’s the fuse,” I murmur. "And the Council is the target."

Killer stretches, cracking his neck. “What’s that make you?”

I don’t answer. Not until the memory of the chessboard slides into place. Pawns, bishops...all the pieces are on the right places. I was missing some important pieces before—which meant I couldn't play—but now that I have all the needed ones...

It's time to act—and win this game.

I glance at him, eyes sharpening. “The one who plays the game."

He hums, "the mastermind, huh?"

"Yes, Killer. And finally, the board is set,” I say.

Now we move. And next time?

Checkmate.

Chapter Text

{ ERROR’S POV }

I don’t like it when the wind sounds like breathing. Too soft. Too constant. Like something is behind me—just out of reach.

But that's probably just me again.

I'm alone in the Guild lounge—first floor, curled up on the weird sunken sofa thing near the far wall, trying to ignore the way the lights flicker when people walk by. Too many sounds. Too many footsteps. Too many quests being barked out by that one guy who smells like vinegar and sweat.

The ground is a pristine marble shining in all the spots not covered in dirt. The walls rise up in columns at equal intervals, giving it an eerie symmetry. Like a gothic church that decided to have an emo phase—except with white instead of black.

It's funny.

After one day of doing nothing at the Safe Point, Nightmare decided that I should do something—should stay here now. That I should wait. That someone would meet me. He never said why. Just that I’d know when it happened. So, he just took me to the Guild, dropped me off in this sofa, and now—

Gone—Again.

He does that—talks like a tactician, moves the pieces, disappears. It weirdly fits his ability to teleport—now that I think about it. It's annoying! And now, I’m left here like a broken controller, stuck vibrating on idle.

I tug my hood further down. It's frayed at the edges, burnt maybe. I don’t remember how. Maybe I electrocuted it with my magic. I try not to think too hard. Thinking too hard makes everything go fuzzy—like static under the skin.

I don’t understand the plan. I don’t even think I’m in the plan.

Ink told me I was important once. That the Arena stunt wouldn’t have worked without me—that it worked better because I was in it.

I want to be in this plan.

I stay on my spot, watching the movement of everyone walking and talking around. That's when my eyes catch someone fizzling in the middle of the Guild Hall, and people making a circle around it—keeping their distance. It's a Player.

The System is... deleting them.

"No. No!" They choke. "I want more time. I need more time!"

Their body start to be eaten alive by glitches, and they curl around on themselves as if someone just punched them on their stomach. Murmurs and pitying glaces are thrown around like hot gossip, making the volume inside the Guild rise up as the fizzling gets more intense. Then, with a pop, they shatter into harmless light.

Gone.

[ * Player _____ has logged off. ]

Logged off. Interesting choice for 'you used up all your time and is now going to be dead—like it, or not'. The System makes it sound like it's a choice when it often isn't.

I avoid my eyes from the chaos before my anxiety spiral again. I still have time—It’s my seventh day inside this game today—just a week. I promised Ink I would be fine. That I would be able to deal with the game all by myself for today—and I don't break my promises.

Then—something shifts. A shadow falls across the floor.

Someone sits beside me. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn. Doesn’t creak the couch or anything. Just—appears.

I jump anyway.

He’s not flashy, despite the colorful blue bandana around his neck. Wears gloves and leathers dyed midnight blue, frayed at the cuffs, and his hood’s full of pins and weird charms. He’s got that “forest rogue” vibe, but... not broody. More like someone who’d whisper gossip to a tree and then blackmail the squirrel who overheard it.

He turns to me.

Grins, "sup, Error.”

I stare.

“…Do I know you?”

“Nah,” he says easily. “But I know you. You’re Error—Wizard. Magic class. The anomaly. The... twitchy one.”

I squint. “That’s not very nice.”

“That’s not very wrong.”

Fair. Rude, but fair.

He offers a hand. Big gloves stained with ink and some kind of berry juice, maybe? “My name's Blue. I’m part of Nightmare’s party, too.”

Blue? Yeah, that checks out.

Killer talks about him as if the guy is a mermaid in disguise—something about being luring and friendly enough to drown you when you least expect. Ink also mentioned how they've been friends for weeks and yet, he wasn't aware of Blue's being involved with Nightmare or the Council.

I heard the stories Dust told me about Blue. If they're real or not is up for debate, but the ones Horror confirmed to be true are... Unbelievable. They go from espionage to gaslighting some Council members into abandoning the group.

Looking at the guy—Yeah, it's hard to believe it.

Weird that we're meeting only now, but... That's probably something Nightmare also accounted for, right? Why else would he leave me here alone if not for a higher purpose?

I hesitate. But I shake his hand.

The glove is well worn, a bit scrappy. But his grip is warm—too warm for someone in this icy Guild. Like he’s been running, or holding fire.

He doesn’t let go immediately. Leans in a bit. “You see the Quest Wall lately?”

I blink. “I don’t really... do quests.”

“I know,” he says. “Still. Take a look.”

I do. Or try to. There’s a crowd, but I catch glimpses of flickering postings in the direction Blue is pointing to. Some of the names look... wrong. Some don't seem like simple System's Quests.

I see:

[ QUEST: Missing Courier. Dangerous Path. Do Not Trust Guide. ]

[ QUEST: Recovery Mission: Arena Blackbox Footage. Destroy On Sight. ]

[ QUEST: Escort Needed: Undisclosed Item. Seal Required. ]

The System keeps glitching them. Like it wants to redact stuff but can’t keep up.

“Those are real,” Blue says softly. “They’re Council postings. But phrased like normal quests. Most won’t notice.”

I feel my heartbeat crawl into my throat. “Why would they post stuff like that?”

He leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head.

“Because someone made them panic.”

He means Nightmare.

Of course he does. That guy is always the center of the spiral. But this—this isn’t like before. The Guild feels off. Less noisy. More... alert. Like everyone’s pretending not to look over their shoulders.

“That has to do with you,” I murmur. "Right?"

Blue just hums.

“I whispered to the right people,” he says. “Gave them little truths. Nothing big. Just enough to make them start doubting. People spread rumors faster than infection. And fear?” He taps his chest. “Fear is flammable.”

I stare at him. “You’re the guy spreading the rumors.”

He winks. “I like truths,” he says. “Especially when they’re buried. And Nightmare lets me dig.”

That surprises me. I always thought Nightmare was the keep-it-all-secret type.

Blue seems to read my thoughts.

“He doesn’t tell me everything,” he admits. “But he doesn’t stop me either. That’s enough. Most people want to leash what they don’t understand. Nightmare? He just wants to see what direction I run.”

“…That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” he says. “But so’s this whole game.”

I look away. My fingers are shaking. Again.

Then, I open my big mouth.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m a... broken file,” I whisper. “Like I’m not supposed to be here. But now I am. And it’s messing everything up—even Nightmare's plans.” I lower my gaze, sighing. "I know I made Nightmare recalculate everything and... I’m afraid that if I don’t catch up soon, I’ll be left behind."

Blue is quiet.

For a moment I can only hear my own breathing and feel his stare. He is squinting, analyzing me. But my eyes can't leave the sight of my own clothes—looking so similar to those of a fantasy novel. So...unlike me.

I have never felt so wrong—broken—as I do now. And I don't have any memory of who I was before. 

Then: “You’re not a bug, Error. You’re a crash log.”

I blink. “That’s worse!”

“No. It’s proof something went wrong. Proof something needs fixing. That’s why they hate you. You're a glitch in their system.”

I freeze.

He stands up. "Follow me."

I scramble to go behind Blue. "Wait—!"

He doesn't wait. Instead, we go past the other Players, through the NPC acting as receptionist, past the commotion to a relatively vacant hall—a place no one comes too close because it glitches too much. We turn a corner, and then—

Blue pass through a wall.

I pause, eyes wide. "What?"

He chooses that moment to poke his head back through the stone like it’s not stone at all, grin still plastered on his face like he enjoys being this confusing. I can see the resemblance to Nightmare.

Are they siblings, or what?

“Coming?” he says, like I’ve been invited to coffee, not… ghost-phased walls.

“That’s a wall.”

“That’s an illusion,” he corrects. “Or it was. Killer found this place by accident. But now it's part of the plan.”

I blink. The edge where Blue entered shimmers faintly now that I’m watching it—like the bricks are breathing wrong. Texture flickering. Light bending.

“A wall that isn’t a wall,” I mutter.

Sure, considering everything I've seen in this game—which hadn't been much, but enough—it makes sense.

Blue wiggles his gloved fingers at me, still half-in, half-out the illusion. “C’mon, twitchy. You’ll like this.”

I don’t believe him. But I step forward anyway.

As I pass through, the world shifts. The texture of space itself thins and wobbles—like stepping through static water. My magic buzzes under my skin, twitching in response. The air on the other side is colder, but cleaner. Sharper.

This is a tunnel. Stones are staked at its sides like the bricks on a house, but the ground is of an orange color, full of dirt. There are footprints, both Blue's and someone else. This is a very used up route, now that I see things better.

I follow him through the narrowed passage, scrambling to match his pace. That's a problem I quickly learnt to be from the magic class. We get higher damage input, but at the cost of other functions, such as speed. Anyone can be faster than magical classes. Even Ink is faster than me, and his class is also not speed-focused.

Nightmare don't have this problem only because of Teleportation—I envy him.

When I take notice, Blue is already halfway down a narrow tunnel, torchlight flickering against stone—that explains the warmth in his gloves. There are some small boxes attached to the walls at random intervals, shining with runes I don’t recognize.

Bombs.

My stomach drops.

“Okay,” I say, slowly. “Why are we standing in the middle of a death tunnel?”

Blue glances back. “Oh good, you noticed. Some people take forever."

He strolls forward and taps the nearest crate. “These? You must've heard about her—the Engineer, haven't you?"

I nod.

Of course I have. Ink talks quite a lot about her, and so have everyone else. It's in the whispers on the market. In the mouth of everyone, if you have the ear to listen. Core—a Player from the Utilitarian class. Someone who survived with a death sentence of a class, or so says the rumours. A girl with a sharp mind that could rival a computer, and a determination to live that is both terrifying and inspiring.

Unfortunately—also a Council member.

"These are Core’s handiwork. Custom-mixed, warded, volatile, but quiet enough to sneak under the Guild’s sensors. Took three false quests to smuggle the pieces in.” he shrugs, then adds is a mutter. "And another just to kill that awful pet-Beast."

I pretend not to hear, focusing on another, more important detail.

"Core made these?” I frown. “But… she’s from the Council.”

Blue shrugs. “Core’s on the Council, but she’s also got a grudge, a high-tec lab, and an engineering obsession that makes this kind of thing possible."

Then, a pause, and a really long stare thrown my way—as if Blue is weighting his options between telling me something or not.

Then—

"... Word is the Council forced her to test the Arena—cost her someone she cared about. She hasn’t forgiven them since."

I frown. "Really?"

Blue smiles knowingly. "She wants the Council to burn just as much as the rest of us. So, she has been working with Nightmare to do that."

Makes sense. If you want something to burn, what fastest way than with a loud boom?

My throat tightens. “These are… bombs?”

“Explosives. Bombs' sounds so inelegant." he corrects, cheerfully. "But these babies aren’t just explosives. They’re messages. Delivered loud.”

Makes absolutely no difference, but I'll respect his nonsense.

I stare. “You’re going to blow up the Guild?”

"Me? No." Blue shakes his head, then tilts it to the side, grinning. "You will."

Wait—Me?

He continues, “Besides, the Guild will be fine. This won't blow everything to the point of making everyone's lives harder. This is just a message.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s a joke he’s told before.

I gulp, shaking hard with the absurdity of this plan. "And I'll do what, exactly—?"

Blue spins a tiny metal arrow between his fingers, then sheaths it without looking. “Because these babies won’t go off for just anyone. They’re locked. Core made sure they’ll only respond to a very specific energy signature.”

Then—He points. At. Me.

My heart skips. “What?”

“Lightning magic with a destabilized output pattern. Glitch-coded. Inconsistent.” He tilts his head. “Sound familiar?”

There's no way Core made these explosives in just... When? Where? Huh?

"We've never even met!" I splutter. "—how?"

Blue hums, amused. "You used your magic in the Arena, haven't you? And there is only one person who has access to the Arena's mechanics: The Council's Utilitarian."

I pale.

The Golem—of course. I used lighting on it when trying for the fireball spell. Core is the only Utilitarian of the Council. She has access to the controls, to the mechanics. She must've used that to—

Stars—Just what kind of people did I get involved with?

I step back. My arms are trembling. “I can’t—Nightmare didn’t tell me I was part of this."

He talked about revolution before—right after the Arena escapade. I just didn’t think it’d start with my hands!

“Nightmare doesn’t always tell. But he doesn’t move without purpose.” Blue lifts three fingers, catching my attention. "He once said to me that every move must do at least two of three things: One hit for the opponent, one to advance the board, and one for yourself. Once you understand that, it get's a little easier to follow his logic."

Wait—is that why he... Of course... It is!

Nightmare trained me before, but just with lighting—despite knowing of my other affinities. Because he had a purpose for lightning that the others weren't qualified for. With more control over my magic, I would be able to activate the explosives more efficiently. Is that...the hit for the opponent? Or is just the board? No... that's a hit to the Council that also advances the board. A single move for two purposes.

Just how deep does his planning go?

“You want a hint?” Blue says, stepping closer. “Here it is: you're the signal. The lightning that’ll set off the fuse. The spark. The Council’s been living like nothing can touch them. Like no one would dare. But this?” He gestures around the room. “This’ll prove someone already has.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“You won’t,” Blue says quickly. “Nightmare has a 'no casualties' rule—and that is one of the reasons why I follow him. The Guild is already evacuated on top of the explosives' location. I made sure of it—sent a few ‘mysterious threats’ last night. Got 'em all twitchy. Don't worry—no deaths for you.”

I stare down at my hands. They’re crackling. Unstable. Like the magic’s reacting to being wanted.

“I’m not…” I start, then choke. “I’m not the one you should pick for this. I glitch things. I mess them up.”

“Exactly,” Blue says. “The Council runs this place like code. Clean, rigid, predictable. But you?” He smiles, wide. “You’re the error message they can’t debug.”

I want to run.

I want to vanish into a file folder and never come back out.

But my feet stay planted.

I wanted to make part of this plan—hadn't I? This is my chance, isn't it?

After a long minute of silence, my fingers spark. I look down, and the veins of my hands are glowing bright blue. I don't feel ready at all.

But—who said I need to feel like it to be ready?

After a heated internal battle, I finally answer: “…Where do I aim?”

Blue steps aside, revealing a stone panel wired with glimmering white runes. “That junction. One hit. Don’t hold back.”

I step forward. Electricity is already climbing up my arms, twisting, biting—but it doesn’t hurt. Not this time. It feels right.

I close my eyes.

The lightning coils around my arms, and I feel my skin prickle harmlessly. I point my hand to the target, watching how the light illuminates the walls a dangerous electric color.

And I let it go.

My magic arcs in shifting colors of yellow, blue and red, hitting the runes like a snake curling around its prey—until it bites.

Everything screams.

Light explodes through the chamber, the symbols catching fire in midair. The crates shudder, hum, detonate. Not in a fireball—but a soundless implosion that rips through the tunnel like gravity reversed itself. The ground jumps. Dust pours from the ceiling. The wall behind us cracks as the shockwave rolls out.

Far above, muffled and deep—the sound of a massive boom. Screams, scrambling, and then—

Then silence.

A long, shivering silence.

“…Was that supposed to happen?” I ask.

Blue blows imaginary smoke from his gloves. “Oh yeah. That was exactly supposed to happen.”

