prologue

Clara did not sneak. Sneaking implied shame. There would be no hint of shame. On this night she was doing the Lord’s work.

​This moment was the culmination of centuries of patience. Empires had risen and fallen while she waited, yet she regretted not a single second. Her Lord had granted her extended life, not as a gift, but as a necessity for his favored consort. Now, that investment would finally pay dividends.

​She moved through the vault of the Silent Order with the lethal grace of a woman who had memorized the blueprints a lifetime ago. Her crimson and ebony armor gleamed in the flickering magelight.

​"Hurry," she hissed to her subordinates. "The Silent Ones are slow, not deaf."

​Around her, cultists of the Lucasian Temple scrambled, smashing glass cases and stuffing artifacts into bags of holding. They weren't just stealing gold; they were stealing history. They were reclaiming what the Order had buried in the dark.

​Clara stopped before a massive central pedestal. Resting atop it was a jagged, crystalline prison. Inside, a dark, swirling smoke pulsed with a heartbeat of pure chaos.

​Nethyua. Her Lord. Bound, but alive.

​"I have you," Clara whispered, her hand trembling as she reached out.

​The moment her skin touched the crystal, the world screamed. Wards flared red, and the air pressure dropped so sharply her ears popped. The crystal broke; it disintegrated. A coalescing shape began to take form from the smoke. Horns, flames, ash and a malice old as time.

​Her Lord had returned.

​She dropped to a knee, head bowed. "My Lord," she choked out, holding back tears of religious ecstasy.

​A hand, comprised of smoke and cooling magma, cupped her chin.

​"You kept your vow," Nethyua’s voice rasped, sounding like grinding stones. "You have done well."

​"Intruders!" a voice boomed from the entrance.

​The heavy iron doors blew inward. Silent Order Paladins flooded the chamber, weapons glowing with holy light. The thunderous rhythm of armored reinforcements echoed down the corridor.

​"We must go!" Clara shouted, hurling a sphere of necrotic fire to buy them seconds.

​Nethyua paused. His form flickered, unstable. The centuries of sealing had left him drained; he was a god running on fumes. He looked at the charging Paladins. He could slay many, yes. But he would likely be overwhelmed and sealed again.

​His gaze shifted to the hundreds of other pedestals in the vault—other demons, cursed weapons, and bound gods the Order had collected.

​A devious thought curled through his mind. The Silent Order believed they were the jailers of the world. They had spent millennia being a thorn in his side.

​Why not return the favor?

​"If I cannot rule this world today," Nethyua sneered, "neither will you."

​He didn't aim at the Paladins. He aimed at the vault itself.

​Gathering the last of his strength, he let out a wave of chaotic, fiery energy.  Portals ripped open all over the room—wild, unrefined tears in reality.

​"Disperse," Nethyua commanded.

​Artifacts were sucked into the voids, teleported to random corners of the globe. A cursed sword to a bandit camp. A demon to a noble's court. Chaos, sown across the world in a single heartbeat.

​A spear of concentrated sunlight erupted from the Paladin line, aimed directly at Clara’s exposed back.

​She braced for death, but it never came.

​Nethyua moved with a speed that defied his weakened state. He stepped between her and the light, his shadow form absorbing the holy fire with a hiss of agony. He grunted, smoke pouring from his shoulder, but he did not step aside. He would not lose his investment so soon.

​"Hold on," he growled.

​Shadows wrapped around them, and they dissolved into darkness just as the Paladins’ next volley scorched the spot where they had stood.

​Somewhere Else

​Thousands of miles away, deep within the twisted canopy of the Weeping Pine Forest, the air rippled.

​A tear in reality opened. Sickly green and sounding like a cathedral bell cracking. It spat out a single object.

​It hit the mud with a dull thud. It wasn't a demon like Nethyua. It was something older. Something colder.

​A simple band of black obsidian, pulsing with a faint violet glow.

​The Ring lay in the dirt, its consciousness recalibrating from the forced teleportation. It reached out, its senses expanding. It felt the damp earth. It felt the primitive wildlife.

​And then, it felt a signal.

​A mind. Structured. Logical. Stubborn.

​It was a stream of  thought bleeding through the thin veil of reality.

It checked all the boxes on the list.

​Resonance.

​The Ring did not ask for permission. It locked onto the signal.

​It pulled. 

Chapter One

The sound of iron punishing iron echoed through the empty gym. There was not a soul around but him. Sweat glistened against his dark skin, running in rivulets down his face.

"Last set."

Siurad rose from the bench. Standing at six-foot-four, he cast a long shadow over the rack of dumbbells. He was a mountain of a man, his muscles still tight from a twelve-hour shift bouncing drunks out of the local club.

He snatched a towel, wiping his face and pulling his thick dreadlocks back from his forehead. Staring at his reflection in the mirror—broad shoulders, dark eyes, and locs that reached past his collarbones—he didn't smile. For Siurad, the gym wasn't a hobby; it was maintenance. His real life—the one that actually mattered—was waiting at home.

Hooking his gym bag over one shoulder, he headed for the door. It was time to log in.

Siurad landed in his gaming chair with a heavy creak of protesting leather. The blue light from the monitor illuminated his small, quiet apartment. He cracked open a beer, the hiss of the tab the only sound in the room, and booted up his sanctuary.

Cassalia: Whispers of the Void.

He was deep into yet another playthrough, having poured thousands of hours into a build specializing entirely in the forbidden schools of Death and Shadow magic. The game's lore described it as "an echo of a slumbering, chained god.” Because level progression was gruelingly slow, most players avoided the class entirely. To Siurad, it was just another challenge to dismantle.

He had defeated this particular Lich in dozens of iterations. In one run, he was a brawler crushing bone with ebony gauntlets; in another, a paladin raining holy fire. But none brought him the satisfaction of Shadow magic. He didn't know why, but it resonated with him—an intricate synergy between spells, a perfect mix of pragmatism and reckless experimentation.

The Arch-Lich Morthos stood before him, a terrifying skeletal wizard that had crushed a thousand parties. To Siurad, it was just another health bar.

"One more blast ought to do it."

His fingers danced across the keys. A devastating shadow spell struck the Lich, shattering its bones into pixelated dust.

Farewell, Morthos, he thought, watching the last tick of health bleed away. You were a worthy opponent.

"Sit down," Siurad muttered, taking a sip of beer. "Now, show me the goods. RNG, don't fail me now. Daddy needs those bracers."

But the loot drop wasn't normal. There were no bracers. Instead, a black chest materialized over the corpse, glimmering with a violent, glitching violet aura.

"That... isn't normal," Siurad whispered, leaning in. "New patch?"

He hadn't read anything about new drops, but loot was loot. You never turned it down. He clicked the chest.

It didn't open. It exploded.

A blinding violet light radiated from the screen; it reached out. It felt physical and heavy, extending like a hand. Before he could push his chair back, the light swallowed the room.

Then the light vanished, instantly replaced by a sensation of absolute zero. It was a piercing cold, like diving naked into a frozen river, bypassing his skin and stabbing straight into his chest.

The fear hit him then—tangible, heavy in his gut. He scrambled up from his chair, intent on running, fighting, doing something.

It was too late.

A sound like a lightning strike reverberated through the apartment, shattering the windows. Black tendrils of smoke coalesced around his arms and legs, binding him. His monitor exploded in a shower of sparks as a tearing wound in reality opened beneath his feet.

The last thing he saw was the floor rushing up to meet him. Then, total darkness.

He awoke face-first in the mud.

The smell hit him first: wet earth and pine needles. A biting wind gnawed at his exposed neck. Groaning, Siurad pushed himself up, wiping muck from his eyes. His dreads were heavy, clinging to his face.

He wasn't in his apartment. He was in a forest. Endless rows of ancient, weeping pine trees stretched out in every direction, shrouded in mist.

"Where the hell..."

A sudden, rhythmic pulsing throbbed against his hand. He looked down.

A simple band of black obsidian rested on his right ring finger, pulsing with a faint violet light against his dark skin. He had never worn a ring in his life. Fumbling, he grabbed it with his left hand and pulled. It wouldn't budge. It felt fused to his finger, as if anchored to the bone. He pulled harder, skin bruising. Nothing.

"The fuck is this?"

He lurched between the disorienting blur of his surroundings and the strange piece of jewelry that seemed to have grown into his skin.

His cyclical panic was cut violently short. A new sensation bloomed—a cold, vast, and impossibly ancient intelligence uncoiling inside his own mind.

'...FINALLY. A SUITABLE VESSEL.'

Siurad scrambled backward, boots slipping in the mud, clutching his head.

"What? Who's there? Am I possessed?" The thoughts collided in a panicked pileup.

'...YOUR QUESTIONS ARE CHAOTIC. THEY ARE IRRELEVANT,' the voice stated, its cold power settling over his mind like a heavy shroud. '...OUR PACT IS SEALED.'

"Get out of my head!" Siurad yelled, clawing at his ears. He stared at the ring; the obsidian throbbed in perfect time with the voice. "I'm dreaming. I fell asleep at the desk. Wake up, Siurad. Wake up!"

He slapped himself in the face. Hard. It stung, leaving a hot welt on his cheek, but the misty forest didn't dissolve into pixels.

'...YOU ARE NOT DREAMING. YOU ARE RELOCATED.'

"Relocated where?" Siurad barked, a frantic edge bleeding into his voice. "I was in my apartment!"

