The Legions of the Nightmare Realm

A hand shook his shoulder.

Nathan shot upright. His voice cracked. “I’m awake. I’m awake.”

Awake was mostly ambition. Dane crouched beside him, half-silhouetted by the faint orange of their campfire.

“Your watch,” Dane said, already rising.

Nathan blinked hard. God, I’d sell a kidney for an energy drink right now. Not even a good one. Just something, anything, with caffeine.

“Right. Watch. Got it.”

Dane nodded once and lay down on his side, facing away from him, a blade still in his grip.

Nathan shook his head. And I’m the idiot who just gets exhausted and passes out. I really need to be more self-aware. I need to rely on myself.

He felt the weight of Bob’s pouch and gave it a light poke. Well… at least I have this guy.

He scanned the fog for movement and let his eyes adjust. Everything around him was still. The fog hung thick, and the trees—if you could call them that—looked like stone columns streaked with moisture, sprouting the occasional spiny leaf cluster. The only light came from scattered patches of bioluminescent moss and flowers. It was eerie.

Try not to think about how many things in here think you're a snack.

He leaned back and stared upward. No motes. No false stars drifting above to make the ceiling pretend to be a sky. Just black.

There had been so many in the manaborn dungeon. Now there was nothing. The whole place felt wrong, as if the dungeon was waiting to torment him in some new way.

He thought of his old thermos idea—sealing motes to carry as fuel. If I can get better at wrapping mana now… maybe I could make something permanent.

A dry laugh escaped him. Yeah. If there were any motes left to test it on.

I guess Bob’s my thermos now—outside-dungeon fuel.

He exhaled slowly. Never going to like being in a dungeon. Then again, who does?

A pause. Okay, maybe Nyx would. For research.

He crouched beside the fire and jabbed at the embers until they flared. Orange light clawed its way up through the ash, pushing back a little more of the dark.

Dane’s silhouette was steady. His shoulder rose and fell in slow, measured breaths. Nathan stared for a while, letting his thoughts unravel.

He ran a thumb along his jaw, tracing the bone line that used to belong to someone else.
Sorry about your family. Sorry about your nightmares. Sorry I’m wearing your murderer’s skin.

Not words anyone could say aloud.

Dane had been haunted by Mason Draegor for seventeen years.
Seventeen years of rage and purpose.

Nathan thought of Dane’s trembling voice from earlier.
What does a man do when his vengeance seems within reach, and the person responsible is gone, and there’s no one left to aim it at?

He could still hear the crack in it, the confession buried under anger. Dane hadn’t wanted truth. He’d wanted a target. Something to aim at. Someone to make the pain make sense. And he was absolutely sure Nathan was not Mason.

Dane wasn’t just angry anymore. He was lost.

I should’ve told him. After everything Dane had said—his family, the years of rage, the way the Collegium had ordered him to stand down—after all that, Nathan should’ve said something real back. My name. The truth. That this body isn’t mine. That he’s right.

He imagined the conversation where he told Dane everything.

You’re right, I’m not him. I’m Nathan. Nathan Kim from Earth. I got pulled through a portal and woke up in your worst enemy’s body. I knew nothing about this world, about Mason, nothing really. The people who now know my identity told me your Collegium would turn me into a research topic with legs. Please keep teaching me to stay alive. Please don’t hand me over to those people. Please don’t decide that killing me solves a problem.

He could hear Dane’s response in six different versions—all of them quiet, none of them surprised, some of them final.

He wanted to trust Dane. He really did. But when it came to actually saying it out loud, the words wouldn’t move. Every time they reached his throat, they stuck.

The old warnings always came crawling back.
Nyx’s voice, sharp as glass: The Collegium would kill to see what’s inside you.
Sera’s steady tone: They’ll call it study. They always do.

The word Collegium alone made his stomach twist.
Interrogation. Torture. Dissection. Vivisection. Study.
That was what happened to anomalies like him.

And Dane was still tied to them.