I look back toward the tunnel. It's gone—collapsed in on itself. The Guild won’t be the same.

“What now?”

Blue shrugs. “Now? You go back. Pretend to be scared. Confused. Everyone’s going to be looking for the source.”

“And what do I tell them?”

He grins. “Tell them you don't know anything, but that someone’s watching. Tell them this was the begining of a revolution.”

I don’t say anything. The lightning is still prickling my skin.

Blue turns toward the flickering wall. “Three moves for a check,” he murmurs. A beat. Then he adds, “Means we’ve got two checks on the board now. Arena was the first. This?” He gestures behind him. “This makes the Council nervous.”

I blink. “...Check?”

He glances back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming like polished glass. “This is the second check for a checkmate.” At my confused face, Blue chuckles. "The first was the Arena."

I keep frowning. "Ok... I don't get it—chess?"

Blue blinks, then mutters while holding his lips between his fingers. "Yeah... You would hate a meeting with Nightmare and Core in the same room. They make zero sense." Then, he flails his arms cartoonishly. "Chess, poker, go, whatever game you can think of—they turn into strategies motifs. A headache—truly."

Blue turns around, still babbling random stories about the Council and Nightmare. He hadn't answered—I notice—but that doesn't annoy me. After having to talk with Nightmare for a while, you learn to ignore those. So I tune Blue out—not following him right away.

The tunnel groans, settling like a giant rolling over in its sleep. Dust flakes drift down from above. My hands are still humming. My thoughts are louder than the silence.

I thought I was an accident. A stray piece dropped onto the wrong board. But Nightmare? He made the wrong answer fit. Scary. And kind of genius. But I'm starting to get used to scary.

And the worst part? I’m starting to like it.

I always thought being broken meant I had to be fixed. But maybe broken things... make better weapons. And now I’m the spark. So I'll watch, I'll learn and I'll evolve. And in this garden of lies, I might still be a seed. But I’ll grow. And the bloom?

The bloom will burn brighter than anything they've ever seen.

{ CORE'S POV }

Click.

Click.

Click.

My heels keep making noise as I walk down the halls of the Council tower. The main base of operation of what once was a good party. The halls echo the sound as I pass through it, sometimes being greeted by the guards, but frequently ignored by them.

[ * You have entered the Laboratory. ]

The room is bristling with movement. These Players are the brilliant minds the Council managed to either convince to work for them, or coerced into doing so. They don't spare me a glance, and when they do, it's either accompanied by a shy nod or scrambling.

"M-miss Core!" Alphys greets me, her voice shaking with her speech problem. "We've got s-some results you might like to s-see."

I nod, leaning down closer to her trembling mess. "And that other thing? Did you—"

Her eyes widen before she nods frantically. "Y-yes! It's in a box on your s-shelf with a s-seal only y-you can open, m-miss."

"Good." I smile, or... try to. "Thanks, Alphys."

She opens her mouth to speak, pause—but asks what she wants to know anyway. "A y-young man left the box there. Is he perhaps—?"

I glare. "No. And even if it was, that doesn't concern you."

She cowers under my gaze, keeping a good meter of space between us. Her glasses keep falling from her round face, and she is constantly adjusting them to be put—even when she is not well put herself.

"Uh, also..." She starts, avoiding my gaze. "We s-still haven't found the p-person who's been leaking the info—informations, m-miss."

"I know."

Because that person is me, obviously.

"Would y-you like me to do a re-report for y-you?"

I turn around, already walking away. "Unnecessary."

Click.

Click.

Click.

My heels keep making noise as I walk down the aisle, not because they're at fault, but because I'm purposefully forcing them to click on the ground. It's both a way to introduce myself without brute force, and a way to make people know I'm coming—be it a good thing or not.

I open the door of my office. And pause.

"Hello, Core!"

Female voice, cheerful—pretending.

There is only two types of people that can be considered dangerous: tacticians like me, and...social manipulators, like her.

Muffet—the self-proclaimed wildcard of the Council.

Black hair tied into two cute ponytails over her ears, with a leather corset tied in a cute orange bow near her neck with a frilly purple skirt covering my paperwork. Her boots have dirt under them, messing my office—just great.

She's an Assassin. Melee class, with a knack for stealing Gold. She repeated that pattern so often, the System gave her a Steal skill—except, that skill let's her steal much more than just Gold. It let's her steal other skills and stack them somewhere else. Useful for the Council—not really for anything else.

She's really predictable. I knew that as soon as I left this building and came back, she would come probing for answers. For reasons. They know how my mind works—not the full extent, but enough to want to keep me on a leash. Muffet is no exception. But while the others prob for answers in a subtle way. She, on the other hand, is just...

Annoying.

"Muffet," I say her name as if it's a greeting. "What do I take the honor of your visit?"

She has no idea of how much of a discarded card she can become. She's just useful because of her Steal skill—but that? I can break her down to pieces if I wanted to.

But—Nightmare said not to.

I shouldn't hear him that much—still... I have to admit when I'm outmatched. His mind... It works in a way I can't possibly comprehend, not even in my dreams. He doesn't realize the extent of his intelligence, of his value—But I know. Nightmare looks down on himself. Both a good thing—that humbleness normally leads to greatness, whereas pride often leads to destruction if not handled carefully. And also a bad thing if he doesn't realize the full scope of his abilities soon.

If there is one person I don't want as an enemy—that's him. The Council? Not afraid. The Players? Even less. But him? Yeah, I don't wanna challenge him—because I know I might lose if I do.

"I heard you went out." She says, rubbing circles over my table with a black gloved finger. "Has the Guild changed?"

Here comes the attempts at mind games.

"Muffet, get down from my table." I say, closing the door while shushing her from sitting on my workspace.

"Fu fu fu." She laughs, not getting down. "Why so serious, Core? Have some fun."

"Muffet, did our Representative sent you here? Or the Minister?"

She scoffs. "No, Asgore is too worried rethinking the whole Arena fiasco. And Gaster is still more focused on the System holes he can twist than anything else." Her eyes sharpen. "How about you? Did you find something interesting on the Guild? Perhaps a... someone?"

Honestly, if you’re trying to fish for secrets, at least bait your hook better.

My face is cold, just like ice. "Just quests and rats scattering around."

"Then..." Muffet hums, twirling a strand of hair, eyes half-lidded. "Did one of the rats perhaps leave a bit of cheese? Or maybe... you're setting traps now, Core?"

I pause—for half a second. A breath too long. Her eyes flick up to meet mine—too sharply for someone pretending to play dumb. Then just as fast, she grins again and swings her legs like a bored child.

"Fu fu fu. Just teasing," she says, but I catch the slip—the mask cracking for just a beat.

She's trying. Failing, but trying. I'll give her that.

"Get out of my table." I warn again, changing topics—this time, she obliges.

She's really tiring to deal with. I decided I had enough of her. Let me move the plan forward, while also doing double purpose and scrubbing her off my trail.

Just like how I've planned.

Just when she stops sitting on my table, I hit my heels on the floor even louder while going to the shelf on the furthest wall. Just when my hands scrap the side of the box, the System pushes a message to my sight:

[ QUEST: Escort Needed: Undisclosed Item. Seal Required. ]

[ STATUS: Completed! ]

I get the black box—courtesy of Killer's voluntary delivery service—and push it in her arms.

"A gift? For me?" She smiles. "Oh, you shouldn't have bothered."

"Open," I order.

She does exactly that. Then—her smile falls.

"What is the meaning of this?" She looks at me and the box's contents, confused.

"That's what I went to the Guild for. Happy?" I ignore her, turning around my table to sit at my chair—pretending to do paperwork.

She's looking at me—face unreadable.

"A key?" She stares at me, squinting. "What for?"

"Main quest."

Exactly what the Council wants. Some members have their time stretched thin, and they want to get to the next Floor before their time runs down and the System deletes them. Their plan is quite simple—awfully simple:

Get to Floor 2 and repeat everything they've done on Floor 1 all over again.

I won't let them. And since Nightmare also won't—they're doomed. They just don't know that yet. Let them think they have the upper hand, while we work better under the surface. And when they realize the entire ground turned into a minefield—right under their noses—it'll be too late to find a way out unscathed.

Muffet gasps—then laughs. Loud and delighted, like someone finally let in on a joke they weren’t supposed to hear. "Oh, Core. You're a devil." She stands and slips through the door, grinning like an idiot. "I like it!"

Gone—finally.

The corners of my mouth curl up. Who knew building a believable fake key was this easy? It's even more satisfying because, unless you're from the Utilitarian class, there is no way to know if the key is real or fake. And since I'm an Utilitarian—they have no choice but believe my input.

My only regret is that I wasn't involved into building that one key—I know that if I did, the lie wouldn't sustain itself for too long. My way of crafting is already well known for the Council members, so I had no choice but to ask for someone else's help. As such...

Ink crafted that key.

His artistic prowess is nothing to scoff at—quite the opposite. It's intricate. Very detailed—as if he carved the key with the patience and expertise of a talented painter drawing their lover.

If it weren't for the Identify skill the System gives all Utilitarians as a basic skill, I would probably believe that key was the real deal myself.

When Nightmare said to me that another Utilitarian would deal with the key—I immediately doubted him. A pattern I overlooked, I admit. That mistake is on me. Afterall, if an Utilitarian managed to live when everyone else of that class died, that can only mean two things:

Either they're very lucky—or they are dangerous. And I don't believe in luck.

"Easy," I whisper, amused. "Don't you agree?"

He doesn't answer. Awfully quiet. Covered in the shadows of my office. Then—

Click.

Click.

Click.

I turn around, staring at a figure getting out from the shadows. Smile painted wide, tongue out playfully with a lazy posture, and clicking the heels of his boots on the ground in an imitation of me.

Another social manipulator, but not like Muffet. He doesn’t twist hearts for fun—he twists words just enough to learn. To survive. To protect someone else.

A much more welcomed sight than Muffet—smarter too.

"Killer."

Way too stealthy for most—except for me. Not because I can sense him, but because I can predict his moves before he does then.

I knew the moment Alphys told me that "someone left a box in my room" that Killer did—and what's more: that he hasn't left and was hiding here. He might have fooled thousands of people—but he doesn't fool me.

Killer nods to the door, grinning. "Let me guess...that was the decoy wrapped up in sweet lies?"

My chest rises up with pride as I nod. "Yes."

I ignore him, taking care of some of the paperwork on my table—not really caring about how he managed to enter and stay here. That's not the first time he had invaded my room unnoticed—and certainly won't be the last. An even better Assassin than Muffet—a feat thought impossible right in front of my eyes.

He hums. "Why show her, specifically?"

Easy: Muffet is the most susceptible to believe me and act on impulse. She'll either keep the key all to herself or tell everyone about it. Whichever option she choose, it's a no-win situation.

For them—of course.

"Hope, mostly."

"Ah, yes. Hope—the best knife to twist, indeed. A double edged blade to wield that can do lots of damage if held right. Sunshine told me that many times." He pauses. "But still...I don't get it. Why a key?"

You do get it, Killer. You just want to hear someone confirm it verbally instead of trying to decrypt the code that Nightmare keeps talking to you—one you've become fluent. Still—I have no concerns in indulging him. This won't affect the plan, even if something goes wrong. I calculated every outcome—this plan is flawless.

Besides, it's not like I have to speak too much for him to understand—obviously. Small hints are enough.

I pause, looking at him. "...You know the Main Quest? The one the System tells everyone on their second day here?"

"Ah, yeah... I remember." He says, bitterly.

Me too. The robotic voice of the System still haunts me up to this day.

[ CURRENT FLOOR: 1 — New Home. ]

[ MAIN QUEST: Find the key that opens the portal to the next Floor. ]

[ REWARD: Dependent on Player tally. ]

[ PENALTY: Death. ]

An apparently easy quest—on the surface. But when you have a kilometer radius of possible hiding places, dangerous Beasts roaming around, a clock counting your life span and interpersonal relationships to deal with, plus: blurry memories—that quest becomes very, very difficult to complete.

"Understand now?"

"Yeah, you want to make the Council hope they have the upper hand to break the ground under them." He grins. "Literally."

See? He gets it just fine.

I pause, prompting him. "Literally—?"

"The Guild went down."

As if on cue, the alarms of the Council Tower flare up, and I can hear the scientists scrambling outside my office, including a nervous exclamation from Alphys about an explosion.

Killer watches me as the sirens start to hum outside, his grin still lazy—but his eyes are a little too sharp.

"You know,” He says, voice soft enough it almost doesn’t match the chaos beyond the walls, “Blue said something weird the other day.”

I pause, hand still on my desk.

“He said that there were rumours about you. That you'd lost someone. Said that’s why you’re here. Said it was a kid. A little girl.”

My body doesn’t move, but I feel it—a hairline crack running through my armor.

Damn it—I forgot.

I got so used to dealing with Muffet that I forgot why social manipulators are dangerous. And why Killer is possibly the most dangerous one of his kind I've ever met. He is the type to strike when you lower your guard. And any crack is enough for him to pluck his words inside.

And he just caught me off guard.

As if mocking me, he tilts his head. “Is that true, Core? That you had a daughter once? That the Council killed her in the Arena?” He smiles, like a predator aware that caught the prey. "Is that the true reason why you're undercover—Revenge?"

My eyes flick to his—just for a second.

Killer is not smiling now. He’s watching me like a tactician, calculating the weight of what he just threw across the board. But not to play—he's not like Nightmare. Instead, he just wants to see where it lands.

"...Doesn’t matter,” I say, “She’s not part of this plan.”

I thought I was over this—but I'm clearly not. My fingers are shaking while trying to hold my pen—and worse: I know he can see it all.

Killer hums, unconvinced—but doesn’t push it. He steps away from the edge he walked me to, like he never stood there at all. The ground under my heels tremble for some seconds, and I can see Killer gesturing a "boom" sign with his hands and mouth. It's as if nothing happened.

As if it hadn't hurt.

I force the corners of my mouth to stretch a little in a soft smile, going back to my paperwork. "I see the plan is working as intended."

I internally swear—my voice is not as stable as before, and my handwriting just turned ugly. That's why feelings are a nuisance. That's why I decided to freeze them under layers of apathy.

"Yes!" Killer starts to taps his own fingers, making a visual list for no one in particular. "The Arena—check. The Guild—check. So...checkmate is next now or are we going to do a contour?"

I shrug. "Nightmare must've told you already."

He clicks his tongue. "Boring."

Indeed—but necessary. Although... that doesn't mean not doing nothing, does it?

"But—" I rise my head. "We're doing a riot meanwhile."

He blinks slowly. "You're gonna put fire on something, aren't ya?"

"I'm thinking something more along the lines of someone."

He backpedals, holding his hands near his body as if he'd been caught by the police. "I'm not putting fire on anyone. I don't want Karma Points."

I scoff. "You won't need to."

A beat.

Then two.

Killer's eyes lit up in realization. "Oh!"

"Yes—oh." I say, with my voice now detached of any emotion.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I knew the Guild's destruction will lead to this. This is technically the reason why I am here, and yet... I'm bored.

My heals click the ground under the table as I'm forced to sit here, in one end of this endless table, listening to complaints, scared remarks and nonsensical words. The Council members are all sat on the table, talking, arguing, or just reading the reports.

"We need to find the fucking rebels and make them pay!" Says Undyne, eyes shining with fury as she spears a hole on the ground.

No one minds the violent display.

"It's a thought, but...shouldn't we search for the ones who escaped the Arena first?" Asgore's voice barely reaches an appropriate volume, but the room echo him just fine. "That was a blow we can't afford to take."