'...THE GREAT WORK MUST CONTINUE,' the voice droned on, ignoring him entirely. '...TIME HAS BEEN WASTED. MILLENNIA OF STAGNATION. WE MUST BEGIN THE UNBINDING.'

"Get the hell out of my head," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Are you going to take my soul?"

He felt a sensation wash over the entity's presence. It felt like amusement—but a cold, humorless kind.

'...THE SOUL IS A CONSTRUCT. A CHAOTIC VARIABLE. I DO NOT TAKE VESSEL. I UTILIZE.' The voice was sharp, corrective. '...THE RING ON YOUR HAND IS A PRISON OF MY POWER. IT IS YOUR FOCUS. IT IS MY SHACKLE. STAND, VESSEL. WE HAVE WORK TO DO.'

"I don't know what you're talking about! I'm a security guard. I pay rent! I don't do 'Great Works'!"

The pulsing in the ring stopped. The silence that followed was suffocatingly judgmental.

'...YOUR DENIAL IS TEDIOUS.'

The volume dial in Siurad’s head instantly cranked from a manageable five to a deafening eleven.

'...LISTEN TO ME.'

The words weren't just sound; they were physical pressure. Siurad gasped, dropping to his knees in the mud. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the voice bypassed his eardrums, detonating directly inside his auditory cortex. It felt like his skull was fracturing.

"Stop! Stop it!" Siurad screamed, curling into a ball in the dirt.

'...FEAR IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE SOLUTION,' the Entity boomed, rattling Siurad’s teeth in his jaw. '...PANIC IS ILLOGICAL. CEASE.'

"Okay! Okay!" Siurad groaned, his forehead pressed into the wet earth. "I'm listening! Just shut it off!"

The pressure vanished, leaving behind a high-pitched ringing. Siurad panted, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wiped mud from his mouth, staring at the ring with a sickening mix of terror and awe.

He didn't move. He didn't dare. "What... what are you?"

'...WHAT I AM IS ORDER. WHAT YOU ARE IS CHAOS.'

"Look," Siurad panted, defiance flaring despite the lingering ache in his skull. "If you kill me now, whatever your plan is fails. I'm not setting loose some world-ending demon. Not today."

'...I HAVE SUMMONED YOU BECAUSE YOU POSSESS THE NECESSARY RESONANCE. YOUR MIND UNDERSTANDS.'

"The Void?" Siurad whispered, his voice hoarse. "Like... the game?"

'...THIS IS NOT A GAME,' the Entity snapped. '...I AM BOUND TO THIS ARTIFACT. THIS IS THE AUTHORITY. THE GREAT WORK. THE FINAL STRUCTURE. THE WORLD AS IT SHOULD BE. A REFUGE FROM THE FLAW.'

The mud, the cold wind, the scent of pine—it was all deleted.

Siurad was suspended in a void, weightless.

'...BEHOLD,' the voice pulsed, vibrating against his skull like a heavy bass line. '...THE DESIGN.'

A reality bloomed before him, carrying the distinct, sepia-toned weight of a memory. He was floating above a metropolis carved from endless, seamless night. It was a city of pure obsidian, rising like a jagged mountain of black glass. There was no mortar between the bricks, no uneven cobblestones, no erratic, winding alleys.

It was Geometry Divine.

Massive spires pierced a violet sky that held no sun, only a soft, omnipresent glow. The architecture was aggressive in its perfection—sharp angles, absolute symmetry, surfaces so polished they reflected eternity.

'...THIS IS THE AUTHORITY,' the voice rumbled, the pauses ticking like a cosmic clock. '...STRUCTURE WITHOUT EROSION. STONE WITHOUT DECAY.'

The vision swept toward the highest balcony of the central citadel. Two figures stood there, looking out over the perfect world they had built. On the left stood a man made of sharp angles and pale skin: the Architect. He held a ledger, his ink-stained fingers tracing the lines of the city below, checking the math of existence.

Beside him stood a woman in terrifying black plate armor, her eyes glowing with violet fire: the General. She didn't look at the city; she watched the horizon, daring the chaos to approach.

They stood shoulder to shoulder. The logic and the force. The blueprint and the sword.

'...THE MIND,' the Entity pulsed, a wave of cold nostalgia washing over Siurad, '...AND THE HEART. THEY WERE THE PILLARS. A PERFECT, CLOSED LOOP.'

The image flickered. The two figures dissolved into smoke and ash. The balcony stood empty for a heartbeat.

Then, a new figure stepped forward. It was Siurad.

He saw himself clad in that same light-absorbing armor, a heavy cloak billowing in the wind. He wasn't a bouncer anymore. He wasn't a gamer killing time. He was a shepherd of order, standing at the helm of a machine that ran forever.

'...THEY ARE GONE,' the voice stated, the nostalgia hardening into a demanding, ancient rage. '...THEY FAILED. NOW THERE IS ONLY YOU. THE VESSEL. THE HEIR.'

The obsidian city fractured like a broken mirror, violently replaced by a gritty view of his own reality. Siurad saw his apartment, but he was viewing it through the Entity’s merciless lens. It wasn't home. It was a Cell of Chaos.

He saw the dirty laundry piled in the corner. '...INEFFICIENT RESOURCE ALLOCATION.'

He saw the stack of overdue bills. '...SYSTEMIC FAILURE.'

He saw himself, sitting in the dark, bathed in the blue light of a monitor. '...A VESSEL WASTING POTENTIAL ON A SIMULATION.'

The Entity ripped through Siurad’s memories with surgical cruelty. It showed him the job applications he never sent because he feared rejection. It showed him the nights spent doom-scrolling, paralyzed by the infinite, screaming choices of the modern world. It showed him the profound loneliness he buried under 100% completion runs.

'...YOU SUFFER,' the Entity stated. It wasn't an accusation; it was a diagnosis. '...YOU EXIST IN A SYSTEM OF ENTROPY. YOU FEAR THE CHAOS, AND YET YOU DROWN IN IT.'

The vision swirled. The image of Siurad on the balcony returned, superimposed over his cramped, pathetic apartment. It was a promise of absolute control.

'...I DO NOT ONLY OFFER POWER, VESSEL,' the voice deepened, sinking its hooks into that dark, quiet part of Siurad that just wanted things to be simple. '...I OFFER THE SOLUTION. I OFFER THE END OF THE NOISE. HELP ME REBUILD, AND YOU WILL NEVER BE HELPLESS AGAIN.'

The vision evaporated.

Siurad slammed back into his physical body, gasping for air, his hands clutching the wet roots of the weeping pine. The silence of the forest felt deafening compared to the humming perfection of the city he had just seen.

He was terrified. The Entity was a tyrant—that was obvious. But for a split second, the idea of a world where nothing ever went wrong... it sounded exactly like salvation.

'...THE FLAW IS PAIN,' the voice said, receding to a cold weight in the back of his skull. '...WE WILL CORRECT IT. WE WILL REBUILD. THE AUTHORITY WAS BROKEN FROM WITHIN, BUT MY WILL REMAINS BOUND TO THIS ORNAMENT. YOU HAVE ANSWERED THE CALL. YOU WILL BE MY HAND. MY HEIR.'

Siurad looked down at his trembling hands. His dark skin was smeared with mud, the black ring pulsing with a faint, internal chill. "I can't," he whispered. "I'm... I'm not capable of this."

'...YOU ARE STRUCTURED. LOGICAL. A MASTER OF SYSTEMS. YOU UNDERSTAND THE SHADOWS. YOU ARE ENOUGH.'

You are enough. The phrase hung in his mind, a seductive whisper. It resonated with a deep, hidden part of him that craved validation, a brutal counterpoint to a lifetime of self-doubt. The Entity's "sales pitch" was over. The thunderous presence retracted, shrinking to a constant, observing weight. It wasn't gone. It was just watching.

'...YOUR PANIC IS CHAOS,' the Entity stated, sounding like a professor disappointed in a promising student. '...IT IS INEFFICIENT. WE WILL FIX IT. THE PACT IS SEALED. LEARN. GROW. OBEY.'

Siurad stood alone in the alien woods. He was lost, freezing, and fundamentally bound to a cosmic dictator.

"Obey?" Siurad muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He wiped the mud from his jeans, his jaw tightening. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm no one's slave. If we're doing this, we set ground rules."

He touched the cold obsidian band with his thumb. There was no escape; the limited options lay stark before him. A world without suffering. A world of perfect, unyielding order.

Besides, he had always been a completionist. He wasn't going to leave a quest line unfinished.

"Okay," Siurad whispered, staring into the misty trees. "What's next?"

He closed his eyes, and the Entity answered.

'...WE WALK.'

Chapter Two

Siurad was many things, but an outdoorsman was not one of them.

The walk was miserable. The forest floor was a sludge of decaying pine needles and freezing mud that sucked at his expensive gym sneakers with every step. The wind cut right through his sweat-dampened tank top, turning his perspiration into a layer of ice against his skin.

Around him, the forest was offensively loud—crickets screaming, branches snapping, and the wet squelch of his own misery. He was cold, he was hungry, and he was pretty sure he had stepped in something that wasn't mud.

The Entity, meanwhile, was not offering comfort. It was offering a critique.

'...THIS PLACE IS UNTIDY.'

The voice boomed in Siurad's skull, vibrating against his molars. It carried the heavy, resonant tone of a cathedral bell tolling deep underground.

'...THE TREES GROW WITHOUT SYMMETRY. THE MUD HAS NO STRUCTURE. IT IS DISGUSTING.'