So he stayed silent.

The guilt twisted sharper. Nathan didn’t owe him an explanation, not when the truth could ruin them both. But it still pressed against his ribs—the unfairness of being hated for things he hadn’t done. Of wearing the face of someone who’d ruined so many lives.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching the fire. Sparks hissed and vanished into the fog.

Dane had lost his family to this body.
Ronan had tried to kill it and physically couldn’t.
The Collegium wanted to weaponize it—or at least study it.
And Nathan was trapped inside it, pretending to belong to a man he’d rather erase.

Dane had said tonight that precision would keep them alive in the Nightmare Realm. Magic and strength. Rhythm over spectacle. The accounts he’d read painted a picture of waves and waves until the world went flat and your thoughts with it. The plan was simple: train until the wrap held like skin. Train his mind to use one word instead of five when the panic hit. Feed Bob. Draw clean. Don’t flood. Survive.

If they survived that, and if the relic kept pointing the same direction—if it was even telling the truth—and if Nyx was still somewhere that could be reached, then maybe answers would follow. Maybe stronger would turn into safer. Maybe safer would turn into a path home.

The thought was both desperate and ordinary. Nathan held it anyway. At least Nyx, he felt, was a stronger ally in the end.

I just want to go home.
I need to be stronger.

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet settle again. The fire cracked.

Kieran. He was absolutely intent on killing me.

I almost let him. Fuck.

How could he ever explain? No. Would Kieran ever let me explain? Dane had said that Kieran had seemed more open to the idea. Can I kill Kieran in self-defense?

Fucking Droswains. They must still be running around here, looking for us. Enemies everywhere in this fucked-up place.

That poor kid. Tryvor.

I need to put my survival first. I want to get out of here. I need to make that my intention.

Somewhere far off, something in the fog gave a soft, wet click—like claws on stone—then silence.

His eyes snapped open.

He kept alert until the sound faded, and then he checked the perimeter again. Shapes shifted out at the edge of the fog where sight stopped making promises. If something watched them, it watched like stone did: patient.

Bob stirred once in the pouch and went still. The little weight was weirdly comforting.

Time moved until the fog thinned toward light.

The fire sank to a hush.

Nathan flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and felt the weight of the night settle into something steadier—resolve. He wanted to live. And somehow, someday, he’d get his body back.

Dane rolled and opened his eyes as if he’d never been asleep.

“Morning.” Nathan couldn’t help himself.

“Morning,” Dane replied. He didn’t ask how the watch went. He didn’t need to. “Let’s eat, then we work.”

Straight to the point. Not like we have time to waste.

“Right.”

They ate some dried meat while Dane brewed a cup of his bitter herbal tea. Nathan fed Bob a scrap of his breakfast.

Bob burbled happily and slid out of his pouch, settling on a nearby root.

I guess it’s fine that he stays out for a bit.

They packed everything away after they finished eating. It was habit by now—gear sealed, rations stowed, and the relic checked twice before Nathan slipped it back into the side pocket of his pack. When the camp looked ready to move at a moment’s notice, Dane stopped and scanned the clearing.

“We’ll continue your training here,” he said.

Nathan adjusted his grip on his sword, already guessing what came next. “The mana wrap? Just my body again?”

“For now,” Dane said. “You need consistency before expansion. Thought before instinct.”

Nathan swallowed. “It’s easier than before—holding it around me—but it feels like the mana… evaporates more quickly.”

“We’ll need to feed your Bob more.” Dane eyed the creature. “I believe he could be eating more. We just haven’t come across many large monster concentrations here.”

“Yeah.” Nathan looked toward the fog. “The lack of motes probably has something to do with that.”

“I assume so. Focus, Boss.”

“I am, I am.”

Nathan had already wrapped his body. He felt the mana slide over him, humming along his skin. It took him a second to realize he’d been talking this whole time—and hadn’t had to think about it.

“Huh. I can talk and do this now.”