"And what do you suggest? That we go around the Safe Zone looking for them?" Undyne slaps the table, growling. "Do you think I haven't fucking done that?"

"I'm just suggesting an answer to this complicated situation. I didn't mean to say that you haven't done anything."

She continues, growling. "My guards have been searching left and right for the two lowly bugs, Asgore. I have personally been on the damned search as well." Then, she narrows her eyes, voice lowering. "Unlike you—who just sits at this stupid table and do nothing for hours on end!"

Asgore retorts back, Undyne hiss something, and they repeat the cycle all over again. This back-and-forth has been going around for hours, and I'm forced to sit here and watch—to not throw away the fabricated illusion that I am anything else but on their side.

The meeting room have never been so spacious before. One spot, two spots, three... All vacant.

Toriel—our Healer. She was the first to leave when things started to get too violent. The first indicator that something was wrong. Then, Gerson—our Monk. He left after our group passed from controlling to downright tyrannical. And at last, Mettaton—our Hunter.

He had a different ending—He was called a traitor, put into the Arena... And murdered by a training Beast.

That's what this group has been doing. Giving controlling rules Players must follow, and when they inevitably fail—the Council take those innocent people and punish them indirectly. All because someone found a loophole in the System's coding that allows Players to kill one another if they put rules that many follow, and are punished through indirect means.

It works like this: If you pluck a knife in another Player's chest, the System immediately gives a harsh penalty. But if that knife is timed through a mechanism that activates like a trap, then... The one who put the trap there is not punished at all, and that death becomes unpunishable, even if it was technically a murder.

That's the reason why most Utilitarians died—afterall, that class is literally that loophole personified. We do traps, enchant Weapons and Items and create things to fight for us—a liability the Council couldn't afford to keep unchecked. It's why the Council went behind Ink—and will go behind me, if they ever find the slightest slip.

That's why the Arena was twisted to be the way it is now. All because he found a loophole.

"Let's calm down." His voice slices the sound, turning down the heated arguments.

Gaster—The head of the Council, trying to manipulate everyone else as pawns. Often forgetting this board has more than just one type of piece.

He is a Summoner—of course. Able to create mindless creatures that fight for himself while he doesn't need to move a muscle—very similar to what he's trying to do with us. With all Players on Floor 1.

He continues, not looking at anyone but his paperwork. "Undyne, your soldiers are exhausted. Asgore, your paperwork is outdated. Neither of you has anything new to contribute."

They quiet—momentarily insulted, but not enough to fight him.

Then his eyes turn, settling on me.

"Core," he says, lacing my name with that false civility he thinks masks his curiosity. "You’ve been silent. Surely you’ve already calculated the probabilities of a uprising. Unless, of course... you’ve been busy elsewhere."

A test. No emotion crosses my face.

"Silence often means stability," I reply, tone neutral. "But if you’d prefer noise, I’m sure Undyne can oblige."

He chuckles—a quiet, broken sound. Like glass shifting in a drawer.

He doesn’t believe me. Good—Because I won't let him get too far. Nightmare won't let him get too far either. No one will—if the way the rumors are flaring up is any indication. Soon, all the people that were too scared to go against them will start to show their fangs, and the venom will consume whoever they bite.

Let's see how well he can hold his paper crown after it gets wet.

Chapter Text

{ KILLER'S POV }

The queen will be sacrificed.

I knew this would happen. The moment she asked me about the fake key, the moment Ink started crafting it and the moment Core said 'doing a riot'...

I thought it could lead to this—and it did.

I'm hiding near the door to the Council's meeting room, wrapped in shadows and the veil of my own Stealth skill, watching it all unfold. The reunion has been going for a while—and Muffet is nowhere to be seen.

Gaster is frowning, still looking at Core with an ugly stare. The faint line of the cut I gave him is still visible from his forehead to his cheek, but I don't have time to celebrate how much he deserved that.

If everyone's chess pieces, then, logically, I'm a knight. And knights don't just protect the king, but the queen as well. And right now, the queen is sitting at the edge of the board—calm, precise, cold—playing her part while the rest of the enemies' pieces scream over each other. I can tell she’s tired. Her hands are steady, but only because she refuses to let them tremble.

She doesn’t know I’m here.

Or maybe she does. It’s hard to tell with Core. She always seems to be five turns ahead, and seven lies deep. But I can see the fracture.

I caused the fracture.

That little moment in her office—the one where I mentioned the girl... I just wanted to see where Core's loyalty was inclined. If there was still anything real behind that frozen armor...

I wasn’t expecting it to hurt her.

But that's the thing about blades—you don't always mean to cut deep. And words? Words have always been my favorite weapon.

They always were. Ever since...much before.

I was nine—but my tongue was already way too sharp for my age.

And he was my first victim. Jasper. A classmate. Just a boy a year older than me who liked to act tough—shouting over others, throwing things in class, bullying the shy ones.

I always hated bullies. He was no different. But I've never said a word to him. Just watched.

Noticed.

Small patterns: how Jasper always flinched when people raised their voices near him, how he never ate lunch whenever someone was watching him, the long sleeves—even in summer. Small things that I piled up as information to use later.

I had no idea of what I was doing—of the damage I could do. I was just a small kid at the time. Sharp—but still naive. Like a knife dangling from a thread, ready to cut anyone who passes near it.

One day, I decided that I had enough of Jasper's bullshit. But even as a kid, I approached him like a predator, with a shiny pen I knew he would like enough to give me attention and a disarming smile around soft cheeks.

"Hey, wanna trade? You like cool stuff, right?"

The kid scoffed. "Get lost."

But I smiled wider—and chose that moment to strike.

"Actually, I have a question. Why are you so scared? Is it because your dad breaks the things you like?"

The kid froze—and his walls cracked. But...instead of stopping, like I would do now, young me kept going.

I leaned in, lowering my voice. "He hits you when he drinks, right? And says you screw up, right?"

That day, I got beaten by Jasper, and we both ended up in detention—my first time of many going to that place. I got a broken lip, and the beginning of the rumors that would follow me around forever that day. But I was pleased—because I managed to find out why Jasper was like that.

The kid cried afterwards, not because he got punished—but because he finally got the help he needed. I got praised by the staff that day, and I still remember what one of the girls asked me that day:

"You knew about his life when no one else did. How?"

And little me just shrugged. "I just wanted to know what he looked like inside."

She didn't understand what I said—what I meant. She was too young. She didn't need to read people like I do to survive. She didn't need to read expressions, caught lies or read between lines just to live another day.

She didn't—but I did.

That day, I helped someone. In a really unorthodox, hurtful way—but I did. The school praised me—but my dad, never one for softness, made sure I regretted it. Badly.

I never regretted it.

This 'talent' of mine has a reason to exist—but that day... I chose to always use it for the greater good. Even if I always end up hurting the person I'm trying to help.

And now, I fractured someone open again.

I didn't push. Not this time. I used to push—hard. I wanted to see what people hid under their masks—even if I have to tear them apart to find it. But I grew up, and learnt how to sheathe the blade that is my own tongue. Back then, I cut too deep without knowing it. Now? I still do—but I know exactly what I’m doing.

Still... I haven't fully mastered that, have I?

Afterall, I hurt Core.

She shifts slightly in her chair, and I can tell she’s about to speak. I recognize the rhythm of her breathing—sharp inhale, shallow exhale. Like pulling back a bowstring.

“I believe the damage to the Guild was strategic,” she says. “Whoever did it, knew the layout. Knew where to strike to collapse the lower levels without touching the street-level parts. That’s not just rebellion. That’s warfare.”

That’s practically a confession of her spy status—but will any of these fools catch it?

She lets the implication hang in the air like a blade.

Undyne growls something under her breath, but it’s Gaster’s reaction I’m watching. His jaw tightens, fingers tapping something only he can read. Maybe one of his summons is whispering to him through the System.

Maybe it’s just nerves.

He leans back in his chair, clasping his hands. “So you’re suggesting internal sabotage. From someone with clearance.”

Core doesn’t blink. “I’m suggesting competence. Something you seem to be running low on.”

Ouch—Savage.

I almost laugh. Almost. But the tension is shifting now, not on the surface—but beneath it. Like tectonic plates grinding just before the quake. Gaster’s gaze sharpens—not like a knife, but like a scalpel. Cold, careful, calculated.

I know that look. He’s choosing a piece to remove. And now, he chose the black queen who drenched herself in white lies to fit amongst the white pieces.

"Very well then... I believe these are yours." Gaster says, gesturing for someone to come.

Then—

The evidence starts to pile up. A drone on the table. A sack full of micro cameras. A box with letters. Blueprints dressed up as stories. One by one, guards enter the room carrying things Core obviously is the culprit of.

And then, Muffet finally decides to appear, giggling like a kid receiving the best Gyftmas present when she puts on the table the one evidence Core can't say wasn't her doing:

The key.

"I believe these are yours, traitor." Muffet purs, eyes glistening like oil.

Undyne smiles sadistically. Asgore just sighs and avoids his eyes. And through the display, Gaster's gaze never leaves Core's.

Core raises an eyebrow—just slightly. No fear. No visible reaction. She expected this.

She wanted this.

Because I know what it’s like to twist someone’s mind. To make them believe they’re holding the medal while the real victory’s slipping away.

Core is not the one being trapped.

They are.

Gaster leans forward. “Do you have anything to say in your defense, Core?”

Her voice is a razor. “No. Because I didn’t come here to defend myself. You would blame me anyway—innocent or not, I'm a piece you want out of your way.”

A pause.

Then—

"Very well." Gaster stands up, holding himself like a soldier standing at attention. "I hope you know what comes next."

Core nods. "You'll throw me in the Arena. Set me a punishment as a traitor and watch me die with a smile." She clicks her tongue. "Who will act as your strategist if you leave me to rot?"

Gaster laughs as if that was the best joke he's ever heard. "I had always been the real strategist, Core. Not you."

"Fools who pretend to be smart are worse than fools who acknowledge their flaws." Core smiles, softly—mockingly. "Let's see how well you fare until your 'strategy' inevitably comes to bite you back."

She stands up, and quietly lets herself be guided by the guards. And I pause, confused. Because this?

This wasn't part of the plan.

Being found out was part of the strategy, but being taken? And worse, letting herself go willingly? That... Wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to fight, and then I would come down from my hiding place to help her—and we would both run away.

This only means too things: it's either a gamble or... she is deviating again.

But—why?

"Alright." Gaster hums in satisfaction. "Anyone have anything to say?"

A beat. Then—

"What will we do with that?" Asgore motions to the small box—just big enough to fit the key—still holding the decoy inside.

Gaster narrows his eyes at the key. He doesn’t touch it—smart bastard—but his fingers twitch slightly, like he’s resisting the urge.

"Let's send it to the lab—for study. If it shows anything, we keep it. If it's just decorative stuff... Throw it away." He says, simplistic. "It's fake, afterall."

"How are you so sure?" Undyne asks, eyeing the key as if it's a mirror.

That's when Muffet holds the key in her hands and says: "It's a hundred percent fake! I took this to the portal's location to test it and—"

Wrong words.

Gaster glares at the girl as if she offended his mother. "You did what?!"

Muffet immediately makes herself small. "I'm not an Utilitarian so... What other way to see if it's fake or not?"

That's when I see the impossible happening. Gaster gets violent.

He takes Muffet's collar in his hands and push the girl away. She falls on her back, grunting—but, of course... She's a Melee class, made for fighting. Muffet quickly recovers, and not just that, but takes a dagger and positions it to Gaster's neck.

Tense. Quiet. No one dares stop them—not even Asgore.

They're both glaring at each other now.

"You absolute fool. What if Core planted a tracker inside the key? The rebels working with her would know the portal's location and all our hard work would've turned to dust!" Gaster growls.

Muffet sheathes her dagger. "Then... what do you suggest?"

Gaster turns to the few guards that stayed. “Scan it.”

They hesitate. But soon, one of them pulls out a low-grade analysis wand—a cheap thing, but good enough for surface info. The key glows faintly.

[ * ANALYZING... ]

[ * ... 10% ]

[ * ... 44 % ]

[ * ... 76% ]

[ * ... 98% ]

[ *ANALYSIS COMPLETE! ]

“No tracker identified. But there is a faint signature, although... No one from our database,” the guard reports.

"See? No tracker." Muffet smirks. Gaster gives her no attention. 

Asgore whisper, “it wasn't made by Core. Doesn't look like something she would create." He points to the decoy. "It's too... Delicate. Her creations are more optimized and efficient than pretty."

Gaster smirks. “Exactly. She didn't make it—never intended to. Which means... another Utilitarian did this.”

That's when it clicks.

"Ink. The one who escaped the Arena with the unworthy Player." Undyne mutters through gritted teeth. "He's the only other Utilitarian alive besides Core."

Muffet looks like she’s been slapped. “She is working with the scarf guy? Since when?"

"Congratulations, Muffet—you're using your brain now." Gaster grins like someone who won. "But the question is not 'when'... It's 'why'."

The door to the Council room shuts behind me with a soft hiss, and just like that, the noise dies. The echoes of accusations, lies, and performances stay sealed inside the meeting room.

I slip into the corridor, watching from a distance. Two guards are walking ahead, their heavy boots hitting the stone like war drums. Between them—Core walks like a ghost. Calm. Untouchable.

No chains.

That’s how much they fear her. No one dares bind her wrists, even now.

We move through hallways that haven’t seen light in years. I keep to the shadows. I’ve always been good at that—being present without being seen. But now, the urge to be seen burns at the core of my chest.

The walk lasts too long. Fifteen minutes from the Council Tower to the Arena, they said. Just fifteen minutes to meet your death. But now... each second stretches like a noose.

Even then, I wait until the guards hand her off to the Arena keepers. One nods stiffly, like they’re just glad to be rid of her. And I manage to walk inside, right under their noses—unnoticed.

The prisons under the Arena is damp, dark, and solitary. There is not many people in this area—the Council prefer to capture people one by one and schedule their deaths to the next day then to stack people and risk breakage. It has always been like that. It will be the same with Core.

Well... More or less the same.

When the Arena keepers leave, and the last footsteps fade, I step out. She’s in the cell already—cold iron bars, dull grey walls. No theatrics. Her eyes flick to me, and of course, she’s not surprised.

“Stalker,” she deadpans.

“I prefer ‘concerned ally', Core.” I say, leaning on the edge of the wall farthest from her. "You always mess my titles."

She tilts her head slightly. “And you always show up when it’s too late.” she grins, "did you come here to save me? Let me warn you: I'm no damsel—much less in distress."

“Don't worry—I know." I smirk, but there’s no real heat in it. "I'm not here to save you. I just want to talk." She nods, and I keep going. "The key thing failed. They didn’t fall for it.”

She scoffs playfully. “Failed? Killer, please. I told you, haven't I? That was hope weaponized. The key was to make them believe they have the upper hand—that they've outsmarted me." She clicks her heels again, walking to sit on the ground. "Let me guess... they scanned it?"

I nod. "Yes. Said something about a tracker and the portal's location. Muffet said she took the key to the portal to see if it works and Gaster...he wasn't very pleased by it."

"Let me guess again..." She chuckles, a little too gleeful. "They scanned the key for the tracker, and found nothing?"

We both stop.

Outside—movement. Footsteps. Conversation.

Core keeps looking at me with squished eyes—analyzing me. Habitually, her fingers often smoothen her dress. A pretty white thing mixed with golden twirls covered by a cape that is slowly getting dirtied by the dust around us. On her collarbone is a circular brooch made of pure gold with the Council's symbol: a black snake wearing a crown twirling around its prey: a white snake.