"It's a forest," Siurad chattered, hugging himself for warmth. "It's nature. Nature is messy."

'...NATURE IS A FLAW,' the Entity corrected, its tone dripping with ancient arrogance. '...IT REQUIRES PAVEMENT.'

Siurad ignored the landscaping advice. He scanned the treeline, his mind instinctively looking for patterns, for paths, for the "optimal route" he would seek out in a game. But there were no glowing arrows here. Just trees.

'...WE REQUIRE ELEVATION,' the voice continued. '...I DO NOT RECOGNIZE THIS FILTH. WE MUST LOCATE THE CITADEL.'

"So," Siurad stammered, ducking under a low-hanging branch that dumped ice water down his neck. "What do I... ch-ch... call you, anyway? If we’re going to be roommates in my head."

The Entity paused. The silence felt heavy, like the air pressure dropping before a storm.

'...I AM THE ANCHOR. I AM THE FINAL WORD. I AM THE WILL THAT BINDS THE—'

"Yeah, that's a mouthful," Siurad interrupted, stepping over a rotting log. "You're an obsidian ring. I'm calling you Obi."

The ring on his finger didn't heat up. It went cold—an instantaneous drop to absolute zero that burned worse than fire against his skin.

'...INSOLENCE.'

The voice dropped an octave, becoming physically dangerous.

'...I AM ENTROPY, VESSEL. YOU DO NOT GIVE ME A PET NAME.'

"It's efficient," Siurad countered, rubbing his freezing hand but standing his ground.

"You like efficiency, right? 'The Will That Binds Whatever' takes four seconds to say. 'Obi' takes one. I'm saving us time."

There was a long, cold silence in his head. Siurad could almost feel the Entity processing the audacity, weighing the insult against the math.

'...INEFFICIENT NOMENCLATURE,' the Entity finally grumbled. '...BUT ACCEPTABLE. FOR NOW.'

"Right. Glad we agree, Obi," Siurad muttered. "Now, look, I'm happy to be your vessel... but this vessel is currently freezing to death. Can your magnificent dark-will do anything about that? Like a magical fire? Or at least spawn me some dry socks?"

'...I AM NOT A NURSEMAID,' Obi scoffed. '...SUFFERING BUILDS CHARACTER. AND YOU HAVE VERY LITTLE CHARACTER.'

"Great," Siurad sighed, his breath pluming in the air. "I have a god in my head, and he's a micromanager who hates socks."

'...WALK, VESSEL,' Obi commanded. '...WE HAVE WORK TO DO.'

Siurad looked at the dark, endless woods. He looked at the ring. He realized he didn't really have a choice. He was player one in a game where he didn't know the rules.

"Fine," Siurad muttered, forcing his frozen legs to move. "We walk. But I'm complaining the whole time. My Jordans..." his voice grew thick with a genuine, tragic sniffle.

The freezing cold was bad enough. The magic kidnapping was worse. But the systematic destruction of his mint-condition Retros was a war crime. If there was unimaginable power at the end of this rainbow, his first decree as Dark Lord would be to pave this entire forest.

"Tell me about this... Authority," Siurad said, the quiet scratching at his nerves. "Are you a ghost? A demon? You keep saying 'Entropy,' but you sound like a disgruntled architect."

The ring pulsed—a sharp, cold throb against his bone.

'...YOU TALK TOO MUCH, VESSEL.'

"Hey, you chose me," Siurad countered, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits. "I was perfectly fine eating Doritos and grinding dungeons. You’re the one who dragged me into the mud. We're basically partners."

'...PARTNERSHIP IMPLIES EQUALITY,' Obi noted dryly. '...YOU ARE A COMPONENT. WALK.'

"Yeah, yeah. But if I'm a component, I'm one that needs temperature regulation. Seriously, Obi. No fire? Not even a little spark?"

'...FIRE?' The voice dripped with cosmic insult. '...DO I LOOK LIKE A HEDGE WIZARD TO YOU? FIRE IS ALCHEMY. IT IS A CRUDE CHEMICAL REACTION. I AM THE VOID. I DO NOT CAST SPELLS.'

"Great. Too bougie for a campfire." Siurad trudged forward, pushing aside a wet pine branch. "So what can you do? Can you navigate? Can you—"

"Help! Please!"

Siurad froze. The voice came from the path ahead.

A man stumbled out from behind a thicket. He looked rough—stained tunic, limping, clutching his side. He saw Siurad, and his eyes widened with relief.

"Oh, thank the gods," the man wheezed, hobbling closer. "Traveler... please. My cart... the wheel broke... my leg..."

Siurad’s eyes narrowed. He stopped walking. He wasn't a hero; he was a bouncer. He’d spent ten years watching drunks try to talk their way past the velvet rope, and he knew a hustle when he saw one.

The man’s limp was on the wrong leg from where he was holding his side. His eyes weren't scanning Siurad’s face for sympathy; they were scanning his pockets.

"Back up, chief," Siurad said, his voice dropping into his Time to Leave the Club register. "I ain't got nothing for you."

"Just a hand," the man pleaded, getting too close, too fast. "Just lend me a—"

The man lunged. The limp vanished instantly. A rusted shiv appeared from his sleeve, thrusting upward toward Siurad’s ribs.

It was a classic shank move. Fast, dirty, lethal.

Siurad didn't panic. Muscle memory took over. Block the wrist. Control the center.

He slapped the man’s wrist aside with his left hand and grabbed the man’s collar with his right, intending to just shove him back to create distance.

He shoved.

CRACK.

It didn't feel like shoving a full-grown man. It felt like shoving a child.

The bandit didn't just stumble back. He flew. His feet left the ground completely. He sailed ten feet through the air, crashing back-first into a pine tree with a sickening, bone-rattling thud. He hit the ground and didn't move, the wind completely knocked out of him.

Siurad stared at his own hand. "What the..."

He was strong back home—you had to be to break up fights at 2 AM—but he wasn't that strong. That was wire-fu. That was superhero shit.

'...ADRENALINE,' Obi noted, unimpressed. '...A PRIMITIVE STIMULANT. BUT EFFECTIVE.'

"That wasn't adrenaline," Siurad muttered, flexing his fingers. "I barely touched him."

"Get him!"

The shout came from the trees. The ruse was over.

Three more men burst from the underbrush. These weren't faking injuries. They were big, dirty, and armed. One held a woodcutter's axe; the other two held short, jagged swords. They looked at their unconscious friend slumped against the tree, then at Siurad.

They didn't look scared. They looked angry.

"He broke Tarl's back!" the leader roared. "Gut him!"

Siurad’s confidence faltered. He could handle a drunk. He could apparently toss a mugger like a frisbee. But three men with killing intent and poking sticks? That was different math.

"Wait," Siurad said, backing up, hands raised. "Look, I don't want trouble. I just—"

They charged. This wasn't a bar fight. This was a slaughter.

'...PATHETIC,' Obi hissed in his mind. '...YOU ARE THE HEIR. AND YOU COWER BEFORE VERMIN?'

"I don't have a weapon!" Siurad yelled, dodging a swing of the axe that took a chunk out of the pine bark next to his head.

'...YOU ARE THE WEAPON. RAISE YOUR HAND.'

"I'm not a mage!"

'...I TOLD YOU, VESSEL. WE DO NOT CAST. WE OPEN.'

The leader swung his sword. Siurad had nowhere to go. His back hit the rough bark of a tree.

'...OPEN THE GATE. FEEL THE VOID.'

It was a subconscious decision—an instinct he didn't know he had. Siurad thrust his hand forward, palm open, screaming in terror.

"Get away!"

He didn't speak an incantation. He just pushed.

The ring flared with violet light. The air pressure dropped. The temperature plummeted.

THWACK-CRUNCH.

A jagged spear of solid, obsidian-black shadow erupted from his palm. It punched through the man's chest armor like it was wet paper, pinning him to the tree behind him.

The bandit gurgled, looking down at the black icicle protruding from his chest, and went limp.

Silence fell over the forest. The other two bandits skidded to a halt, staring at their leader, then at the black spike that was slowly dissolving into smoke.

Siurad stared at his hand. Black vapor was rising from his skin.

"Oh god," Siurad whispered, bile rising in his throat. "Oh god, I just..."

'...EFFICIENT,' Obi noted coldly. '...TWO REMAIN. CORRECT THEM.'

The two remaining bandits froze. For a second, the math didn't add up in their heads: fight the wizard, or run? But fear is a volatile variable. It doesn't always make men run; sometimes, it makes them stupid.

The one with the axe let out a desperate scream, charging forward, his heavy boots churning the freezing slush into a spray of black dirt. "Die, you cultist bastard!"

Siurad’s bouncer instincts kicked in. He took a quick step back to manage the distance.

It was a fatal error.

His right sneaker—smooth-soled, expensive, and utterly useless in the wild—hit a patch of slick, wet pine needles. Friction left the chat.

Siurad’s legs went out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the air driven from his lungs in a wheezing gasp. Cold mud instantly soaked through his shirt. Panic flared. He scrambled backward on his elbows, heels scrabbling for steady ground that wasn't there.

The bandit loomed over him, axe raised high, a silhouette of dirty death against the grey sky.

Siurad stared up at the rusty blade. I'm going to die because I slipped. I'm going to die because of fucking Jordans.

The ring pulsed. It wasn't a warning; it was a critique.

'...YOUR CENTER OF GRAVITY IS OFFENSIVE.' Obi’s voice was perfectly calm. '...YOU ARE PRONE. THE POSITION IS INEFFICIENT. FIX IT.'