“Oh, I thought you hadn’t started,” Dane said. “It’s been in place this whole time?”

“Yes.” Nathan started walking, testing balance and flow.

“I’m impressed,” Dane admitted. “You do learn quickly.”

“I’m not sure how to use less of it, though,” Nathan said. “If I’m going to be wrapping myself, my weapon… maybe even Bob at some point—and thoughtcasting—it sounds like a lot.”

“Yes. Thoughtcasting is power without a governor.” Dane paced a slow circle around him. “A single wrong word in your head, a spike of panic—and the mana rushes out all at once.”

Nathan exhaled through his nose. “So I need to think smaller.”

“Not smaller,” Dane corrected. “Cleaner. Focus on one intent at a time. Don’t let panic add adjectives.”

He drew a sigil in the air, a thin trail of light that lingered for a moment before fading. “You see? Writing helps me measure flow. But you don’t need that. You think, and it happens.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nathan frowned. “Not sure what you’re getting at.”

Dane sensed the disconnect. “It means you have less time to process intent before release—a fraction of the time most mages need. Your thoughts are the trigger. Your margin for error is almost nonexistent.”

Bob gave a faint glorp, hovering near Nathan’s feet.

“So, don’t overthink. Don’t panic. Maybe a mantra will help?” Nathan offered.

Dane ignored that, lowering to a crouch to study Bob. “We’re filling him again later. I need to see how much he can store—and how much you can drain before the connection turns unstable.”

“You think there’s a limit?”

“There’s always a limit. At least, there always has been.” Dane glanced up. “The question is whose we hit first—his or yours.”

They didn’t argue the point.

Instead, they fell back into rhythm. Training turned to motion—fluid, methodical. This time, they went hunting, using Bob as a living indicator. Most of the monsters they found were stragglers, scattered through the fog. Dane relied on his stylus alone, sigils flicking faster each time as he tested release speed. Nathan, meanwhile, focused on phrasing his thoughts precisely enough to keep his wrap intact.

It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Sometimes he managed clean, controlled reactions—but more often he expelled too much. The sword helped with accuracy, but each strike made the wrap stutter. Mana bled faster than Dane could measure.

Bob got to gorge some, but Nathan was also pulling mana from him to stabilize the wrap. The little blob had to learn too—to return the instant Nathan called, to keep pace mid-fight. The coordination took effort. Every command had to be timed, calm, and clear.

When they finally paused to rest after clearing a larger cluster, Bob was already glowing brighter again.

Does he look bigger? Nathan wondered.

Dane noted it with a frown. “He looks full. We’ll keep testing for the threshold before we move.”

“And what if he bursts—or I do?” Nathan asked, only half joking.

“Then we’ll both know the answer,” Dane said flatly.

Nathan let out a short, humorless breath. “You make everything sound comforting.”

“I do believe we’ve made progress,” Dane said after a moment. “Smoother. All of us, together.”

“Yeah,” Nathan said. “It does feel smoother.”

I even surprised myself.

“Once we cross the seam, most of what we face will be specters—nasty mana types. Well, from what I recall, if there haven’t been too many shifts.” Dane adjusted his grip on the stylus. “They’re not physical. Feeding may not even be possible. Whatever charge he carries here—that’s all we’ll have. One day’s worth, if we’re lucky.”

Nathan looked toward Bob. “Let’s hope that’s not the case. But just in case, we better fill him to the brim.”

They kept up the routine for the next day and a half, methodical as clockwork.
The rhythm became like breathing.

Rations. Water. Tea. Scraps for Bob, the garbage disposal. Mana wrap. Dane’s stylus. Magic. Swords. Kill. Consume. Rest. Repeat.

The fog never lifted—gray, heavy, muffling all sense of direction. Sometimes they spoke; more often they didn’t. Only the scrape of boots, Bob's soft noises, and the vibration of mana under Nathan’s skin marked the passing of time. Even the monsters blurred together—shapes that moved wrong, died wrong, and left behind no light.