Ironic.

After one or two minutes, the footsteps fade out again. Our conversation resumes.

I squint at her. "Did you seriously ask Ink to put a tracker there?"

"Yes." She nods. "Not on the key, though."

A pause.

Then—I gasp.

"Seriously? In the box?!” I smirk, awed. “And here I was thinking the Council had the upper hand...”

“You’re late to the scheme, Killer,” she blinks slowly. "Because now Ink can tell Nightmare where the portal is, and you all can get to the second Floor. You just need to find the real key, which will be easy once we checkmate the Council. As for me..." She huffs a quiet breath. "I’m exactly where I'm meant to be.”

Another pause.

Uncomfortable silence charged with things none of us are brave enough to say aloud. So I break it with a topic that's easier to speak:

"I came to ask you something,” I say. “You deviated. Moonlight told you not to at the Guild, and yet...you did it again. Why?"

She smiles, "Just because me and Nightmare are working together doesn't mean I obey him. We're co-workers—partners, not employer and employee. He is not my boss."

I huff, finding that notion amusing. "Why choose this option then? Do you like to be imprisoned?"

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "No. It's just a necessity. Haven't you teached me not to play chess—to abandon the board when it stops serving the game? Well...I did just that. Nightmare's plan would take too long to work—this is the fastest route that achieves the same result."

No. Not the same result. In his plan, there is no casualties—but in this one... People die.

I nod. "I know what moonlight would say if he was here—he said that to you before... If you forgot, then let me remind you: 'You play the long game too fast, Core'."

She looks down. "I know."

I approach her, standing near the bars of her cell. And she takes notice on my quiet, even motioning to my boots as if to say "why aren't you clicking them again—like you did in my office?". But I just huff, a bit tired. I don't have the energy to mock her by clicking my heels on the ground—it's not the time for mind games.

"Someone will end up dying."

Then she says it again—but now it's a bitter, "I know."

I cross my arms. "So... Being locked was part of your plan? Or is there another layer to this?"

Core doesn't answer at first. She simply watches me, the dim cell light reflecting in her eyes like dying embers.

Then—softly—she speaks. “This one’s not about strategy...”

I frown. “Then what is it?”

A beat of silence.

And the crack of Core's mask is opened. Not by me. Not by force. She does it by her own will.

And the inside? The inside is... hurt.

“You asked about the girl in my office. You dropped the subject—but I know you’re still curious.” she says, voice low. "Yeah... You're right. She was important to me—still is. That's why I joined the Council... But not for revenge."

I get tense. I want to ask so many questions... But none leave my mouth. I'm afraid to crack her even more—even if I'm still curious.

Luckily, for my sake, Core lends me the answers. 

“She wasn’t my daughter. Not by blood. I found her in the Safe Zone after my second week locked here." She smiles, a small, sad thing. "Bubbly. Still innocent despite being alone in such a harsh world. Bright eyes. I approached her asking if she was lost—and helped her. She asked me if I was an angel...” She huffs a tired breath. “I told her I was an inventor.”

Oh, stars... The icy queen has feelings.

Moonlight was right—she is not a machine, but something else entirely.

I swallow. “She made you smile.”

"She gave me reason when I felt lost. After your second week here, you start to remember your past life. And I remember enough about mine's. It wasn't pretty. I did horrible things, Killer. And... I believe I fell into a coma to pay for my sins." Core closes her eyes, head against the wall now. “She redeemed me—in a way. Her name was... Poppy.”

I say nothing. It’s not the time to interrupt.

Core huffs in a way that can be confused for crying. "We had the same class. Both of us—Utilitarians. A death sentence of a class...to a little girl." Her voice tremble, and her black eyes are sparkling like jewels. "Of course the Council got interested in ending her life."

I whisper. "The Utilitarian genocide got to her too..."

Core nods. “She was dragged in like the rest of us. Into this... game. And I wasn’t strong enough. Smart enough. Fast enough... None of us followed the Council's nonsensical rules, because... we're Utilitarians—defined by being creative. Adaptable. Efficient... But not obedient. And that’s what made us dangerous." She sighs with the weight of all her sins crawling on her back. "We're a difficult bunch to control—and the Council doesn't like what it can't control."

I can't say anything. No words that leave my mouth will serve any purpose to Core's grief.

"So they put her in the Arena, and I was too weak to save her." Core’s fists clench tight, her teeth grinding with restrained fury. "Poppy died because of my incompetence.”

“Core…”

“I don't have..." She pauses, gulping down her will to cry. "Poppy was the only thing I had—both in-game and in the real world. The closest thing I'll ever have to call a family... and I lost her." Her smile is both sad and determinated. "I don’t want revenge, Killer. I want it to matter. I want the Arena to end with me.”

My jaw clenches. “But you'll... die.”

Core finally looks at me—but her eyes are glistening with tears. Her whole face carries so much emotion I don't think anyone would believe me if I told them about this.

Her voice is soft, but sharper than any knife I’ve ever held. “Then—help me make it worth something.”

She goes quiet again.

And just like that, the fortress behind her eyes slams shut.

I get out of the Arena with my mind weirdly blank. 

I watch the other Players walking, some whispering the rumors we've planted—Blue, and to a lesser extent: me.

I can only think of how Core chose to die.

She could've followed the plan and no one but the Council members would suffer. But it wasn't fast enough. She ditched Nightmare's plan like one throws trash, and decided to go to the Arena like an offering to the gods. A sacrifice, or maybe... a martyr.

I stop in the middle of the market, which sounds quiet despite all the noise. Or maybe it's because my mind is much more noisy. The sky looks pretty—a soft baby blue.

I sigh, pulling my hood up and stepping into the shade.

Core said Utilitarians weren’t obedient.

She was right. But what scares me isn’t that they don’t follow orders—It’s that they follow their own.

And if Core plans to die for this... Then I have no choice but to live for it.

Chapter Text

{ KILLER'S POV }

One step. Then another. Just walk. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Don’t remember Core.

That’s all I’ve been telling myself on the way down to the Safe Point. Just walk. Breathe. Don’t think about Core. Don’t think about what happened. Don’t think about how I’m supposed to explain this to Moonlight.

Because I don’t have an answer.

[ * You've entered a Safe Point. ]

Too late now. No time to come up with one.

The Safe Point looks the same as ever. A glowing cave lit by mushrooms and strange flowers, with that small warm lake in the center. Peaceful, almost. But something's changed. Against the far wall, where there used to be nothing, there’s now a growing pile of junk—tech scraps, weird Items, bits of everything. And in the middle of the mess, hunched over like he’s building a kingdom out of trash, is a very familiar Utilitarian.

Of course. He’s nested.

Ink sees me before I speak. Drops the gadget. Bounces over, practically glowing. His long-sleeved white shirt is smudged yellow with dirt, and the leather vest over it has definitely seen better days. His brown scarf trails behind him as he jogs up, hands coated in chalk and oil.

"Killer! Killer!" he beams, waving a tiny device. "Core was right—this thing actually works here! Can you believe it? The tracker’s so precise—it doesn’t just pick up on portal energy, it can read Beast proximity too!" Ink giggles excitedly. "If this works between Floors, we can keep using it to prevent stealth attacks and gather intel on future Floors!"

He’s glowing with pride, bouncing on his heels. Then he looks at my face—and it all stops.

His smile fades like a candle under water. "...What happened?"

I try to smile. I don’t think it works. “Where’s Moonlight? I need to talk to him.” I say, with my voice flat.

“Nightmare?” Ink blinks, glancing toward the private chamber. “He’s over there.”

“Thanks.” I walk past him without ceremony.
But I can feel his stare burning into the back of my neck—questions behind his silence. And it's not just him.

Everyone is watching.

Error’s pretending to read a spellbook, but his eyes haven’t moved from the same page. Dust’s halfway through mixing something, but the potion sits untouched. Horror’s ‘cleaning’ his axe with a shredded rag, but he’s using the blade like a mirror—to watch me.

I stop. Let out a breath. “You don’t need to do this. I’ll explain everything... later.”

That’s enough. They look away.

Easy part’s over.

I turn the corner toward the private chamber—and find him immediately. Nightmare, hunched over his makeshift board, moving pebbles across the ground as he mutters through his strategy again and again.

I take a breath and step forward. “You won’t need that anymore.”

He looks up, smiling in greeting—but then pauses. The words register.

“What do you mean?”

I don’t answer him straight away. Instead, I step closer to the board. It’s made of stone, the pieces marked with symbols only a few can recognize. But I know them. I’ve watched him move them a hundred times before. Ten years before—since I was thirteen.

I pick up the black queen.

“She’s left the game,” I say quietly, setting the piece down outside the board. “She’s making her own now.”

Quiet.

Nightmare stares at the board for a long moment, as if the piece might put itself back. His mouth opens, then closes. He's calculating again—he always is—but for once, the numbers aren't adding up.

“She went alone?” he asks.

I nod.

“She’s gone rogue,” he says, softer this time.

“No,” I say. “Core finally showed what she's like inside." My voice softens. "She’s gone honest.”

Players.

The Arena is filled with them—row after row of people, but unlike when I watched the trial of Ink and Error, where Players celebrated and made sound as if they were seeing their favorite band performing...

There is no cheers now.

This is the result of Blue's work. The rumors entered people's head. He made them see what was wrong with the Council. Of why it was wrong to cheer people's deaths—to side with the Council.

Silence. 

The only sound comes from the howls of the chosen Beast—a wind golem, again. Of course... It's the worst match available for any Utilitarian. Core's grunts. My own loud heartbeat thunder in my chest.

Deafening. 

I look at my left side, where Dust is clutching his scarf until it wrinkles. Where Horror is silently holding his hand on Error's shoulder, offering confort, while the latter looks like he is torn between watching and looking away. On my right side, not much is different. Ink is biting his lip as if he wants it to bruise while physically twiddling with the notebook attached to his hips. Blue is fiddling with his gloves with the expression of someone who swallowed something sour.

And Nightmare...he looks composed, but his eyes are like a thunderstorm of emotion. His hands are curling into his dark cape, and his body is tense—because he is fighting the urge to teleport to the Arena to save the Engineer.

To save Core.

She is stumbling. The Beast is circling. There’s blood on the sand. But her voice rises—not in fear, but with terrifying clarity.

"You call this a game. But it’s a system that kills its own players—by design. A stage dressed up like justice, fed to an audience who forgot how to mourn."

She looks at the crowd. Some flinch. Most just… watch.

"I’m not the first. How many people have died in this place? Hundreds? How many Utilitarians has the Council killed? Thousands? I don't know.... But I’m the only one who will die knowing this Arena isn’t broken. It’s working exactly as someone designed it to." Her voice cracks—not from fear, but from restrained fury. "Gaster calls it justice—but he made us watch each other die until cheering became easier than caring. He used a loophole in the System's coding to murder 'legally' and punished all of those who called him out on it—like a coward!"

A pause. One long breath. She looks up—maybe toward someone. Or maybe... towards the System.

"But Systems can adapt. They learn. And if it’s watching now—then let it see me." She huffs, holding her broken ribs. "I won’t fight this Beast. Not because I can’t win—but because this isn’t my fight anymore."

She drops to the ground—deliberately. Showing herself to the Beast and not moving.

"I'm not the first..." She shouts, full of spite. "But I'll be the last!"

{ NIGHTMARE'S POV }

The plan was supposed to take time—slow, careful, a surgical strike to topple the Council without a single casualty.

I don’t plan like she did. I don’t like deaths.

Because I’ve already caused one once. His name was Dream—my twin.

He believed in people more than I ever could. Kind to a fault, reckless in his trust. But brilliant too—brighter than me. The sun to my moon. He had the kind of hope that could make you feel like things could get better. Like we weren't just surviving.

And I got him hurt.

I was seventeen. A genius—or so said everyone. Already solving cold cases like puzzles with missing corners. Involved with the police and things a teenager shouldn't meddle with. Already getting attention I didn’t ask for. Already thinking I was invincible.

The people I exposed weren’t. They retaliated. Didn’t go after me, though. No. They went after Dream—hit him once, just once, trying to scare me.

But he never woke up.

The doctors called it a coma. I called it what it was: my failure.

My first failure.

And now I'm in a coma too—with my brother nowhere to be seen. For months, I looked for him—through the entirety of Floor 1. He is nowhere to be seen. And I'm afraid I know what happened—he is too kind for this place—the Game where we all ended up. He is most likely dead now—even if I still hope that he is alive.

I just thought that maybe, just maybe, I could build a plan where no one else had to be sacrificed. Where I could be the one doing the hard things, the dark things, so others didn’t have to bleed.

I'm not doing it to be good. Or noble. I’m doing it because I can’t lose another person because of my decisions. I already lost my brother. I can’t do it again—even if it’s metaphorical.

But Core made a different play.

It's faster—sure. But there is also death in it. This is clearly not my doing. It's not strategic. Not clean. Not survivable. I admire her for that. And I hate her for it, too. Because she reminded me of something I keep trying to forget:

Not all change can come without loss.

I planned until there was no casualty in it. Months of careful moves, patience like a predator waiting for the perfect moment. But Core’s move… it shattered everything.

I watch her now, fighting a battle I can’t join. With my heart twisting in a way only Killer, my best friend, can see—raw, breaking, tethered to a truth I can’t deny:

If I save her, we lose everything. If I don’t, she dies alone.

It's like the Trolley problem. Do you move the tracks to save one person and kill five, or do you save five and kill one person? Except, the person alone is Core—and she is clearly shouting for the machinist to save the other five.

Don't I have any other option here? 

I want to scream, to fight, to rewrite the rules. But in this match, I’m the king—cornered. I can't move without ending the game. So I stay still. Silent. A ghost in someone else's strategy.

There is no other choice. I'm forced to accept her move.

When Killer told me what she did, I calculated every option—for hours—until the night said goodbye, the day gave its greetings, and the Arena trial came up. I have not slept, just thinking ways where I can stop her foolish decision. But in no path I saw a way to save her that means we can still break the Council down.

When I said she was the only one who could put me in a dire situation—I meant it. Because the Council wasn't the only one put into a checkmate.

She won the match against me as well.

{ KILLER'S POV }

My hands shake. I don’t care about plans anymore. I just want her to live.

I whisper, "don't." while already moving from my spot in the crowd—going to save her. But Nightmare holds my arm before I can, nodding me a silent "no" as we're forced into spectators.

Her eyes scan the crowd—and when they find me, it’s like time holds its breath. No fear. No goodbye. Just a look that says, Please. Let me be the last.

Her voice is a thunderous cloud against the Beast's growls and the oppressive system the Council built. 

She crackles: "Let my death be the end of your silence. Let it be the first line of a new path. Let it mean something."

The Beast kills her—just a slash through her chest—and it's over.

No one cheers. Not even a whisper. For the first time in the Arena’s history, it watches an audience that has nothing to celebrate—and everything to regret. 

Unsettling, wrong. And the System—the real authority of this place—watching millions of silent reactions for the first time... glitches. A flicker. A crack.

[ * Majority Emotional State Detected: Rejection. ]

[ EVALUATION: Inconsistency Detected. ]

[ * Arena Protocol — Quarantined. ]

The Arena is sealed within a thin transparent blue veil made of code. Muffet screams, and we all watch as the impossible begins.

The Light Jellyfish—the only Beast-type allowed inside the Safe Zone because it's harmless—start carrying the Council members from the V.I.P. chamber into the Arena.

Undyne is carried by her hair, screaming in pain all the while. Gaster goes by his waist, fighting to be released all the while. Asgore goes silently, taken by his arms. Muffet is grabbed by her legs, trying to cut the jellyfishes with a dagger but failing miserably. They're all dropped near Core's body, and her blood dirty their pristine regal white clothing like paint on paper.