"No shit!" Siurad yelled.

He raised his hand toward the attacker. He didn't search for words this time. He just reached for that cold tether in his mind—the phantom limb he had just discovered.

Shadows coalesced instantly around his wrist, flowing into his palm in a wispy ball of black clouds. His arm felt suddenly heavy as the shifting energy gained density.

The jagged spike burst forth just as the man brought his blade down.

It punched clean through the man's skull. The sound of cracking bone rang through Siurad's ears like splitting bamboo. The man's head jerked back violently, and his momentum collapsed, dropping him in a heap right next to Siurad.

Siurad stared at the body twitching in the mud. He felt sick. He felt powerful. He felt sick about feeling powerful.

The last remaining bandit dropped his weapons. "Please! I was only following orders!"

Siurad looked at the man. He looked at the rusted sword lying in the mud. The fight was over. The threat was neutralized.

"Get out of here," Siurad rasped, wiping sweat and freezing mud from his eyes. "Go. Run."

The bandit scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with a mix of terror and opportunity. He turned to run, splashing through the puddles.

'...NO.'

The voice in his head was a gavel strike.

'...HE IS A VARIABLE. IF HE ESCAPES, HE RETURNS. CORRECT HIM.'

"I'm not executing a guy running away, Obi," Siurad hissed, watching the man retreat into the gloom. "We're done here."

'...DO THE MATH, VESSEL.' Obi’s voice was devoid of anger, purely analytical. '...YOU ARE LOST. YOU ARE EXHAUSTED. IF HE RETURNS WITH TEN MEN, THE PROBABILITY OF YOUR SURVIVAL DROPS TO ZERO. IS YOUR MORALITY WORTH YOUR LIFE?'

Siurad watched the bandit's back retreating. He imagined the man finding a camp. He imagined arrows coming from the trees in an hour. He imagined dying in this cold, wet hell because he hesitated.

The logic was brutal. It was undeniable. But it wasn't Siurad.

"I am not a murderer," Siurad said, defiance taking hold.

'...YOU FOOL! YOU WOULD ALLOW THIS SCUM TO ESCAPE? TO REPEAT THIS CHAOTIC PROCESS ON MORE INNOCENT PEOPLE? THIS ONE DOES NOT DESERVE LIFE!'

Stunned by the sudden, ancient rage in the Entity's voice, Siurad swallowed hard. "Remember? We were gonna have rules. I'm not going to kill people who aren't actively trying to kill me."

He paused, the adrenaline and bravado slowly draining out of him, leaving only exhaustion. "Let him go," he whispered.

The bandit crested the hill and vanished into the treeline. He was gone.

'...FOOLISH,' Obi pulsed, the ring vibrating with icy disappointment. '...YOU HAVE PLANTED A SEED OF CHAOS. DO NOT BE SURPRISED WHEN IT BLOOMS.'

"I guess I'll deal with it then," Siurad muttered.

The adrenaline finally crashed. The silence of the forest rushed back in, heavy and wet. Siurad looked down at the man at his feet. The shadow spike had dissolved, leaving a gruesome, impossible wound. He looked at the leader pinned to the tree.

Dead. Both of them.

Siurad’s knees gave out. He sat down heavily in the mud, right next to the corpse. He stared at his hands. They were shaking. Not a little tremble—a violent, uncontrollable shudder.

"I killed them," he whispered.

'...THEY WERE FLAWS,' Obi stated flatly. '...THEY INITIATED THE CONFLICT. YOU RESOLVED IT. THEY WERE CORRECTED.'

"They were people, Obi. Shitty people, yeah. But people."

Siurad rubbed his face, smearing blood and dirt across his skin. He felt nauseous. In Cassalia, killing was just clicking. You pressed a button, the health bar dropped, and the ragdoll physics took over.

Here... there was a smell. The iron tang of blood mixed with wet earth. The terrible sound of breath permanently leaving a body.

"I didn't think it would feel like this," Siurad said, his voice hollow. "I thought... I don't know. I thought I'd feel cool. Or heroic."

'...HEROISM IS A NARRATIVE CONSTRUCT,' Obi lectured. '...SURVIVAL IS BIOLOGICAL. YOU SURVIVED. THAT IS THE ONLY METRIC THAT MATTERS.'

"It matters to me," Siurad countered weakly.

'...THEN YOU ARE STILL WEAK.' The ring pulsed again, slower this time. '...BUT YOU ARE ALIVE. AND THEY ARE NOT. LEARN TO LIVE WITH THE DIFFERENCE.'

Siurad sat there for a long moment, the cold seeping into his bones. He realized Obi was right about one thing: he was freezing. If he stayed here staring at the bodies, he'd join them.

He looked at the dead man's boots. They were sturdy leather. Caked in mud, but whole.

He looked at his own feet. His expensive, limited-edition sneakers were ruined—torn, soaked, and useless.

"Sorry, Jordans," Siurad muttered, a dark, humorless chuckle escaping his lips. "You were too beautiful for this world."

He reached for the dead man's laces.

"It's just loot. Press E to equip."

He pulled the boots off the corpse. They were warm. He stripped the thick fur cloak from the leader. It smelled of stale smoke and sweat, but it was dry.

As he fastened the cloak around his neck, he looked back toward the hill where the survivor had disappeared.

"He's going to come back, isn't he?" Siurad asked.

'...INEVITABLY.'

Siurad adjusted the stolen sword on his hip. He felt heavy. Tainted. But warmer.

"Fine," Siurad said, turning toward the first bandit he had shoved into the tree. "Let him come. Next time... I won't hesitate. Let's get the hell out of here."

'...PROGRESS,' Obi noted.

"This is gross," Siurad muttered, trying not to look too closely at the dead men as he scanned their forms. He spotted a small leather satchel tangled in the first corpse's belt and yanked it free. It was in rough shape, but as he lifted it, he heard a distinct clinking noise—the telltale sign of currency. He checked inside: copper and silver coins, along with a few crumpled letters.

He shoved the satchel over his shoulder and retrieved the short sword dropped by the bandit who ran.

Now he was juggling two rusted blades and a bag. Without a proper belt or scabbard, carrying the weapons wasn't the cool, dual-wielding aesthetic he had imagined; it was just cumbersome and sharp.

Inventory management sucks, he thought, adjusting his grip on the cold steel.

He looked North into the endless pines.

"Let's get this show on the road."

Chapter Three

Siurad felt like a monster. A warm one, wrapped in a dead man's fur, but a monster nonetheless.

They headed north through the dense pine forest, staying strictly off the main road just in case the surviving bandit returned with friends. Trudging through the darkness, it wasn't long before the sharp, comforting scent of woodsmoke began to cut through the smell of wet earth.

A weathered wooden sign hung from rusted chains between two massive pines: Pine Haven - 2 Miles.

Those two miles felt longer than the marathon sessions Siurad used to pull on raid nights. The adrenaline had completely faded, leaving him with burning muscles, a pair of boots that belonged to a corpse, and a thick cloak that smelled like a wet dog had rolled in a campfire.

"Okay," Siurad muttered, adjusting the itchy fur collar as the flickering lights of the town appeared through the trees. "We need a game plan. We can't just walk in there announcing that I'm the 'Heir' and you're the 'God of HOA Violations.' I need a cover story."

'...HOA?' Obi’s voice pulsed, cold and curious. '...A COMMITTEE FOR ENFORCED AESTHETIC UNIFORMITY AND PROPERTY VALUE MAINTENANCE? YES. THEY UNDERSTAND ORDER. I APPROVE.'

"Of course you do. Anyway, look at me." Siurad gestured to his stolen ensemble. "I'm wearing a dead guy's coat and carrying two rusted swords. I look like a bandit who got lost."

'...YOU LOOK LIKE A SCAVENGER,' Obi corrected. '...WHICH IS ACCURATE. TELL THEM YOU ARE A MERCENARY.'

"A mercenary?" Siurad snorted. "Obi, look at these arms. These are gym muscles. They’re for looking good in a tank top, not swinging a sword. If I get into a real sword fight, I’m going to pull a lat."

'...THEN DO NOT FIGHT. INTIMIDATE. YOU WERE A SECURITY OFFICER. USE THE GLARE.'

"It's called 'The Look,'" Siurad corrected. "And it works on drunk college kids trying to sneak a flask into a club. I don't know if it works on fantasy town guards."

'...TRY IT. AND STOP SLOUCHING. THE HEIR DOES NOT SLUMP.'

Siurad straightened his spine, rolling his broad shoulders back. "Fine. Mercenary. A mercenary named... Silas. No, too edgy. Bob? No. I'll just stick with Siurad. It’s weird enough to be a fantasy name."

As they broke the treeline, the details of Pine Haven came into view. It wasn't exactly a metropolis. It was a cluster of wooden buildings huddled together in the gloom, surrounded by a wooden palisade that looked like it would fall over if a stiff breeze hit it.

'...INEFFICIENT,' Obi noted immediately, the ring vibrating with disgust. '...LOOK AT THAT FENCE. THE POSTS ARE UNEVEN. THE GATE SAGS. WHO DESIGNED THIS? A BEAVER?'

"It's rustic," Siurad defended, though he didn't know why he cared. "It has charm. It's a small logging town."

'...IT HAS TERMITES. WE WILL PAVE IT.'

"We are not paving this town," Siurad hissed. "We are getting a burger and a bed. Do you sleep? Or do you just vibrate on my finger all night?"

'...I DO NOT REQUIRE SLEEP. I CONTEMPLATE GEOMETRY.'

"You count corners?"

'...I PLAN THE RESTRUCTURING OF THE AUTHORITY. AND YES. I COUNT CORNERS. THERE ARE NEVER ENOUGH.'

Siurad shook his head. "You're a riot, Obi. A real party animal."

They reached the gate. There was no guard in a booth, no ticket taker. Just a bored-looking man leaning on a spear, chewing on a piece of straw. He looked Siurad up and down—taking in his massive height, the mud, the blood-flecked cloak, and the general air of exhaustion.

Siurad channeled his inner bouncer. He squared his shoulders, narrowed his dark eyes, and gave the man a slow, heavy nod that clearly communicated: I belong here, and if you check my ID, it's going to be a hassle for both of us.

The guard blinked, spat out the straw, and shrugged. "Kitchen's closed at the inn. Don't cause trouble."

Siurad walked past him, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"See?" Siurad whispered once they were inside the palisade. "The Look. Works every time."

'...HE WAS APATHETIC,' Obi countered. '...HE SAW A LARGE, DIRTY MAN AND DECIDED PAPERWORK WAS NOT WORTH THE EFFORT. A LOGICAL CHOICE.'

Siurad scanned the muddy street. "Okay, genius. Where's the inn? You have cosmic awareness, right? The sign back there said something about a Boar's Den."

'...I SENSE YEAST,' Obi pulsed. '...AND DESPAIR. FOLLOW THE SMELL.'

"Yeast and despair. Sounds like my old apartment complex."

Following his nose past a general goods store marked Limmel Exchange, Siurad finally found a heavy wooden building with a sign swinging out front: The Boar's Den.

"Here we go." Siurad adjusted his stolen sword belt, which kept sliding down his hip. "Time to interact with the people. Don't say anything weird."

'...I AM THE VOICE OF ORDER. I AM NEVER WEIRD.'

"You're a talking ring that hates nature," Siurad muttered, pushing the door open. "You're the weirdest thing in this zip code."

The warmth hit him instantly. It smelled of stale ale, wet wool, and mildew. To Siurad, it was heaven. The tavern was small, populated by a dozen local workers nursing their drinks.

'...THE FLOOR IS STICKY,' Obi observed immediately. '...BURN IT.'

No burning, Siurad thought back firmly. Just eating. Be cool.

He walked to the bar, trying to project the aura of a hardened mercenary and not a guy who desperately missed his ergonomic gaming chair. Behind the counter stood an older woman with grey hairs sprouting from her roots. Her face was a blank mask, devoid of any upward inflection, projecting an absolute intolerance for nonsense.

Phase one complete, Siurad thought.

'...CONGRATULATIONS,' Obi droned. '...YOU WALKED. TRULY A FEAT FOR THE AGES. NOW ACQUIRE SUSTENANCE. YOUR STOMACH IS MAKING CHAOTIC NOISES.'

It's called hunger, Obi. It's a biological flaw.

'...INDEED.'

Siurad leaned against the bar. "Hello there," he said, trying to sound casual. "I'd like a room and whatever food you have available."

The woman—Irma—stopped scrubbing a mug that looked like it had been dirty since the First Era. She looked Siurad up and down, taking in the crude swords, the bloodstains, and the muddy boots currently ruining her floor.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

Siurad froze. His mind immediately flashed to a South Park episode. He braced himself for a cacophony of villagers to burst from the back room, shouting, They took er' jobs!

'...WHAT IS A JERB?' Obi asked, genuinely confused.

Before Siurad could facepalm at his own thoughts or explain meme culture to a cosmic entity, Irma tapped the counter with a sour-smelling rag. "The kitchen closes every night at nine-thirty, sir. It's well past that. All the locals know this. Breakfast starts at dawn. A room for the night will cost you six copper.”

Siurad fumbled with the bandit's pouch, his fingers stiff from the cold. He dumped a small pile of coins onto the sticky wood.

"Keep the change," he muttered, sliding a silver piece across. "Just... hot water. Please. I smell like a swamp."

Irma eyed the silver, then him. "The bath is a tub in the back. You haul your own water. Don't drown."

Siurad gave her a thumbs-up and made his way toward the back rooms.

Ten minutes later, Siurad stared at a steaming tub of water. It looked like absolute salvation. Then, his eyes drifted to his right hand. To the black band of obsidian fused to his finger.

The realization hit him like a physical blow.

"Wait," Siurad whispered, horrified. "You're stuck on me."

'...A FACT WE HAVE ESTABLISHED.'

"I'm about to get naked, Obi. Completely naked."

'...HYGIENE IS MANDATORY. PROCEED.'

"Yeah, but... can you see? Like... everything?"

'...I PERCEIVE THE VIBRATION OF MATTER. I SEE THE FLAWS IN YOUR CELLULAR REGENERATION.'

"That's not a no! Are you going to be watching me scrub my... areas?"

The ring pulsed with a cold, dry vibration that felt suspiciously like a gag reflex.

'...YOUR BIOLOGICAL FORM IS A MEAT SACK DRAPED OVER CALCIUM. IT IS AESTHETICALLY NULL. AND YOUR SYMMETRY IS LACKING.'

"Hey! My symmetry is just fine!"

'...JUST WASH, VESSEL. I WILL STUDY THE TILE GROUT.'

"You better," Siurad muttered, stepping into the scalding water. "Pervert ghost."

'...I HEARD THAT.'

An hour later, Siurad felt marginally more human. He had scrubbed off the grime, the sweat, and the microscopic bits of the bandit he’d exploded. Descending into the common room, he wore the spare tunic he'd found in the satchel. It was slightly too tight across his massive chest, making him look less like a swamp monster and more like a very tired bouncer who had lost his way.

Okay, Siurad thought, leaning against a wooden pillar that Obi had already diagnosed as structurally unsound. Phase two. Intel. We need to find the Authority. Or at least... where we are.

'...INTERROGATE THEM,' Obi commanded. '...DEMAND THE COORDINATES OF THE CITADEL.'

I'm not demanding anything, Siurad thought back. I'm going to work the room. Be charming. Blend in.

'...YOU ARE SIX-FOOT-FOUR. YOU DO NOT BLEND.'

Ignoring the ring, Siurad sauntered over to a table where three older men were playing cards. He plastered on his best "friendly neighbor" smile. It felt unnatural on his face.

"Evening, gentlemen," Siurad said, his voice booming slightly too loud in the quiet room. "Nice night for... cards."

The loggers stopped playing. They looked up at him. They looked at his massive arms. They looked at each other.

"It's raining," one of them said slowly.

"Right. Yes. Liquid sunshine." Siurad gave them a pair of finger-guns. He instantly wanted to die. "Anyway, I'm just passing through. Wondering if you fellas knew anything about... local history?"

The loggers stared. "History?"

"Yeah." Siurad leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know. Old ruins. Spooky castles. Specifically... huge cities made of black glass that ruled the world with an iron fist? Maybe a Citadel of Eternal Order? Ring any bells?"

The table went dead silent. A cricket chirped in the corner.

'...SMOOTH,' Obi droned. '...YOU SOUND LIKE A CULTIST.'

I'm establishing context! Siurad hissed internally.

"We chop wood, son," the oldest logger said, gripping his tankard protectively. "We don't look for glass castles. Best you finish your drink and go to bed."

"Right. Wood. Trees. Nature," Siurad nodded vigorously. "Love nature. Big fan. Well... good talk."

He backed away slowly, bumping into a chair and nearly knocking it over. He caught it, gave the room an agonizingly awkward thumbs-up, and retreated to the stairs.

'...THAT WAS PAINFUL,' Obi observed. '...I HAVE SEEN MOLLUSKS WITH BETTER SOCIAL SKILLS.'

"Shut up," Siurad groaned, rubbing his temples. "I'll try again at breakfast. When they're less... judgey."

'...UNLIKELY.'

Siurad blew out the candle in his room and collapsed.

Crunch.

The mattress didn't so much accept his weight as surrender to it. It was a sack of straw on a wooden frame, possessing the structural integrity of a damp crouton.

'...THIS SURFACE IS A CHIROPRACTIC DISASTER,' Obi observed immediately. '...YOUR SPINE IS CURVING IN SHAPES THAT OFFEND ME.'

"It's a bed, Obi. It beats the mud." Siurad shifted, trying to find a spot that didn't jab him in the kidney. "Go to sleep. Or... power down. Or whatever it is you do."

'...I DO NOT POWER DOWN. I OBSERVE. FOR EXAMPLE, I AM CURRENTLY OBSERVING THE ARACHNID.'

Siurad froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid. "The... what?" he whispered, his voice pitching up an octave.

'...THE ARACHNID. IT IS BUILDING A WEB DIRECTLY ABOVE YOUR FACE. ITS GEOMETRY IS SUPERIOR TO YOURS.'

Siurad scrambled out of the bed so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, backing into the far wall with a heavy thud. He fumbled in the dark, his heart hammering against his ribs harder than it had during the ambush.

"Where is it?!" he hissed, frantically patting the bedside table for a match. "Is it big? Is it one of those furry ones? Obi, I swear to god!"

'...IT IS SMALL. IT EATS MOSQUITOES. IT IS EFFICIENT. WHY ARE YOU VIBRATING?'

"Because spiders are the spawn of Satan, that's why!" Siurad finally got the candle lit. He thrust it toward the ceiling, scanning the rafters with wild eyes.