They can't even fully stand from the ground before the System drops another message:

[ * System reevaluated Arena's conditions. ]

[ * System loophole has been exploited unfairly by Players who self-claim to be "The Council". ]

[ * Penalty is to be decided. ]

[ * Calculating Karma Points... ]

Muffet immediately begs for mercy to the invisible voice—falling to her knees like a prayer. Undyne looks like she ate something sour and wants to punch someone. Gaster looks like a statue. Asgore seems like he accepted his fate.

The Arena starts to glitch.

[ * Karma Points have been calculated! ]

[ * Maximum points exceeded tolerable amount. Penalty will be delivered using the same rules Players known as "The Council" used. ]

[ * Calculating... ]

"Cruel." Ink whispers by my side, biting his nails.

I don't answer him—no one does. We're all just watching. No one can look away.

[ * ... ]

[ * Based on Players actions, time and how many were affected, Penalty has been chosen accordingly. ]

And, like a knife to the gut, the System delivers it with an emotionless voice that carries much more emotion than I can describe.

[ PENALTY: Death. ]

Immediately, each member feel the effect of the System's supreme authority.

Asgore's death is the most peaceful from them all. The Light Jellyfish start to wrap around him, electrocuting his nervous system until he falls dead from the high voltage. The peaceful Beasts scatter after they do their job, leaving the Arena—unbothered.

The other three have uglier deaths.

The red cape Undyne always carry like a trophy catches fire, a flame as red as her hair consuming it—incapable of dying, just like her ruthlessness. She goes out in a puff, but not without screaming horribly and fighting. The ashes she leaves behind is as horrible as her soul once was.

Muffet screams as tiny spiders appear from nothing, multiplying from the dirt and crawling all over her. They start cutting her skin and entering her body while she keeps scratching herself, trying to escape from the arachnids. They crawl her until no one can see her skin. She becomes a black dot, until her silhouette starts undoing itself. The spiders transform into dirt again—with Muffet nowhere to be seen.

Gaster’s eyes widen—not in fear, but in recognition.

The rules he twisted now twist him back.

Thousands of spectral wolves appear now—and I gasp in realization. They're the Beasts Gaster's class allow him to control through his Summoner subclass. A bunch of transparent wolves with iron pieces for jaws who growl towards the one who once controlled them.

The wolves hunt him while he tries, uselessly, to run away. But they reach him—just as he once commanded them to.

The Arena is silent. Not just in sound—but in spirit. Like the code itself is grieving. And through all of that, I can only think how Core's last words were just a simple—yet meaningful:

"Checkmate."

The game isn't over. But the board's been flipped. And the next move? It's ours.

Chapter Text

{ KILLER’S POV }

The sand is still red.

The System hasn't cleaned it up.

[ * Arena Protocol — Quarantine cancelled. ]

[ * System needs to download improvements, adjustments, fix loopholes and adapt previous codes. ]

[ * Entering observational mode for maximum efficiency. ]

[ OBSERVATIONAL MODE: On. ]

[ * System is now unresponsive. The main rules, rewards and penalties still apply. ]

That's all the System said before going eerily quiet. And I feel a chill craw up my back when we all start to leave the Arena and no pop-up message of "you have exited the Arena" follows. Even then, I can still hear the robotic voice in my head.

No one’s stepped into the Arena since the System reset it. The ground glitches sometimes—like it doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be bloodied or pristine. Like even the code can’t decide if Core should be gone. Like some part of her is still echoing in the source, refusing to be overwritten.

We all walk silently, each processing what just happened in different ways. Error, Horror and Dust are clearly the least affected. None of them knew Core, or heard the rumors. They haven't passed more than a week here. But the others? The ones who have been here long enough? We were all affected.

My hands are in my pants' pockets. I don’t know why I’m still here. The crowd’s gone. The Light jellyfish too—since it's not night yet. Council’s dead. Core’s gone. But I’m still here. Like a thread that wasn’t cut properly.

Ink stands beside me—quiet. For once.

He hasn’t said a word since the System dropped its final message. And maybe that’s the thing. No one knows what to say—or do—anymore. We were supposed to be the chaos. The rebels. The ones flipping tables and cracking the ceiling open.

But she did it first.

A quiet voice breaks the air behind me. "She knew the System better than any of us—and used it to change the game." A pause, "... Permanently."

I know—I think, but no sound leaves my mouth.

I turn. Blue. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his light sapphire eyes like bruises of guilt. “She knew it would do that. That it would… act. That it’d care.”

Ink finally speaks—barely more than a breath. “She knew she wasn’t making it out. She chose death—that is...” he gulps. "Brave."

No one replies to that. There’s nothing left to say.

We stay a few more seconds. Maybe a minute. Then, one by one, we leave the Arena behind.

No one says goodbye.

{ INK’S POV }

The walk is eerie. A bit long from the Arena to the Safe Point—our makeshift headquarters, just outside the Safe Zone, on a cave in the middle of the forest. Nightmare could've teleported us all in—if he was in a better state. He hasn't said a word since he entered the Arena. And in our way there, we pass through the Market.

It hasn’t changed one bit.

That’s the worst part.

It still looks as if a fantasy bazaar had a child with a futuristic strip—still looks messy. Loud. Lively. There’s still bartering. Still people laughing too loud. Still someone trying to sell counterfeit Soul Fragments like they’re candy.

I walk with my sketchbook pressed to my chest. My scarf’s up over my mouth—like that’ll hide the fact I’m the last one. The last Utilitarian. Core made it official.

Will I also die? Or...

No—Don't think about it.

Everywhere we go, people look. Some talk. Some don't. But they theorize. And I can't help but listen to the whispers. To the ruffling of people buying things without a care in the world, already accustomed to the concept of death. Already desensitized.

"You think the System’s broken now?" a girl asks a tall boy beside her while looking through some colorful clothing.

"I don't know," he whispers.

"That’s not reassuring."

Further down, near the Forge, some people gather to whisper. Some look at me—pity on their faces. They know I'm an Utilitarian—there is no way no one knows. It's awfully obvious from the lack of weapons—save for a small dagger. It's clear from the presence of an utility belt carrying tools, bottles and pockets on my hips. I'm just missing a pair of goggles to be textbook Utilitarian.

A dark-skinned man approach me with pity on his eyes. "I'll pray for your survival. Good luck."

I bite my lower lip, lowering my head and refusing to bark profanities to the man. That was uncalled for. But the market doesn't care for my emotional state. It doesn't care about anything. It keeps going as if nothing happened, because that's the nature of this place: death is normal, and feelings only get in the way of survival.

A burly woman with tattoos on her arms whispers over a stall. "Did you see the Council's faces when she died? Her voice? Gave me chills."

"My friend used to cheer for the Arena trials. He cried after Core." Someone sighs, "maybe we should make a statue of her..."

A small kid stretches a bow, trying its durability. "Serves the Council right. Gaster always acted untouchable. Who’s untouchable now?"

And there is also a party, on the further side, analyzing and clutching artifact's fragments from a lazy NPC.

"That's good news. Now we can finally use the Arena to level up!" Says a man with a confident grin.

And one timid woman replies: "I don't know if I want to train in a place where so many people died..."

They make sense—all of them.

The future has always been uncertain here. We don't know if we'll survive. We don't know how is the next Floors—what lies ahead. We don't know anything about any Floor. How many are there? How are each one of them? What is the main quests? The Beasts? No one knows a thing. And some don't even know who they are if they haven't been here for enough weeks—like Error.

I clutch the tracker tighter, hidden bellow layers of my clothing. The device works better than intended—a gift from Core to me. The last Item she crafted. All that's left of her besides rumors and heroic acts. I turn the little device on, and the little screen flickers with location data. Far north, outside the Safe Zone, through the forest until green leaves place for a thick desert.

The portal—it’s there. It’s waiting.

Now, we just need to find the key.

What's worse: I know where the key is. On the opposite side—south. Half a day of travel by foot to get there from the Safe Zone. Near the mountains. Inside the... volcano. But I don't want to go there. Not back to Mt. Ebott.

Not back to the place I logged in.

Not back to where I nearly—

“Hey,” Killer says from beside me, snapping me out of the spiral. I grumble a little—blaming how observant he is. His voice is low, calm. “We’ve got the location. That’s all we need right now.”

I nod, swallowing hard, wishing it also swallows all my doubts. All the things I'm hiding. It doesn't work.

I don’t tell him the way my palms are sweating.

{ ERROR’S POV }

The shift is immediate when the monotone voice of the System doesn't follow our entrance on the Safe Point. But the rest is just as we've left it. Most people prefer the safety of the Safe Zone instead of the risk of living in a Safe Point—or so I've noticed.

The mood inside the Safe Point is... different. Like someone took the tension from the Arena and brought it back in their pockets, trailing it through every corner.

No one's talking much. Even Killer and Ink's gone still. Dust hasn’t moved in hours—just creepily staring at nothing. Horror is methodically organizing things that doesn't need order. Blue is pacing. And our leader... Nightmare isolated himself on the private chamber.

No one can bring him out of there.

Core wasn't from this party, but we all felt her death as if we were friends. We didn’t know her—I didn't know her. Never shared a table. Never fought side-by-side. And still… it feels like she took something with her when she died.

I pass Ink as he fiddles with the tracker again. He looks pale. He’s shaking like a wire caught in a current, even though he’s trying to hide it. His fingers keep slipping on the buttons.

I go sit near him—on the ground. My fingers brush some flowers, who perk up, releasing a small dust of sparkling pollen. It's a too beautiful of a sight for a death game...

"You're ok?" I ask, noticing how tense his shoulders are.

Ink immediately looks at me, deflating. "You think I'll also..." He whispers somberly, but doesn't finish the phrase.

I look at him in confusion before it clicks.

Horror seeps into my face, and I take his hands in mine—gently. He looks at me with both fear and a hint of gratitude and care. "You're not her, you know," I tell him. "You’re not Core."

Ink looks down, brushing my hand with unsure, cold fingers. "I’m the last one. The last Player with the cursed class... The last, Error."

"It doesn't mean you have to die next," I say. But even I’m not sure I believe it.

I can just hope he won't be next.

{ KILLER’S POV }

I stand up suddenly, making Error look at me.

"Where are you going?" He asks.

"I'll try to take out our resident anti-social from there." I say, not sparing a second to wait for Error's answer. But I hear him wishing me luck anyways.

The private chamber of the Safe Point is a mess. There are books scattered around like a hurricane decided to live here. The chest on the far wall is on the ground, tumbled. The crystal ball is on the ground—broken. And Nightmare? He is on the far wall, looking like a kid hiding from the thunder: on the ground, knees curled near his chest, face hidden between his legs.

Only I am allowed in here.

The others don’t question why. Maybe they think I’m here to talk strategy, or to pass updates, or whatever excuse they need to believe.

Nightmare hasn’t moved in hours. His cloak’s pooled around him like ink spilled across the ground. The pebbles from his makeshift board are scattered from where he tossed them around—giving up on an strategy that doesn't matter anymore. The board is empty now—just cracked uncertainty and silence.

"Moonlight?"

He makes no sound. No move. I approach him anyways.

"You know we have to keep moving," I say, quietly. "We came here before all of them. Our time is ending—and I doubt the System will warn us before we're 'logged off' in that weird 'observational mode' it entered.."

He doesn’t look up from where he rested his head on his knees.

No response.

"We already have the portal. From the tracker. We just need to find where the key is, but..." I pause, quietly sitting at his side, criss-crossed. "I have a hunch we'll have a Boss fight soon. This is a game after all, so..."

Still nothing.

“Moonlight, you can’t stay here forever,” I add.

He finally speaks. “I was wrong. I made a mistake." He looks at me, his cyan eyes burning with regret. "I failed—again."

I don’t ask what he means. I know what he is talking about. His twin. Sunshine—Dream. That faithful day.

The accident.

This isn't the first time I found him like this after a loss. It's not the first time I help him out of it either.

The first time, we were still in high school. Still teenagers.

Back then, the world still made sense. You had textbooks, track meets and overpriced coffee. The scariest thing in our lives was exam season or whether someone would screenshot your dumb group chat joke.

But Nightmare—back then, he was just Night—was never like the others. People avoided him like he was radioactive. He was too quiet, too intense. Too smart. He scared teachers and made students nervous.

But not me.

Back then, there was no Arena. No Safe Point. Just a house in the suburbs, two teens and a bloodstain that refused to come off the carpet.

I remember the first time I saw Moonlight cry.

He was seventeen. I was fifteen. And he wasn’t the Nightmare people know now—leader of a party, master tactician, semi-mythical to half the Players out there. He was just him. A genius with too much brain and not enough world to fit it in. Back then, the world was still soft. School bells and textbooks. Cellphones and monotone days. Quiet streets where the loudest danger was a barking dog.

Until Judge appeared. Until the case.

Until Dream.

I got there after the cops. After Judge—a kind detective who discovered my friend's brilliance. She got us both in that mess, in a way.

The place was already sealed off, lights flashing outside. But they let me in because Nightmare asked for me. Of course he did. I was his best friend—his only friend.

I found him there—curled up in the hallway outside the hospital room, knees pulled to his chest, head down, not talking. Same posture. Same silence. I thought he'd been hurt, too, but when I got closer, I saw it.

Grief.

Just the kind of stillness that doesn’t come from wounds. It comes from something inside breaking.

"Dream’s stable," I said, kneeling beside him. I didn’t know if it was a lie or not. The doctor hadn’t sounded confident. “They said the swelling’s gone down.”

He didn’t answer.

I sat beside him anyway. Quiet for a while. Tried to fill the silence with anything but panic.

“You solved the case,” I said. “Judge said you were the reason they caught them.”

He didn’t move. His voice, when it came, was jagged. “And Dream’s the one paying for it.” He looked at me, cyan eyes glistening with tears. "He warned me about it, Killer. Said to stop or someone would get hurt. And now... My brother got hurt because of me."

The guilt in his voice then? It’s the same one I hear now, echoing off the walls of this damn Safe Point room.

He turned to me that day with tears that made him look younger than he ever let himself be. “I thought if I just did everything right—if I outsmarted them—I could keep everyone safe."

And I remember what I told him, because I’m telling him now, too.

"It's not your fault, Moonlight. Don't try to control the whole world when you're just human." I say. "Genius or not, you're allowed to fail."

There is a heavy pause. A sob. And I see myself holding my crying friend—comforting someone who rarely cries, but feels much more than he shows.

"She played the game like it was hers. I thought I could play it safe—quiet. But there’s nothing I could've done." Another sob. "She just... She..."

He says that, but... this is not just about Core anymore, is it?

I shush him, feeling my own eyes burn in want—but I don't allow myself the luxury of crying when I have a friend to comfort. "I know, Moonlight. I know."

He sighs his tears away—forcing them down. Then, he leaves my arms and starts to move some pebbles who just so happened to be close to us. I sigh, feeling defeated. He's doing it again. Choosing to bury his emotions under layers of logic to hide the pain.

It never works.

Even without clues I understand what he is doing: a map. A pebble for us, another for the Safe Point—just a little further away from the giant dome of the Safe Zone, and... Mt. Ebott, the Hellhound's lair. South. Just on the far end of the first Floor. A straight walk from the Safe Zone to the volcano, passing the clearing and the forest until we reach the infernal location.

He turns to me. His eyes are burning. Not with fire. Not with tears. But with grief. And something harder:

Resolve.

I sigh, already expecting the next phrase to fall from his lips.

“Get them ready,” he says. “We leave at dawn.”

Chapter Text

{ ERROR'S POV }

An axe. A shield. Lots of magical books. A few tech here and there... We pile everything we might need in the middle of the Safe Point, readying ourselves for the journey. 

Killer went to the secluded chamber to bring out Nightmare—and he did! But none of us expected our leader to start barking orders so soon. Even Killer seems done with that behavior, as if it's not the first time Nightmare has done that. I'm not sure if I should be relieved or worried with that knowledge...

Either way, we're preparing ourselves to enter the lion den.

I still remember the gnarly teeth of the Hellhound almost biting my back on my first day here—the day I "logged" in this game. I just survived that day because Ink heard my scream and decided to not give two fucks about the Council's rules. If not for that, then I wouldn't be here today.

Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to go to Mt. Ebott—the nest of those deformed lava-like dogs.

Everyone is doing their best to pack up as fast as they can—with just the essentials. According to Nightmare, once we get the key he'll immediately teleport us to the closest he can get to the portal—claiming that we passed enough time locked inside Floor 1—the place supposed to be a low-stakes, low-rewards situation.

Nothing about our time here had felt low-stakes.

The packing has been going well. We’ve packed at least two backpacks with food, and one more filled with weapons and essentials. It's a necessity considering we won't come back—this is our last move on Floor 1. The next, we'll be on Floor 2.

For me, I feel ready. A concealing cape around my shoulders, a few mana potions, and a book. Nightmare gifted me this magical book in one of our training sessions—so I'm feeling more confident than normal—and I have already prepared five spells. All high level... Just in case.

The others are doing fine too.

Killer has hidden more knives on his body than what I can count on my fingers. I don't understand how he hasn't hurt himself with them yet, or how he can hide them to the point of being unnoticeable even when I know where they are. Scary.

Nightmare has attached a small grimmore—as if he hasn't memorized all the spells already—to the belt on his hips, and is now wearing dark gloves with a pretty purple magical gem on his hands. They seem to be replacements for a wand, since unlike me, he actually needs them to be able to cast.

Dust is humming a tune while checking his daggers and testing how silent his clothes allow him to be. Which answers as: quite a lot.

Blue just finished cleaning his bow and getting a bunch of arrows ready and is now helping Horror put on his armor—a giant silver thing that clicks loudly whenever he walks. Seems to be grating on Ink's nerves.

But to be honest, I don't think that's the armor's fault—Ink seems unusually anxious since we started preparations.

Shoulders tense. Eyebrows furrowed like bowstring. Forced smile. Ink has been avoiding the others like cat avoids water. He's also the slowest to pack his things, and not just because he has the most things to pack than all of us. He is being slow on purpose.

His whole demeanor makes alarm bells ring in my mind—but I don't know why. Seems like Killer has also noticed the weird behavior too—he's way too observant not to notice. I look at him, and he motions to Ink with his head as if to say "you should talk to him".

That's exactly what I do.

I approach Ink with slow steps, making as much noise as I can as to not spook him any further. 

“Ink,” I say gently, stopping a few steps from him. I try not to sound like I’m approaching a cornered animal—but that’s exactly what it feels like.

Ink doesn’t flinch, but his hand freezes mid-reach towards a potion bottle. He’s organizing slower than anyone else, but not because he’s lazy. Something’s wrong. Wrong in the way he folds things carefully. Wrong in the way he won’t meet my eyes.

“You alright?” I ask.

“Peachy,” he lies.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot,” he lies again.

"It’s not. Safe Point temperatures are stable by design. Could have a desert outside, we still wouldn't feel a thing inside here."

I wait. Let the silence stretch between us like a string I refuse to cut. He finally sighs—frustrated more at himself than at me—and continues packing. Still doesn't look my way.

“Ink,” I say, quieter. “If you don’t want to go, you can just say so. No one would force you.”

“I can't do that, Error." He sighs, but keeps packing. "There is no such thing as a choice in this game. I can't say no. If I decide to not go, how would I know if I'm ready for Floor 2? I don’t have a choice,” he says, almost too quickly. “None of us do.”

I'm just about to reply, but then—Nightmare cuts in. Time it like a cold interruption right when the tension is rising. Like someone dropping a match into gasoline.

“Ink,” Nightmare says from across the room—calm, like he's asking him to pass the salt. “Inventory. Use it. You’re carrying too much.”

Every head turns.

Ink goes still. Slowly, too slowly, he looks up.

“...What?” he whispers, the word clipped. His voice is too calm. That means it’s not calm at all.

“Inventory,” Nightmare repeats, crossing his arms. “That Unique Skill of yours. Use it.”

Silence.

Blue tilts his head. “Wait—you have a what now?”

Killer narrows his eyes but says nothing.

Ink looks at me, looking betrayed. I shake my head, clearly just as confused as him. My throat tightens. I promised I wouldn’t say a thing. So I didn't. Ink seems to notice that too.

Ink glares at Nightmare, hands slowly curling into fists. “How do you know about that? Who told you?”

"You said it yourself." Nightmare doesn’t blink. “when you and Error were in the Library. Just a little before I arrived there to bring you the necklaces. I ended up listening to it... when you thought you two were alone.”

Oh, right. It had to be him. Of course he’d do it like that. Not cruel—but cutting, the way a surgeon’s scalpel is. Subtlety, Nightmare-style: light a fire, then point at the smoke.

“You were eavesdropping?”

He shrugs. “I was nearby.”

{ INK'S POV }

The words taste like rot in my mouth.

No. No. He didn't just say that. He can't. Not here. Not in front of everyone—

No one was supposed to know. Not about that. Not about the things I keep locked behind my teeth.

The silence that follows feels like static. Like the moment before the scream.

My thoughts race: What else does Nightmare know? What else will they find out? Will they use it against me? Will someone go through my notebooks? No. No. No one would dare—

They won’t hurt me. I know that. But my brain won’t listen. They'll wouldn't—

“Ink?” Blue’s voice cuts through, tentative. “Is this a class thing? Like a Crafter subclass specifics?”

I look at Error first, as if to ask permission. He smiles at me, as if to say "It's fine. You can tell them". My chest feel unusually tight, as if I'm being held by ropes.

It's fine—I tell myself.

Everything's fine.

I look at Blue, and open my mouth. “It’s not a class thing. It’s a... it’s a Skill. The System calls it a Rare Skill, but really...it's more of a Unique Skill. Like Nightmare’s Teleportation. A Skill that only one person—or a few—have.”

The faces change from confusion to slow understanding. And I have to mentally force my gaze from Killer's. He looks like he wants to study me under a microscope—it's uncomfortable, to say the least.

"What can it do, exactly?" Dust's muted grey eyes glisten with curiosity. "I never heard about a Skill like that."

I gulp, weirdly shaken. I try to smile—to relax a little—my voice still trembles. "It let's me carry things in a pocket dimension. Like a space rift." I can already feel the question waiting to burst from Blue's mouth, so I answer him before. "Only I have access to it—and no, I can't share the access with someone else."

I exhale a shaky breath. I understand why Nightmare put me under the spotlight. It wasn't inherently malicious—his proud gaze seems to tell me as much. Still... That approach doesn't make things any easier. I know he thinks this will help me long-term, but right now I can't help but be a little angry at him. I know of my tendency to keep a tight grip on the things I can do. To keep my abilities, desires and relationships shut as if they're secrets.

And now I'm forced to confront it.

Damn it.

Why am I like this? Why can't I just trust people? I need to trust them. I know. We're a group—a team. We won't get far without trust. I know. None of them are doing anything bad to me, and still... Rationally, I understand that I need to trust them... emotionally, I can't. This annoying voice in my head keeps the mantra:

Don't tell anyone a thing.

They'll use you.

They'll hurt you.

You have to hide.

Hide.

Hide.

Hide.

Horror's calm tone cuts the voice in half. "It seems to be very useful."

"It is..." I wet my lips. They seem to be very dry.

“Then why hide it?” Blue asks. Not accusing—just curious, like he’s asking about a snack preference.

I shrug, forcing casualness. “Didn’t want attention.”

Or so I say, but the real reason? I don't know. And that's the truth. I'm too tired to create some elaborate lie.

No one says anything.

I sigh and reach out my hand. It trembles. I try to stop it and fail.

I call my Skill forth. And even if the System doesn't announce it because of the Observational Mode, it still works as intended. The space in front of me shimmers. Black ink blossoms in midair like a drop hitting water. It spreads outward, forming a warped, swirling puddle that hovers in the air like a portal frozen in motion.

Inside it: rows of items. Perfectly organized. Tools. Books. Potions. No one can see the inside, but I can. All the Items look like a window pop-up to me, I just need to pluck my hand inside and think about the Item I want for them to appear from the portal on my hand. That's how I store things, but also how I take them out of there. I slowly go around, taking the group's Items, and even the extra Armor Horror have and storing it inside the black puddle.

That's when I realize: this Skill keeps things tidy, hidden, safe. Just like I do with everything else.

My chest tightens.

I toss the rest of my gear into the Skill. It vanishes into the black void with a soft plop, and soon, the portal closes itself. And I think: maybe I want to disappear into that void, too. Hide alongside the gear and potions. Neatly filed away. Safe. Untouchable.

"That's so cool." Blue mutters.

Everyone is still looking at me as if they've just now considered me a meat worth cooking—At least, it feels that way.

“Happy?" I glare.

“Efficient,” Nightmare replies.

I step outside before anyone can follow.

I'm still inside the Safe Point, though. Just on the bottle neck part near the cave's mouth, where the barrier of the Safe Point sparkles a translucent sheen like a digital veil.

Behind me, the warmth of the place I have been living in for a while. Just in front, a forest so deep no one can see what's behind—but I know: we're not far from the Safe Zone. Just pass these trees, the clearing and anyone can get there safely.

But I'm not here to admire the view.

I'm here to think—and to sulk.

The Safe Point wall gives little warmth, but I press my back against it anyway, like the rock can ground me.

I survived Mt. Ebott once. Barely. Burned fingertips. No weapons. No knowledge. No memories besides my name and the knowledge that I wasn't home—kinda like Error right now. Back then, I just had my own body and reckless personality.

I still remember the volcano. The fire. The smell of sulfur. The burning. The claws. The way I've flirted with death without wanting to and almost couldn't escape.

I don't want—I can't take them there.

But I can’t stop them, either.

"This is so stupid." I grumble, and accidentally end up hitting my head on the wall with my anger. "Ouch!"

Then, I hear a chuckle. Footsteps. A familiar face looking amused—but also worried.

"What did the wall do to you?" Error asks.

I huff. "Sorry."

He seems to understand this is not about walls at all. "You shouldn't apologize."

None of us talk.

Error slowly slides on the wall to sit near me. I can hear the scrapping of his clothes against the smooth surface of the rock behind. I avoid his line of sight by deciding to keep looking outside, where he can't see anything but my braided hair on the back of my head. But I can feel it—the way our shoulders bump briefly. The faint small of ozone he exhales because of the mana on his veins. The quiet tempo of his breathing. The way I'm focusing on him even when my line of sight couldn't be farther.

"You should've stayed." He chuckles. "Killer and Blue ganged up. They're literally all over Nightmare saying why he shouldn't have done this or that. It's funny."

"Hm."

A beat.

"They've gone all over him the second you went out. Killer seems especially angry—something about 'ambushing' people and 'friends'."

"Hm."

And another.

"You know Nightmare doesn't have any will intent against you, right?"

I inhale, and sigh. "I know."

I can hear Error fumbling—the way he does when he's either guilty or embarrassed. Maybe both.

"...I apologize."

I reply: "Why? It wasn't your fault."

"No. But I could've done something. I could've tried to stop him. I didn't. In a way... I failed you."

That's when I hear fizzling. I turn around. Error is looking at his hands, with static flying around his fingers. His lightning magic gently lights the cave in shades of yellow and blue. He looks at me with hopeful hazel eyes, as if he knew the sound would make me look.

I need to—

Ink, stop staring.

But before I can follow my own instructions, he stops me from looking away putting a hand on my shoulder. "I'll try to protect you better."

He doesn’t say he’ll protect us—the team. Just me. And that—somehow—makes it better worse.

Beat.

Not from silence, but from my heartbeat. I can feel it in my throat. Tight, annoying.

I look at him—Error—and there’s this stupid little pull in my chest. Warm and awful. He’s just sitting there like he didn’t say something that cracked me open a little. Like he didn’t mean it that way. Of course he didn’t.
I should smile. Or thank him. Or joke. But my mouth doesn’t work.

I don’t like him. Not like that. It’s just... residual stuff. Old feelings. Childhood nostalgia and weird brain chemistry. It doesn’t mean anything.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

I’ve seen the way he looks at people. Girls, mostly. Normal. Easy. He doesn’t—he wouldn’t—

I press my nails into my palm, grounding myself. Get it together, Ink.

Why am I even thinking about this right now? We’re about to walk into Mount—Freaking—Ebott. Priorities, Ink.

“Ink—? You okay?”

I flinch. “Ah. Yeah. Just... thinking."

No one says a thing after that.

{ ERROR'S POV }

Getting out of the Safe Point shouldn't feel like walking straight into fire, but it does.

We all have been walking for a while. Should be easier if Nightmare could teleport there, but apparently, he can't teleport to places he hasn't previously been before or in his direct line of sight—lucky us.

The trees are the first indicator of us getting further and further into danger. What was a thick and vibrant green near the Safe Point slowly gives room to trees with gnarly roots and empty branches. The temperature starts to rise, and sweat gather on everyone. We can see the peak of the volcano towering over the forest. It's getting hot fast now.

"For how long have we been walking?" I ask.

"We're near." Nightmare answers, and I have to bite my tongue to hold back a sarcastic comment from spilling out.

Who, in their sanity, answers without answering at the same time?

I sigh. Then, I feel someone's hand on my back. I look behind just to find Dust looking at me in what I believe is his version of comfort. 

"Don't worry. We'll get there soon." He looks ahead. "It's just a volcano with some stupid dogs "

I huff. "I have to remind you that my magic is still unstable. What if we have to fight?"

Dust blinks. "Then...we fight."

"As if it's that easy..."

"We'll be fine." He says.

That's when Killer—walking just behind us—enters in the middle of us to whisper: "you, yes. Ink? Not so much."

Right...

I look a little bit behind us. At the back, literally the slowest to walk: Ink. He looks even more tense then when we were on our 'headquarters', somehow. He is staring at the trees as if he expects them to attack him, and breathes in a constricted way.

I really want to know why, but I doubt he'll tell me—or any of us.

Killer interrupts my thoughts. "You should walk with him."

I stare. "Why?"

"Aren't you friends? Haven't been since before the game?" Killer tilts his head, as if he's stating the obvious. "Do him company. Lessen some of his worries. He'll listen to you—believe it or not."

Difficult to believe that. Ink might remember being my friend, but me? All I have are blurred memories in a jumbled timeline. Sometimes I feel like I'll remember something—like a strong deja'vu feeling—but I don't. It's annoying.

"I don't think so..."

I can see Killer and Dust looking at each other through my peripheral view. That's when Dust nods once, and leaves—as if saying 'he is your problem now'.

Killer puts an arm around my neck—both a friendly gesture, and a way to make it harder for me to escape.

"Look, buddy. You might think that you hold no value because of your lack of memories and inexperience, but everyone here is willing to count on you. And... Do you know who needs you more than he makes it seem like?" He says seriously, a way look for someone as joke-y as Killer. "Ink."

I take a bit to say a timid "I know."