There it was. A small, harmless house spider spinning a web in the corner. To Siurad, it looked like a raid boss.

"Kill it," Siurad commanded, pointing a shaking finger. "Shadow Spike it. Anything. I don't care. Delete it."

'...NO.'

"What do you mean, no?!"

'...IT IS NON-HOSTILE. AND WASTING COSMIC ENERGY ON A BUG IS BENEATH MY DIGNITY. GO TO BED, COWARD.'

Siurad glared at the spider. He glared at the ring. Slowly, he dragged the heavy wooden bed frame two feet to the left, safely out of the "drop zone."

"Fine," he muttered, climbing back onto the straw sack, keeping a wary eye on the corner. "But if that thing descends, I'm burning this tavern down."

He lay back. The sudden adrenaline of the spider encounter slowly faded, leaving behind the heavy, crushing weight of the day. The silence of the room stretched out. The sounds of the tavern below—muffled laughter, the clinking of mugs—drifted up through the floorboards. It felt normal. Mundane.

But the forest outside was still there. The blood on his hands was still there.

"Obi," Siurad whispered into the dark, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

'...YES, VESSEL?'

"Back in the woods... you said you wanted to fix the 'flaw.' You talk a big game about Order and Chaos." Siurad rolled onto his back. "But really... what are you? And what happened to you?"

A profound silence fell over the room, heavier than the night air outside. The entity's presence in Siurad's mind felt impossibly vast and ancient, like a mountain stirring in its sleep. When it finally spoke, its mental voice was not a boom, but a quiet, crushing pressure, like the depths of the ocean.

'...YOU ASK WHAT I AM? I AM THE ANSWER TO THE FLAW. I AM THE WILL THAT SEES A BROKEN, CHAOTIC WORLD AND DARES TO DESIGN A PERFECT ONE.'

The ring pulsed—a slow, cold throb against Siurad's knuckle.

'...BEFORE THIS RING... I WATCHED THIS WORLD FOR TIME BEYOND COUNTING. I WATCHED IT WRITHE IN THE CHAOS IT SO LOVES. WAR. PLAGUE. FAMINE. GRIEF. A CONSTANT, SCREAMING, ILLOGICAL CYCLE OF SUFFERING.'

'...I WATCHED A GIRL... RAIMI. THE ONLY ONE WHO COULD HEAR ME. I WATCHED HER DIE OF OLD AGE. AND I LEARNED OF A FLAW. THE MOST PAINFUL FLAW.'

Siurad could feel the entity's grief, hardened over millennia into a diamond-sharp rage.

'...I VOWED TO FIX IT. TO BUILD A NEW, PERFECT STRUCTURE. A WORLD WITHOUT CHAOS. WE CREATED THE OBSIDIAN AUTHORITY.'

"And what happened to it?" Siurad asked, his voice barely a whisper.

There was a long pause. When Obi spoke again, the cold grief was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute contempt.

'...IT WAS MURDERED. POISONED FROM WITHIN. I GAVE MY POWER TO TWO VESSELS TO BE THE ARCHITECTS OF THIS PERFECT WORLD. XARA, MY HEART, WAS CONSUMED WITH RAGE—THE PERFECT AGENT TO QUELL CHAOS. LYSANDER, MY MIND, WAS A COLD, PERFECT LOGIC TO BUILD THE STRUCTURE.'

Siurad sensed a sudden, bitter shift in the Entity's presence.

'...THEY WERE MY INSTRUMENTS. BUT THE FLAW... THE MORTAL FLAW... ALWAYS FINDS A WAY. XARA LET HER RAGE BE TEMPERED BY TIME. SHE GREW OLD. SHE GREW WEAK. HER SOFTNESS, WHICH SHE HAD BURNED AWAY, RETURNED. SHE BEGAN TO DOUBT THE MISSION.'

"And Lysander?"

'...MY MIND. MY ARCHITECT. HE WAS SO PERFECT... BUT HE WAS STILL MORTAL. HE WAS WOUNDED. BROKEN BY THE VERY CHAOS WE SOUGHT TO CONTAIN.'

'...IN THEIR WEAKNESS, THE AUTHORITY WAS AMBUSHED. THEY LET A TRAITOR INTO OUR MIDST. THEY FAILED. THEY WERE A FLAW IN MY DESIGN, AND THE ENTIRE STRUCTURE COLLAPSED.'

The entity’s voice was a blade of ice.

'...THEY ALLOWED OUR ENEMIES TO TRAP ME IN THIS... TRINKET. THE WORK OF CENTURIES, UNDONE BY THE WEAKNESS OF THE VERY MORTALS I TRIED TO SAVE. THEY ARE GONE. ALL OF THEM. THE AUTHORITY IS DUST. MY HEART IS ASH. MY MIND IS SILENT.'

Obi’s presence flooded Siurad's mind, a wave of cold, righteous fury.

'...ALL THAT REMAINS IS THE WILL. I AM THE WILL, VESSEL. AND YOU... YOU ARE THE HAND THAT WILL REBUILD MY DESIGN, FREE OF THE FLAWS OF THE PAST.'

Siurad lay there in the dark, the weight of the revelation pressing down on his chest. A betrayed god. A failed utopia. And he was now the only one left to pick up the pieces.

The silence returned. Siurad’s mind drifted away from the cosmic tragedy and settled back on the mud. He thought about the bandits.

He closed his eyes, and instead of the dark room, he saw the spike erupting from his palm. He heard the wet crunch of the man’s skull.

It had been... easy. Too easy.

Back home, as a bouncer, he’d broken up fights. He’d thrown punches. He’d seen blood. But he’d never erased someone. Is it the ring? he wondered. Is it making me numb? Or... was I always capable of this?

He thought about the runner he had let go. Was that mercy? Or was it just a different kind of weakness?

His mind drifted further, past the forest, past the game screen. He thought about his apartment. The hum of the refrigerator. The rent that was due next week. His gym bag sitting by the door.

Is this real?

It felt real. The straw poking his back felt real. The throbbing in his hand felt real. But a part of him—the gamer part—was still waiting for the "Game Over" screen, or for his alarm clock to go off.

The ring pulsed again, interrupting his spiral. It wasn't a cold pulse this time. It felt... contemplative.

'...REGRET IS A LOOP,' Obi stated, his voice lower, almost quiet. '...IT CONSUMES PROCESSING POWER WITHOUT YIELDING RESULTS.'

"I killed two people today, Obi," Siurad whispered to the dark.

'...YOU SURVIVED,' Obi corrected. '...AND BECAUSE YOU SURVIVED, THE WORK CONTINUES.'

The ring vibrated, a sensation like a teacher rapping a ruler on a desk.

'...BUT YOUR TECHNIQUE WAS SLOPPY.'

"Excuse me?"

'...YOUR CONTROL OVER THE VOID IS REMEDIAL. YOU SCREAMED. YOU SLIPPED. YOU WASTED ENERGY. TOMORROW, WE BEGIN CORRECTIONS. THERE IS MUCH TO LEARN, AND YOUR COMPETENCY LEVEL IS, QUITE FRANKLY... EMBARRASSING.'

Siurad let out a short, dry laugh. "Thanks, coach." He stared up at the ceiling, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay. Okay, Obi. What do we do first?"

'...FIRST, WE FIND THE REMAINS OF THE OBSIDIAN AUTHORITY. LYSANDER, FOR ALL HIS FAILINGS, WAS A METICULOUS RECORD-KEEPER. HIS RESEARCH... MY RESEARCH... MUST STILL EXIST.'

The entity’s will pressed into Siurad with a sudden, desperate urgency.

'...WE MUST FIND THAT KNOWLEDGE. IT IS THE KEY TO RESURRECTING THE AUTHORITY. IT IS THE ONLY WAY TO LEARN HOW I WAS BOUND... SO I CAN BE UNBOUND.'

"Great," Siurad muttered, closing his eyes. "A treasure hunt. My favorite."

'...SLEEP, VESSEL. THE SPIDER IS FINISHED. IT IS A VERY NICE WEB.'

"Goodnight, Obi."

'...GOODNIGHT.'

Chapter Four

Sunlight stabbed through the warped slats of the small window, hitting Siurad directly in the face.

Still here, he thought, shielding his eyes. Not a dream. Fantastic.

He sat up, and a shower of dry hay and dust cascaded from the mattress. His spine popped audibly as a dull, grinding ache settled deep in his lower back. No HUD, no logout button, just a stiff neck and the smell of old straw. The thought settled heavily in his mind. This is all real.

His eyes darted to the corner of the ceiling. The spider was still there, motionless in its perfect web.

"Morning, Obi," he croaked, his voice thick with sleep.

'...YOU HAVE EXCEEDED OPTIMAL STASIS PARAMETERS.'

The Entity’s voice didn't just sound; it vibrated against the inside of his skull like a subwoofer playing static.

"Can we not? Right now?" Siurad groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "It is way too early for this shit."

'...INEFFICIENT,' Obi pulsed, the mental tone dripping with judgment. '...BUT FITTING. CHAOS DOES NOT WAKE WITH THE SUN.'

Siurad shoved the irritation down. He didn't have the caffeine levels required to argue with a God of Order. He pulled on his clothes, wincing as he tugged the looted boots onto his feet. They were high-quality leather, but they pinched at the toes—a constant, physical reminder that he was walking in a dead man’s shoes.

By the time he reached the common room, his stomach felt like a hollow cavern.