Still... Everytime Ink sat me by his side on the Safe Point just to talk about the things he remembered about us—the trouble we got in as kids, the schools we attended together, and then some more—I felt terrible, because I listened, but never remembered any of those moments. It's like hearing a story about someone else—except, that's just you from the past.

It makes me feel really broken.

Killer seems to sense my inner turmoil. "You know we all have been there too, right?"

I nod. Doesn't seem to convince. Killer squints.

He sighs, "do you know I had been in your place too? Like... Quite literally." Then, he smiles. "I have known Nightmare since I was thirteen, even then... I held no memories of him on my first days here."

I frown. "Really?"

He nods. "Aside from a vague sense of familiarity, I couldn't recall a thing. It was weird when Moonlight approached me one day and said my name out of nowhere. I got really confused, y'know?" He chuckles. "But still... I trusted him whenever he told me something about the life before here. About us. Until I started to remember. You know why?"

I shake my head.

He smiles. "Trust."

"Trust?"

"Yeah! You come here with no memories, but your heart remembers. You can't hold on logic at first, but you can trust your instincts." Then, he points at the others. "We all 'logged in' without memories, and still... Dust and Horror felt like they knew each other. Blue and Moonlight also felt the same. As so does me and Moonlight. And now—"

"Ink and me."

Killer nods. "Haven't you felt like you knew Ink since the beginning? You could've mistrusted him, but did you feel like you should?"

"No. I... I didn't." I say, slowly. Then: "why are you giving me this pep talk?"

"To share you a lesson." Killer smiles. "Never destroy your relationships because of insecurity."

Ah, damn. Sometimes I don't know if I hate Killer or not, really. In one side, he can be really annoying. Never takes things seriously. But on the other...he comes with speeches like these.

"Thanks..." I give a breathy laugh. "But you're still an annoying little shit."

Killer gives his signature smile: a crooked grin. "Thanks! I'm necessary." Then, more serious. "Go talk to him, seriously. He needs you by his side... Now more than ever. Also, tells him to stop sulking, makes him look like a zombie. Feels like infection-waiting-to-happen for me."

I chuckle, and stop walking.

One by one, the members of the party walk past me. Dust nods my way, and whisper "good luck". Blue gives me an awkward smile and a thumbs up. Soon, Ink pass through me.

I resume walking. 

"Hi, Ink." I say.

Stupid. Really? That is the best you can do? He needs a topic to keep his mind unfocused on whatever he's thinking about, not an awkward greeting!

Ink gives me a nervous side-smile. "Hi, Ruru."

"Uh...I was thinking..." I pause for a bit, waiting for my mind to pick on a topic. Any topic.

That's when it clicks.

"I was meaning to ask you before, but I couldn't." I start, tentatively. "Why do you call me Ruru?"

Ink keeps looking at me with that far away stare, but this time, his mismatched eyes seem to focus on me for a moment. Then, his face softens, as if all his troubles had left him.

"Oh! That..." He smiles softly. "It's a nickname. I have been calling you that since we were kids."

My eyes widen, and funnily enough, I also forget the journey. "Really? Since when, exactly?"

"Since we were four, I think." Ink gestures to the ground, measuring the height on his leg. "About this size."

That's when the levity falls. "Sorry, I..."

"You don't remember, I know." He shrugs. "You shouldn't care much about it. You'll remember once you pass more time in this game. You only have a few days here... give yourself time."

I hum. "And...how were we, as kids? How was you as a kid?"

He laughs, a bit quiet. "Different. I was really shy back then."

"You? Shy? Oh, sure." I say, sarcastically. 

"No, no. It's true! I couldn't look at people in the eye without getting embarrassed. Most people couldn't hold a conversation with me because I just... didn't talk much." He smiles, a bright thing. Really pretty. "But you..."

He looks at me, eyes sparkling.

"You were one of the few who didn't mind being near me."

The warmth from Ink’s words lingers longer than it should, trailing behind us as we press deeper into the forest. The laughter fades. The shadows don’t.

The trees thin out. The air grows thicker. We’re on volcanic soil now—each step leaving behind a blackened footprint. The scent of sulfur prickles at the edge of my nose.

“We’re close,” Nightmare says, more somber than before.

The canopy breaks.

Mt. Ebott stands before us like a scar on the earth. Jagged black rock. Smoke curling upward from its ridged throat. The peak glows faint red, like a warning.

“This,” Dust mutters, “is the part where we go to hell, huh?”

Nightmare steps forward. “There’s an entrance path on the far side of the ridge. Once we cross the lava trenches, we’ll—”

A sound interrupts him.

A growl.

Low. Wet. Inhuman.

We freeze.

The trees behind us rustle violently. Blue spins around, arrow already notched. Killer steps closer to Nightmare. Horror unslings his axe.

Another growl. Closer.

The earth beneath us vibrates. A deep, rumbling purr, like something enormous breathing.

“They weren’t supposed to notice us yet,” Nightmare hisses, scanning the dark tree line.

"I thought they’d be dormant!" Blue shrieks.

The trees explode outward.

Something massive barrels from the forest edge—black and red, twisted, lava-glowing veins etched into its fur, eyes like pits of flame.

A Hellhound.

No—three Hellhounds.

“RUN!” Ink yells.

The air ignites behind us as one of the hounds lets loose a breath of fire.

I grab Ink by the wrist.

Magic sparks at my fingertips. I don’t even think. I cast.

I'm a second too late.

One of the Hellhounds is mid-air, mouth wide.

—and everything goes black.

Chapter Text

{ ERROR'S POV }

One of the Hellhounds is mid-air, mouth wide.

I drop backward, dragging Ink with me. He curls into himself, hands clamped over his head, but I throw my body over his—shielding him.

The world goes black for a heartbeat. Not from a blackout.

Shadow Spears.

The magical spell bursts from the ground like reality is being punctured. A sound like cracking bones and metal tearing rips through the air. The Hellhound doesn't stand a chance—one of the spikes pass through its lava-like flesh, tearing it in half. It screams, deafening, though it only lasts five seconds before the dog dies.

I stare at the black things in front of me. Obsidian spikes made of shadows swirling erratically like a drill. Unconstrained. Raw. This is... Magic.

A Sorcerer's magic.

I look at my right side, where Nightmare stands. His hand is stretched towards the deformed dog. He gives me a nod and a small smile, then—he turns around and bark orders.

The party scrambles into motion, awkward but responsive.

Dust is gone—vanished without warning, as rogues do. Killer dives straight for the weak spots, sliding and spinning like he’s been waiting years for this fight. He stares, analyzes, and throws a knife suddenly. It hits the middle of the smallest dog's head—It drops dead.

"One's already down." He says with a smile.

Blue’s arrows slam into the hounds’ rib-side gill-slits—the fastest way to bleed them out. Horror hacks through the front line like a living storm, killing dog after dog with strength display. Nightmare stays near the rear, teleporting whenever a beast gets too close, voice cutting through the chaos with sharp orders.

We're good—clearly amateurs—but good.

My vision snaps into focus just in time to see everything. I groan and roll around, pushing myself up on shaky arms.

“Ink—hey—” I shake him. “Move, come on.”

He blinks at me, dazed. Smoke and shadows dance in his mismatched irises—brown and blue. He’s not hurt, but he’s not here either. Just staring—somewhere past me. Beyond me.

Great. He went into shock.

“Ink!” I shout.

Nothing.

Another howl pierces the air. Dust appears in my peripheral vision, slipping between shadows like water between fingers. He leaps from one tree root to another and slashes a Hellhound’s hindleg. It howls, then reels toward him—only to be met by Horror, who tackles it mid-turn like a battering ram.

Steel hits bone.

The crack echoes.

That was too close to where me and Ink are. We need to move. Now.

“Ink,” I say again, this time quieter, closer. “You’re safe. But we’re in the middle of a fight. I need you.”

Something in his shoulders tenses. Then—

"They'll kill me," he mutters, over and over.

I frown. "No one will kill you."

A Hellhound growl somewhere behind. That's all Ink needs to panic some more. Blue shoots that Hellhound in the middle of its face. Another replaces it, pouncing on us—but Nightmare finishes the dog by freezing it to death before it can get us. The chill of the spell ends up frosting the ground as well.

"I... I have been here before. They almost... I almost." Ink gulps, eyes hazy. "I don't wanna die."

And after that, Ink's words delve into blabbering. Nonsense. Clearly a trauma response—even I can see that.

I said I would protect him—it's time to keep my word on it.

“Stay behind me,” I say—not waiting for a response—rising to my feet and turning toward the field.

The battlefield is chaos.

Nightmare is at the far end—a straight diagonal line from where I am, on my right—his hand raises with another spell forming at his fingertips. His lips barely move when he chant. A Hellhound lunges—he teleports instantly, reappearing behind it, blasting it with a shock of violet and black colored magic.

Another Hound to my left breaks into a run—straight for me.

"Don't let any hound get near those two!" Nightmare shouts while pointing to where I am with Ink.

Blue acts as soon as he notices it. He releases one arrow, then another—thwip, thwip—both sink into the hound's shoulder and chest. It stumbles, snarling. He draws a third—trips over a corpse behind him—and the arrow skews wide.

"My bad!" Dust shouts.

The Hound in front of Blue takes the opportunity, and threatens to attack. Blue ducks under a swinging claw, dives, rolls, and—

Killer zero in on the Beast and slices its throat—appearing from stars knows where. He grins, turns around, and targets another Hound. Blue just huffs, as if he knew that would happen, but still dislikes the fact.

“Out of arrows!” he yells, immediately taking out a weird blade the size of a pen and going melee.

How can he do that even by being a Ranged class? No idea.

“Seriously? Already?!” Killer barks, flipping through the air and landing on the back of the Hound Blue just dodged. His knives goes inside the Beast's neck spine with a sickening crunch. The Hellhound falls to the ground like a ragged doll: lifeless.

"Well, someone made me lose my last shot!" Blue hiss.

“Ask Ink for more!” Dust adds quickly, sliding on the ground to take one of the dogs off balance before disappearing into the trees again.

Horror finishes that dog as soon as it falls down.

That's when I hear Nightmare saying "Ink is unavailable right now."

That seems to attract attention to our position—again. A smaller dog pass Horror and come straight to me.

I remember that Nightmare once told me most mages see spells as words. But he don't. He sees them as feelings—intentions. Wizards like me need to learn the spells first—understand the glyphs—but once we do, they hit harder than anything a Sorcerer can make. There are subclass differences between us, but I can still cast like he does if I find the right intention. I hold onto that.

Focus.

I click my mouth shut, and concentrate. I didn't had enough time to study enough spells, but I memorized some options.

It'll have to do.

The words snap back to my mind, and I release a nervous breath. Determination fills me up, along with the call of my mana.

Confidence. I can do this. I’ve done it before—I think. 

Without me needing to chant, the spell forms—a ball of light-blue electricity—and I hurl it like a javelin. It strikes the Hellhound mid-charge, sending it skidding back across the soil with a yelp, fur singed and cracking with Lightning.

Yes! It worked!

I look down at my hand. No backfire. No burst of pain. Just the faint, almost pleasant tingle of mana spent. I look at Nightmare, and notice his eyes softening with pride. But soon, he's back to casting, and giving cover to the others whenever they need.

And me? I divert my attention. Afterall, my duty right now is not with the battlefield, but with him. Besides, the others will protect us.

I trust them.

I glance at Ink. He’s still crouched down—but watching me now. Breathing hard. His eyes flick between the fighting—more stable now—as if he's calculating something.

“Ink,” I call. “If you can move, we could use your help now. Your bombs, arrows, potions—anything!"

He blinks again—then, slowly, raises his hand. He exhales shakily, as if he is just now returning to his senses. A flicker of darkness ripples from his palm. The air warps. The sound of dripping ink fills the space between seconds.

It's the Inventory Skill.

The space rift opens in the air like an oil stain. Silent, but eerie. I don’t see the contents—only he does—but I see the result: potions, vials, and a few small weapon pouches fall out and hit the dirt around him.

Then, without a word, he picks up a bundle of arrows and hurls them towards Blue. They land at the Ranger’s feet, perfectly balanced.

Blue whistles, going back to long-range style as soon as he grabs the extra arrows. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“Argh... Guys—” Killer hisses, staggering backward, blood trailing from a tear in his coat. “Anyone got a—”

Ink doesn’t look his way. Just lifts his hand again and tosses a green vial in his direction. It's obviously a healing potion—low grade, since there are no higher options available on Floor 1.

Killer catches it without looking, pops the cork with his teeth, and downs it mid-run. His injury heals up completely.

“You're a gift, buddy!”

Ink still says nothing.

But he's moving now. Shaking. Pale. But moving.

We can work with this now. Figure out what happened later.

Another hound breaks through the tree line. Huge. Twice the size of the others. Its mouth glows like a furnace, molten drool steaming down its jowls.

Dust appears from the shadows and slashes its face. Killer throws a knife straight to a vein. It hinders it. But—

It doesn’t go down.

That's when Nightmare finishes the job—his voice low, but sharp:

“Ice Strike.”

That's how he casts, apparently. Easy spells don't even need any casting from him, just hand movements. Mid-level and higher need some speech, but Nightmare have memorized the words so well he barely needs to chant—just saying the spell's name is enough. A scary ability that also explains why Nightmare is the most controlled Sorcerer to exist—or so say the rumors around the Safe Zone.

One second after, a lance of ice slams down through the beast’s skull.

Dead.

Quiet. Panting. Heat. Smoke.

Silence.

The giant Hellhound’s corpse slumps to the ground with a wet, steaming thud. We don’t get time to breathe. The trees tremble—then split apart.

Two more of the bigger ones. Moving faster.

“Fall back!” Nightmare shouts, already weaving another spell.

We don’t. We can’t. The beasts close the distance in heartbeats.

One lunges for Horror. He meets it head-on, axe biting deep, but the thing barely flinches before raking its claws across his chest plate. He grunts—more anger than pain—and shoves it back. 

The second is coming for me and Ink. I throw another lightning javelin—too slow. It leaps, shadow blotting out the sky.

And that’s when Ink moves.

It’s not flashy.

Ink doesn’t throw fire or lightning. He doesn’t summon blades from shadows or pierce skulls with magic. He just—moves. His hand snaps forward, and three glass spheres arc through the air, trailing colorful smoke. The Hellhound lands where I’d been a half-second ago, claws gouging the dirt—

—and the spheres shatter.

A hiss erupts. The air between us turns into a choking black fog that makes my eyes burn. The Hellhound coughs—actually coughs—and jerks back, pawing at its face as if the smoke is eating it alive.

“Corrosive,” Ink mutters. “Don’t breathe in too much.”

The others don’t need telling twice.

From the black puddle, Ink takes out what looks to be a permanent marker. Then, he grabs a random pebble from the ground, and writes a curly rune on it. Ink throws the pebble on one of the Hounds. It hits.

BOOM.

The pebble explodes in a colorful slime, and the Hound ends up stuck on the ground. I finish that one with a lighting shock, frying it from the inside out.

Ink throws a smoke bomb next. From the haze, a rope of black silk—no, that’s thread—lashes out and hooks around the Hellhound’s back leg. Ink yanks hard. The thing stumbles, disorientated, and that’s all Dust needs to leap onto its back and drive a dagger into its heart.

“Nice!” Dust grins, springing off before the body hits the dirt.

Another massive Hound charges from the flank—Blue’s arrows don’t slow it. Ink whips something else from his skill: a bottle the size of his palm. He throws it underhand, almost lazy—until it hits the ground and detonates in a flash of white.

The hound freezes mid-step, steam rising from where its paws meet the earth. It tries to move—and its legs shatter at the joints. Ice. That was ice.