"I need bacon," he muttered to himself, visualizing a diner menu. "Pancakes. French toast. Anything that hasn't been boiled."

He approached the bar. Irma was already there, leaning over the wood with a rag, looking like she’d been awake for hours and hated every minute of it.

"What'll it be, big man?" Irma didn't look up. She scrubbed a stubborn circle of dried ale into the wood grain as if trying to erase the memory of last night's patrons. "Kitchen's cold. I got oat porridge that's mostly solid, or I can heat up the leftovers from the stew."

"Stew," Siurad said immediately. Porridge sounded like giving up.

Irma grunted, finally looking at him. Her deadpan eyes narrowed, scanning his face, then dropping to his hands. She noted the ring. She noted the way he stood with his broad shoulders back and his weight balanced.

"You ain't a merchant," she stated flatly. It wasn't a question. "And you ain't a guard. Guards are too loud, and merchants are too soft."

"I'm a traveler looking for work," Siurad lied, leaning his elbows on the sticky wood.

"Travelers leave," Irma said. She turned to ladle a greyish slump of stew into a wooden bowl, slamming it onto the counter with a chewed-looking spoon. "Work is at the Krupp yard. East edge of town. If you got a strong back, they're hiring. If you got a mouth on you, don't bother. Lexaris likes his trees quiet."

Siurad stared at the stew. It was thick, brown, and smelled vaguely of wet dog and onions.

'...CALORIC DENSITY IS ACCEPTABLE,' Obi pulsed. '...TASTE IS IRRELEVANT. FUEL THE VESSEL.'

"Thanks," Siurad muttered.

He reached into the bandit's pouch and pulled out a handful of coins. Dingy, bent, low-grade copper. He counted them out. Seven coins.

Irma watched him count. She didn't sneer, but her expression hardened. "That'll cover the room for last night," she said, swiping five of the coins into her apron. "And the stew. You got one copper left, big man. Better hope Krupp is feeling generous."

Siurad looked at the single, lonely copper coin in his massive palm. In Cassalia, he had millions of gold. He owned a fortress. He had a vault filled with souls.

Here, he couldn't afford a second bowl of stew.

He shoveled the food into his mouth. It tasted like salted mud.

'...THE LOCAL ECONOMY IS PREDATORY,' Obi noted, his voice vibrating in Siurad’s chewing jaw. '...LABOR IS EXTRACTED. COMPENSATION IS MINIMAL. IT IS A CLOSED LOOP OF INEFFICIENCY.'

"It's called capitalism, Obi," Siurad whispered around a chunk of gristle.

'...IT IS CHAOS,' the Entity corrected. '...ORDER REQUIRES BALANCE. THIS SYSTEM IS TOP-HEAVY. IT WILL TOPPLE.'

Siurad swallowed the last of the stew with a grimace. "Yeah? Well, until it topples, I need to buy soap. Because I smell like a wet bear."

He stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. His looted boots pinched his toes again. "Krupp yard," Siurad said to Irma. "East edge?"

"Follow the sound of misery," Irma said, returning to her scrubbing. "And don't let Limmel sell you his 'premium' axes. They snap if you look at 'em wrong."

Siurad stepped out of the dim tavern and into the blinding morning light of Pine Haven. The town was a collection of rough-hewn log cabins and mud streets, carved aggressively out of the dense treeline. The air smelled of pine resin, woodsmoke, and unwashed bodies.

Irma was right. He didn't need directions. He could hear the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of axes echoing from the east, an industrial heartbeat that shook the ground.

'...QUEST ACCEPTED,' Obi droned, perfectly mocking Siurad's internal gamer logic. '...OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE THE GRIND.'

Siurad adjusted his collar and started walking. He had a warlord’s soul, a god in his pocket, and one copper to his name. Time to go to work.

Siurad pushed open the door to Limmel’s Exchange. A tinny bell jingled overhead, grating on his nerves.

The shop smelled of rust, wet fur, and the distinct, metallic tang of desperation. The shelves were cluttered with "adventuring gear" that looked suspiciously like repurposed farm tools.

"Welcome, traveler!" Limmel beamed from behind the counter. He was a wiry man with a smile that showed too many teeth and eyes that immediately calculated the weight of Siurad's coin purse. "I hear you're heading to the yards. You'll need steel. Good steel. Krupp’s loaners are garbage. Iron rot. Splinters."

He reached under the counter and pulled out a hand-axe, laying it on a velvet cloth like a holy relic.

"The Woodsman’s Friend," Limmel whispered reverently. "Tempered steel head. Hickory haft. Balanced by a master smith in the capital. For you? Five silver."

Siurad picked it up. To his gamer brain, it looked like standard vendor trash. Maybe a Common Item if the lighting was generous.

Suddenly, he felt a cold pressure against his mind. The Ring was looking.

'...LOOK AT THE GRAIN,' Obi’s voice rumbled, vibrating with deep, aesthetic offense. '...IT CROSSES THE STRESS POINT. IF YOU SWING THIS, THE HEAD WILL DEPART THE HANDLE.'

Siurad paused, turning the axe over. "It feels a little... light."

'...IT IS NOT LIGHT,' Obi corrected, his tone dripping with disdain. '...IT IS LAZY. TORIAN WOULD HAVE USED THIS FOR KINDLING. AND LYSANDER...'

The Ring pulsed with a sharp spike of irritation.

'...THE ANGLE OF THE EDGE IS OFF BY FOUR DEGREES. LYSANDER WOULD VOMIT. DO NOT PURCHASE THIS INSULT.'

Siurad set the axe back down. He looked at Limmel. "Four degrees off," Siurad said, letting his voice drop into his bouncer register. "And the grain is wrong. This isn't a 'Woodsman's Friend,' Limmel. It's a lawsuit waiting to happen."

Limmel’s smile vanished. "Listen here, you drifter. I don't know who told you about grain, but—"

"Pass," Siurad interrupted. "I'll take my chances with the loaners. Better to use garbage I didn't pay for than garbage I did."

He turned and walked out, the little bell jingling mockingly behind him.

'...VENDOR TRASH,' Obi concluded with immense satisfaction.

Siurad stepped back onto the muddy street. "You mentioned someone," he muttered under his breath, dodging a cart filled with turnips. "Back in the shop. Torian."

He felt the Ring hum—a different sensation this time. Not the cold, sharp geometry of Lysander or the burning rage of Xara. This felt... softer. Like wool.

'...THE WEAVER,' Obi replied.

"Another General?" Siurad asked. "Did he break mountains too?"

'...NO,' Obi said. '...HE KNIT. AND HE KEPT THE OTHERS FROM BREAKING.'

Siurad waited for more, but the presence in his mind grew quiet, retreating into a memory that felt surprisingly heavy for a being made of void and math.

"A knitter," Siurad mused, stepping over a puddle. "Great. So I have a Warlord who wants to correct the universe, an Architect who vomits at bad geometry, and a knitter who hates bad axes. I'm really traveling with a dysfunctional crafting guild, aren't I?"

'...THEY WERE PERFECT,' Obi snapped, a flash of defensive heat warming Siurad’s finger. '...THEY WERE THE FOUNDATION.'

"Alright, alright," Siurad held up his hands in surrender. "Touchy subject. Noted."

The conversation died as the smell hit him. Raw sap, sawdust, and sweat. The rhythmic, thundering crack of axes biting into timber echoed through the trees. The mud on the road turned into a slurry of woodchips and dirt.

He had arrived.

The Krupp Logging Yard was less a place of business and more a physical scar on the face of the forest. Siurad walked up to the main gate—a gap in a fence made of jagged logs.

A massive man stood by a table, checking off names on a clipboard. He had arms the size of beer kegs and a beard that looked like it housed small wildlife. This was Lexaris, the Foreman.

"Name?" Lexaris grunted, not looking up.

"Siurad. I need work."

Lexaris finally looked up. He scanned Siurad’s strange clothes, the cargo pants, the boots that were clearly two sizes too small. He snorted.

"You look soft," Lexaris judged. "City hands. You ever fell a tree, boy?"

"I've cleared forests," Siurad said. Technically true. He had leveled the Whispering Woods zone in Cassalia with a single Death Cloud spell. But manual labor was a different beast.

"Sure you have," Lexaris scoffed. "Where's your axe?"

"Don't have one. Limmel tried to sell me painted tin."

Lexaris paused. He actually grinned, showing a flash of yellow teeth in the beard. "Smart lad. Limmel’s a crook. But smart don't chop wood." He gestured to a barrel behind him. "Loaner fee is two coppers a day, deducted from your pay. Break it, you bought it. And if you drop a tree on my crew, I'll bury you under it."

Siurad walked to the barrel and pulled out an axe. The handle was grey with age and rough as sandpaper. The head was pitted with rust, the edge dull and chipped.

'...THIS,' Obi noted flatly, '...IS A CRIME AGAINST METALLURGY.'

"It's a start," Siurad muttered. He could feel a blister forming just from gripping it.

"Hey!" Lexaris shouted, pointing toward a grove of massive, dark pines. "Sector Four. The knotty ones. Get moving. You don't get paid for standing around looking pretty."

Siurad shouldered the rusty axe. Alright, Obi, he thought, stepping into the mud. Tutorial's over. Let's see if 'Order' can chop wood.

'...INEFFICIENT,' Obi grumbled. '...BUT NECESSARY.'

"Zeus!" Lexaris bellowed over the roar of falling timber. "Fresh meat for the grinder!"

A man stepped out from behind a stack of stripped logs. If Lexaris was big, this man was dense. Built like a stone watchtower left out in the sun to cure, his deep bronze skin was shiny with sweat and sap. His arms were covered in scars that looked suspiciously like claw marks. He carried a double-bitted felling axe over one shoulder as easily as a fishing rod.

"Zeus," the man grunted, extending a hand the size of a shovel.

"Siurad," he replied, shaking it. It was like gripping a tree root.

"City hands," Zeus noted, echoing the Foreman but with less malice and more observation. He looked at the rusty tool. "And a trash axe. Lexaris likes to test the new guys. Wants to see if you quit or complain."

"I don't plan on doing either," Siurad said.

Zeus nodded. "Good answer. Follow me. We’re clearing the ridge."

They walked through the chaotic mud of the yard.

'...THE NAME IS INACCURATE,' Obi pulsed against Siurad’s knuckle. '...ZEUS WAS A DEITY OF LIGHTNING. THIS UNIT IS EARTH. HE MOVES TOO SLOW.'

He moves fine, Obi, Siurad thought back. Just observe.

They reached Sector Four—a dense patch of Iron-Bark Pines.

"Pick a tree," Zeus said, leaning on his own axe. "Show me what you got. Don't worry about speed. Just drop it."

Siurad walked up to a medium-sized pine. He rolled his shoulders. Strength wasn't the issue. But ever since he’d put on the Ring, he felt... amplified. A low-level static hummed in his blood, making his heavy frame feel lighter and his grip feel like iron. It wasn't just muscle; it was Authority.

He gripped the handle tight, planted his feet, and summoned that unnatural surge of power that had allowed him to crush a skull yesterday.

"Hah!"

He swung. It was a massive, terrifying blow.

THUNK.

The axe buried itself three inches into the wood... and stuck. The impact vibrated violently up the handle, rattling Siurad’s teeth. The tree didn't even shudder. It just ate the blade.

"Ow," Siurad hissed, trying to yank it free. It wouldn't budge. All that supernatural strength, and the tree was winning.

'...PATHETIC,' Obi droned instantly. '...THE ANGLE OF INCIDENCE WAS FORTY-FIVE DEGREES. YOU NEED THIRTY. AND YOUR ELBOW WAS FLAPPING LIKE A DYING GOOSE.'

"Stop pulling," Zeus called out calmly. "You're fighting the wood. The wood always wins."

Zeus walked over. He didn't look impressed by the raw power Siurad had just displayed; he looked disappointed by the waste of it. "You're strong. Stronger than you look. But you swing like you hate the axe."

"It's a dull axe," Siurad defended, finally wrenching it free with a shower of bark.

"It's a wedge," Zeus corrected. "It works if you let it. Watch. It's not about hacking. It's about the arc."

Zeus raised his own axe. His grip was loose. He slid his top hand up the handle near the head. "Start high. Slide the hand down as you swing. Use the handle as a lever."

Zeus swung. It looked entirely fluid.

CRACK.

A massive wedge of wood flew out. The cut was clean, smooth as glass.

"See?" Zeus pointed. "Top cut. Bottom cut. Make a V. You're trying to cut straight through. That's friction. You want separation."

'...HE IS CORRECT,' Obi admitted, sounding begrudgingly impressed. '...THE VECTOR WAS OPTIMAL. LYSANDER ALWAYS SAID THE V-CUT IS THE ONLY LOGICAL APPROACH TO DESTRUCTION.'

"Try again," Zeus commanded. "Loose hands. Let the weight of the head do the work. You're just guiding it."

Siurad took a breath. Loose hands. Slide the grip. V-cut. He raised the rusty axe.

'...ADJUST YOUR FEET,' Obi interrupted. '...WIDEN THE BASE. YOU ARE TOP-HEAVY. IF THE AXE GLANCES, YOU WILL AMPUTATE YOUR OWN KNEE.'

Noted, Siurad thought dryly. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

'...IT WOULD BE HILARIOUS, BUT INEFFICIENT.'

Siurad widened his stance. He swung. He slid his hand down the shaft, feeling the weight of the iron head accelerate, assisted by that subtle, dark hum in his veins.

THWACK.

A sizable chunk of wood popped out. Not as big as Zeus’s, but clean. No vibration in his arms.

"Better," Zeus nodded, crossing his massive arms. "Again. Don't stop until you find the rhythm. Chopping isn't a fight, kid. It's a heartbeat. Thunk-crack. Thunk-crack."

Siurad swung again. And again.

'...THIRTY DEGREES,' Obi whispered, coaching him like a spectral geometry teacher. '...LOWER. GOOD. NOW THE UPPER CUT. PRECISE.'

For the next hour, the only sounds were the axe biting into the wood and the duet of instructors—one standing beside him with folded arms, and one living in his head, critiquing his geometry.

By the time the tree finally groaned and crashed to the forest floor, Siurad was sweating heavily, but his back didn't hurt nearly as much as it should have.

"Not bad," Zeus grunted, handing Siurad a canteen of water. "You learn fast. Most city boys take a week to figure out the slide."

"I had good teachers," Siurad said, taking a drink.

I did most of the work, Obi projected smugly.

You yelled numbers at me, Siurad thought back. I did the lifting.

Zeus clapped a heavy hand on Siurad’s shoulder. "Keep that up, and you might actually make enough coin to buy a real axe. Now, strip the branches. Sector Four ain't gonna clear itself."

The sun was bleeding out over the horizon by the time Lexaris blew the whistle.

Siurad stumbled out of the treeline, dragging the rusty axe like a fallen comrade. He was covered in sap, sawdust, and mud. His hands were raw blisters, ignoring the calluses he’d earned in his previous life. Gym muscle was nothing compared to ten hours of striking timber.

He queued up at the foreman’s table.

"Axe returned," Lexaris grunted, checking the tool. "Still in one piece. Miracle."

He reached into a heavy sack and tossed a handful of coins onto the table. They scattered in the dirt. Siurad picked them up and counted them.

Twelve copper pieces.

He stared at the coins. He did the math. A meal at the inn was five copper. A room was ten. If he ate and slept, he would be in debt by morning.

"Twelve?" Siurad rasped, his throat bone-dry. "I cleared Sector Four. Zeus said I did the work of two men."

"Newbie rate," Lexaris shrugged, not looking up. "Probationary period. You want silver? Stick around for a month. Prove you aren't going to quit when your blisters pop."

Siurad stared at the foreman. It’s a scam, he realized with a jolt of gamer indignation. It’s the newbie tax. They throttle the XP and gold gain to force retention.

'...ECONOMIC EXPLOITATION,' Obi noted, his voice vibrating with disdain. '...THE LABOR VALUE EXCEEDS THE COMPENSATION. WE SHOULD CORRECT HIM.'

"Not today, Obi," Siurad muttered, pocketing the insultingly light coins. "Today, we just survive."

The walk back to Pine Haven was a blur of pain. Every step sent a jolt of agony up Siurad’s legs. The looted boots were now actively trying to murder his toes.

The town was quieting down. Lanterns flickered to life in windows. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat wafted from the Boar’s Den, making Siurad’s stomach cramp violently.

He was just passing the alleyway behind Limmel’s shop when the Ring pulsed. It wasn't a gentle hum; it was a sharp, biting cold.

'...STOP.'

Siurad stopped, leaning heavily against a rain barrel. "What? Did I miss a loot chest?"

'...THE DAY IS NOT OVER,' Obi commanded. '...YOUR FORM WITH THE AXE WAS EMBARRASSING. YOUR BIOLOGICAL CONDUITS ARE SLUGGISH.'

The air in the alley dropped ten degrees. Shadows began to lengthen, curling unnaturally around Siurad’s boots.

'...WE WILL TRAIN. THERE IS A CLEARING BEHIND THE STABLES. WE WILL PRACTICE THE VOID STEP. TEN REPETITIONS.'

Siurad laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound. "Train?" he asked, holding up his shaking hands. "Obi, I can’t even feel my fingers. My stamina bar isn't just empty; it’s broken. It’s blinking red."

'...FATIGUE IS A VARIABLE,' Obi lectured. '...EVEN THE TRAITOR XARA TRAINED UNTIL SHE BLED. SHE TRAINED UNTIL HER BONES CRACKED. THAT IS HOW SHE BECAME STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK ME.'

"Xara was a monster," Siurad groaned, pushing himself off the barrel. "I'm a guy who just chopped wood for ten hours for the price of a sandwich. I'm not doing magic drills."

'...IF YOU DO NOT TRAIN, YOU WILL BE ERASED,' Obi warned, the pressure in Siurad’s skull increasing to a dull roar. '...THE WORLD IS FULL OF VARIABLES. NETHYUA IS A NUISANCE, BUT EVEN A NUISANCE CAN KILL A SLOTH.'

"Nethyua is a problem for another day, Obi," Siurad said, resuming his limp toward the inn. "Right now? I'm going to eat a bowl of stew that tastes like dishwater, and I'm going to pass out."

'...YOU LACK DISCIPLINE,' Obi seethed. '...LYSANDER WAS A FOOL, BUT HE NEVER COMPLAINED ABOUT HIS FEET. DO NOT MAKE ME REGRET CHOOSING YOU.'

"Yeah, yeah," Siurad muttered, waving a hand dismissively as he pushed open the heavy wooden door to the inn. "Put it on my performance review. We train tomorrow."

'...I WILL WAKE YOU AT DAWN,' Obi promised. '...WITH ICE.'

"Goodnight, Obi."