“Keep it up!” Nightmare calls, weaving another spell into existence.

Ink nods once, already fishing out a different bottle, muttering ingredients under his breath while he prepares the mix. His hands are still trembling, but they don’t stop.

One by one, the Beasts go down—not because we’ve suddenly become better fighters, or more coordinated, but because Ink is choking them, freezing them, slowing them, making them easier targets. Every throw is calculated. Every concoction, exactly what we need in the moment.

By the time the last hound falls, the clearing is littered with steaming corpses, cracked earth and the smell of metal, smoke, and acid. My lungs burn.

"We won." Huffs Horror.

Yeah, we really won.

A pause—minutes.

The adrenaline fades in uneven waves. Everyone gathers without being told to. Even Dust steps out of the shadows, brushing leaves off his shoulders. Killer slumps to the ground as if his legs stopped working—but he's still grinning. Horror grunts, leaning on his axe. Blue starts retrieving some arrows from the corpses around us. Nightmare is looking at Ink, who is still shaking at my left side.

Killer’s the first to speak, wiping blood from his knife. “Okay, seriously—what the hell happened back there? One minute you’re catatonic, the next you’re out here playing mad scientist.”

Ink doesn’t look at him. He just stares at the ground.

Blue tilts his head. “Nightmare said you were ‘unavailable.’ Didn’t think he meant it literally."

“Enough,” Nightmare says. Not sharp—just firm. His eyes are on Ink, who still hasn’t moved. “Ink, can you tell us what happened?”

Ink swallows.

“I’ve been here before,” he says quietly. “Mt. Ebott. Just...with another party.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “When I entered this game, I fell here...near Mt. Ebott. That party found me." He chuckles humorlessly. "I didn't knew better—so I followed them inside the volcano. Those people... The Hounds tore through them like paper.”

No one says anything.

“I was the only one who made it out.” His voice cracks—just once. “I ran. But I don't remember much of it. Just...one time, I was running, and then... Everything was gone.” He opens his eyes, and they’re glassy. “So yeah, I froze. I remembered everything. But—” His jaw tightens. “it won't happen again. I’m not running this time.”

Nightmare studies him for a long moment. “Are you sure you want to keep going? You’re shaking.”

Ink breathes in. Out. His fingers twitch towards his scarf. “I want to keep going. I have to.”

Something in Nightmare’s expression eases. Just barely. “Alright.”

He sighs, then—

"Good news is: we won. And the bad news is: we're still lacking." Nightmare's eyes harden. "Everyone here is competent on their own, but we're not fighting as a team."

Killer clicks his tongue. "Well, duh—you didn't gave us time to prepare so of course we're—"

Words die. Mouth clicks shut. Nightmare is glaring at him.

No one dare interrupt our leader after that.

Nightmare points at Horror. "You're strong. Reliable. But maybe too reliable. You need to trust your teammates more, and not throw yourself at danger on every turn."

Then, at Killer. "Unnecessary acrobatics and flashiness. This is a survival fight, not a theater performance."

Their heads drop low after that.

"Blue, count how many arrows you have next time so you can prepare alternatives before you've run out of them. You can go melee, sure. But you're more skilled long-range. We don't need average, we need you at your best. And if you'll keep working with limited ammo—act as such." Blue makes a face after the reprimand, and apologizes.

"Dust," Nightmare starts, making the Rogue stand at attention. "Warn us of your strategy before you disappear to who knows where. You're not just silent to your enemies, but to your teammates as well. That almost cost Blue's life."

"Sorry." Dust says, more to Blue than to Nightmare.

"It's alright." The Ranger replies quietly. 

That's when Nightmare stops dead on his analysis and correction of our synergy. Looks at me and Ink. Frown. And slowly sigh.

"I can't do much yet." I say before he can.

Nightmare nods. "I know. But...my previous advice is still up: if you're unsure, read the spellbook I gave you. Silent casting is optional. You don't need to imitate me. Getting the job done is more important."

"Noted."

Nightmare hums, eyeing me as if he's unsure of what to do. His mind is working a mile a minute by the way his foot is repeatedly clicking on the ground.

I pretend not to notice.

"Do you feel like you still have enough mana?"

"I'm not sure..." I mutter. "But I haven't used many spells, so... I think I'm fine."

That's when Killer cuts in. "What about you, Moonlight? Are your mana reserves alright? I mean... don't Sorcerers burn mana faster than Wizards?"

"He's right. You've been using quite a lot of spells..." Dust adds.

"I will be fine for a while. I still have plenty to spare. I don't waste mana like most Sorcerers do." Nightmare, then, turns to Ink—and soften. "And you? Are you really sure you're alright? If you don't want to keep going, we'll understand."

"I wanna go." Ink shakes his head. "I can't let my fear stop me. I... I won't freeze up again."

Silence.

Worried stares and unsure gazes are passed around the group. Nightmare sighs, exhausted. He looks at me as if asking "will you take care of him again?" And I can only answer with a confident nod.

"Then... That's settled. Let's go."

Nightmare goes in first, and we all follow—straight to Mt. Ebott.

Not ready. Not coordinated—or the best. But determinated.

And that's all we need.

Mt. Ebott gets bigger, and the air gets hotter as we approach the volcano. The trees thin, replaced by jagged black rock. Ahead, the ground splits open into a wide, yawning path of molten stone. The entrance to Mt. Ebott looms like a beast’s maw—rivers of lava casting the walls in a sick, red glow.

Inside, the Hounds wait.

And they’re bigger.

If before they were the size of a human, then now they're the size of a truck. And if this pattern keeps up, I'm afraid of how big the boss version of these Beasts will be when we reach it.

We pass hulking hounds—each bigger than the last—until the stone walls shake with their howls. Most we cut down, some we trick to a trap. By the time we reach the deepest chamber, the air scorches my lungs. Lava pools throw hellfire shadows across the walls.

It's getting difficult to see—and breathe.

And there—curled around a bed of cracked obsidian—is the Hellhound Alpha: seven meters of muscle, molten fur, and teeth like molten daggers. This one, though, unlike the others, have a pair of blazing eyes.

The air vibrates with the growl.

We’re not ready for this—I think.

We go in anyway.

The moment our feet is inside the "boss room", the Hellhound Alpha moves. It uncoils from its nest like it’s been waiting for us, claws scraping molten sparks against the charred stone. Reddish eyes stare at us on a blunt, scarred skull with that too-wide mouth opening in a slow, deliberate snarl. Rows of teeth catch the lava light. Its gill-slits flare on its sides, releasing black smoke that makes my throat tighten.

We separate: Horror stands in front now, standing steady. Killer goes somewhere to the left. Dust gives a warning "I'll try to surprise it by the rear" and disappears again. Blue stands to the right, near the wall. Me, Ink and our leader stay close to the middle—near the exit.

Nightmare doesn’t hesitate—“Spear”—and a lance of ice crashes into the Alpha’s flank, freezing some of its skin. It sinks in but doesn’t pierce far enough. The thing barely stumbles before its head whips towards him.

Then it runs.

"Move!" I shove Ink aside. Nightmare blinks away; claws rake molten gouges where we stood. Lava drool hits my boot—burns straight through the leather. I wince from the burn.

It moves in a blur—too fast for its size. Somehow, the Melees can keep up with it. The others struggle more to pinpoint the Beast.

Blue’s arrows rattle off its shoulders uselessly. He curses, switching targets and firing at the ribs instead—one arrow, two, three, all finding the gill-slits. The Alpha's head snaps toward Blue—fast. Too fast.

It reaches the Ranger, jaws wide.

It'll chop Blue's head off—I realize.

Instinct takes over. I slam my palm into the black rock, forcing mana out without a chant. The ground between them jolts with a crack of lightning, just enough to make the beast recoil. My knees nearly buckle from the drain, but Blue’s already clear.

"Thanks, Error!" He runs somewhere else to the far wall, already taking cover between two spikes.

The Alpha roars angrily, shaking its head—and the aftereffects of my magic. Smoke burst out its mouth like a chimney.

It's getting more difficult to breathe.

Killer takes the opening, sprinting up its back like a ladder. His knives comes down—only for the Alpha to twist its neck too far, snapping at its own spine. Killer barely flips away before the jaws close where he’d been.

Horror meets it head-on. Axe raised, he buries the blade right into one of those gills, forcing a scream out of it. But the Alpha doesn’t retreat—it surges forward, slamming into him with its whole body weight.

I hear the crack before I see it.

Horror’s shoved back, boots skidding on hot stone, the axe still in the Alpha’s ribs. He yanks it free, but his left arm hangs lower than it should.

“Injury?” Nightmare calls without looking.

“Yeah,” Horror growls, already swinging again. “Won’t stop me.”

"Everyone, be prepared to cover Horror up!" Nightmare shouts.

Blue barks out. "Roger!"

Killer slides in from the side, shallowly cutting it on the slide. "It got crazy natural defense, guys!" He warns before ghosting up elsewhere.

Dust tries it from bellow, carving a shallow line across its belly—too shallow to matter. But that annoys the boss Beast. I see the Alpha inhale. The gill-slits flare wide.

“Scatter!” Ink yells, pulling me away from danger.

A stream of molten saliva sprays out in a fan. The ground hisses and bubbles where it lands. One drop hits Killer’s coat—he rips it off mid-run before it eats through to his skin, leaving him in a sleeveless shirt.

"I didn't knew it could do that! That's so cool!" Killer says mid-run, giggling. 

Maybe the adrenaline ate up his sanity—I think.

"Killer, fight first and admire later!" Nightmare reprimands, already casting a new spell. This one take longer for him to prepare, but it's still seconds too fast compared to others.

The closed room we're in is gathering more smoke now. We're all coughing at random intervals—sometimes giving away our position. Dust hops out of the Alpha's attack in one of those situations, barely escaping its fury.

Dust coughs again, appearing just behind me. "How can we kill this Beast, when we can't even breathe properly?!"

Lightbulb moment.

"Then, we make it not breath either..." I whisper, getting Dust to look at me curiously.

I take out the spellbook from the attachments on my hips, searching for a specific spell. It takes me some minutes to chant, but the spell form under my fingertips. I'm unsure, since this is not one of my affinities, but it might work.

“...by the fractured stars and the forgotten breath of magic, I bind the path of air and twist the wind within—choke and still until silence claims you!” I finish the chant. "Air Bubble!"

The spell hits the Alpha in the form of a harmless bubble, but it doesn't leave its snout—or any airway available—slowly suffocating it. The Hound scratches at it's face and thrashes around—breaking the walls and the ground in web-like patterns.

I feel my concentration getting tested.

This isn't ideal—but doable.

"I can't move now—not unless I want the spell to undo itself. I can't chant another spell either." The Alpha scratches at the bubble again. I grunt, clicking my tongue. "Wizard problems..."

Dust listens, and moves accordingly, yelling: "Attack it while it's distracted! Focus on the cracks," and disappears again.

Ink also consider my struggle, and is already moving, tossing a glass vial under the Alpha’s front paw. It bursts into sticky black tar that hardens instantly, gluing the beast to the rock.

"Slow it down!" He shouts.

Nightmare doesn’t need to be told twice. His hands move in a blur, magic condensing into jagged icy shards that rain down like a hailstorm—each one striking the bound limb. The Alpha yanks free, but not before the leg buckles under its own weight.

It’s slower now.

That doesn’t make it any weaker.

It swings a paw and sends Dust flying into a wall. He vanishes into the shadows before hitting the ground, but he’s slower reappearing this time.

"Be careful when getting too close to the Alpha. We don't need more injuries!" Nightmare hisses.

We keep chipping away. Ink starts writing runes on his bombs, giving them weird—but effective—effects. Blue’s arrows start punching deeper now that the armor-thick hide is cracking. Killer dives in whenever it falters, cracking its injuries wider. Horror—injured arm and all—keeps the Alpha’s focus on him with brutal, wild swings.

But the thing just won’t die.

Then Nightmare’s voice cuts through the chaos—calm, absolute:

“Hold it still. I need time!” he says before starting to cast.

We converge. Horror hooks his axe into the Alpha’s ribs and wrenches hard. Killer dives for its hindleg, blades severing several places. Blue’s arrows bury deep into its flank. Dust take out some weird needles, blinding the Alpha's eyes. Ink’s tar locks its legs in place.

It thrashes, howling—

The Alpha is brought close to the ground. Horror is using more force than what a normal human should be able to—perks of being a Tank. Ink is writing a very complicated rune on the Beast's side with the marker. When he finishes, it glows blue. Gravity starts pulling it down—hard—making it more difficult for the dog to escape.

Its wheezing from lack of air.

Nightmare steps forward, hands out. He finished the spell. The air folds inward, a black tide rushing to a single point.

“Space Collapse.”

The Alpha’s skull implodes with a sound like shattering stone..

The cavern goes quiet.

I exhale deeply, feeling drained out. Horror’s leaning on his axe now, sweat dripping, his arm still hanging wrong. Killer’s coat is half-melted on the ground, and his shirt has a slash on his side. Dust is limping. Blue’s fletching is scorched black. Ink’s shaking hard, but he’s still holding a bomb, like he’s not convinced the fight’s over—and with the System in Observation Mode, it's difficult to know if the boss is really dead without a confirmation message.

Silence.

Just ragged breaths.

"We're alive?" I ask, incredulous.

"Yes. We won." The Sorcerer smiles.

"Did we really kill it?" Dust asks, limping closer to us.

"Seems like it." Blue says, coughing a bit.

That's when I see it: Killer practically vibrating. He stares the Hellhound Alpha, looks around—excitedly—squeals, and then, opens his mouth:

"Did you see it? It spit out lava like a dragon! That was so fucking cool! Like... Who would've thought? I thought the dogs were all running and biting, but lava breath? Amazing!" He squeaks. "And did you see its size? It's huge! I got on its back and everyone looked like ants!"

Ah, right. Side effect of Killer high on adrenaline—I forgot.

Killer keeps blabbering about the "Hellhound's design", though—as if that's something to celebrate. Until Nightmare interrupts:

"Alright, let's find the key."

Killer quiets down, but his mouth is still moving in silent appreciation of the previous fight. And with that settled, we walk, leaving the Alpha’s corpse steaming behind us.

We move deeper into the volcano.

But, we don't get far.

“The key’s not there,” Ink’s voice cuts through. We all turn. He’s standing by the Alpha’s head, pointing. “It’s here.”

Nightmare’s eyes sharpen. “Where?”

“In the skull.”

We follow him closer. There, lodged in the Alpha’s brow above one eye, is a small, glossy black stone—an obsidian. To me, it looks like part of the Beast's skin. Maybe hardened fur—but I keep quiet.

“Looks like a rock,” Blue says flatly.

“Embellishment,” Horror grunts.

“It’s the key,” Ink insists. His voice is steady now, conviction replacing tremors.

"How do you know that?" Horrors asks. "The System is not announcing anything."

"It doesn't need to. Utilitarians are the only ones who can tell the difference between a real Item, and a mimic. It's a class-specific Skill: Identify. I'm one hundred percent sure: this is the key."

Nightmare studies him. Killer glances between them, then shrugs. “If Ink says it’s the key, it’s the key.”

I nod without thinking.

Dust crosses his arms. “And if it’s just a rock?”

“Then you can mock me later,” Ink says, stepping forward.

Nightmare gestures. “Take it.”

Ink reaches up, fingers closing around the stone—

—and the air ripples. The stone pulses orange once, then turns cold in his hand. A white pattern—a rune—appears on it.

That's when I realize it:

We got the key.

But with that victory, a question invades my mind: how many "keys" will we have to find before we can leave this sick game?