They made sure not to stray far from where the seam to the Nightmare Realm waited.

By the third afternoon, the monotony broke.

At first, it was the sound—something rhythmic but off, like wood cracking underwater. Then came movement at the edge of the fog.

Nathan froze. His pulse kicked.

Not insects, he told himself immediately. Absolutely not. Nope. We’re not doing that again.

But as the shapes drew closer, denial stopped helping. They only looked like insects if you ignored the stone plating, the spore-veins running under their shells, and the faint luminescence flickering through every joint like veins of sickly quartz. Up close, he realized their bodies were threaded with plant matter—roots, bark, even moss clinging to the armor-like growths. They crept in a low ripple, limbs whispering across the dirt.

He counted. Twelve.

At least they didn’t look like spiders.

“Plant,” Nathan muttered. “Definitely plant.”

“Hybrid somethings,” Dane said quietly. His stylus flashed in one hand, tip sketching quick sigils that hung in the air, ready to be fired. Nathan had seen him do this before—sigils pre-built like traps, patient and deadly.

“And wrong biome again.”

“Figures,” Nathan said. “Why is it always creepy crawlers?”

The line broke toward them with a noise like roots scraping bone.

They didn’t need words to coordinate anymore. They moved like they’d done this a hundred times. Nathan motioned with a finger, and Bob launched at the nearest hybrid. Dane barked, “Stun!”—and a burst of light exploded through the fog as his sigils fired in rapid succession. Once they discharged, he switched seamlessly to his augmented blades.

Nathan tightened his stance. The mana layer already wrapped his body, sliding up the sword’s edge until the weapon gleamed faintly in the haze. He felt it—raw and alive under his skin.

The first crawler struck and splintered. The barrier flexed, hissed, then sealed again.
Behind him, Bob was almost done with his first target, glow swelling until the fog mirrored it back. The little creature trembled once—then lunged for the next.

Where a crawler’s legs brushed Bob’s surface, the light inside him flared to blinding. He latched on with needle-point teeth and absorbed. The hybrid’s body wilted from the center out, filaments curling inward as its life was drained away.

Nathan pivoted around the feeding. He could feel the tug of Bob’s current—a pull through the soles of his boots, the way the air thinned when Bob fed too fast. He’d started noticing it more lately, the rhythm of mana itself—the way it pressed, pulsed, and responded to him.

He kept his breathing steady. Maintain the wrap. Thin. Simple. One intent at a time.

Dane moved several meters back, swords sheathed again, stylus flashing in his hand. He carved invisible arcs through the fog; each line flared pale blue and folded inward, tightening into barriers that funneled the hybrids toward Nathan’s kill zone.

“Left,” Dane ordered.

Nathan stepped left. His sword slid through a crawler’s thorax; the impact felt like cutting through bark soaked in glass. The halves rejoined midair before Bob struck again, catching the core flash and drinking it whole. They worked in sync now—Dane corralling, Nathan cutting, Bob feeding.

The next creature came low. Nathan dropped with it, keeping the wrap tight around his arms, focus narrowing to the weight and direction of his swing. Air pressure vibrated against his skin. When he struck, the motion was sharp and deliberate—just enough to split through the joint and drop it. No flare. No waste.

Dane didn’t stop moving. He shifted the stylus to his off-hand, carving quick arcs through the air that snapped into place like invisible snares. Each loop pulsed once when a crawler hit the boundary, locking the creature’s limbs long enough for Bob to lunge.

“Hold it steady,” Dane said.

“I am,” Nathan gritted out, his voice low.

“Cleaner,” Dane corrected. “You’re still burning through more than you need.”

Bob released a low trill—pleased. His glow had deepened to molten amber as he devoured another hybrid. Nathan didn’t look back.

He adjusted his stance and kept his swings controlled—cripple, withdraw, let Bob finish. The creatures were fast, but Bob was faster. Where his surface touched the crawlers, light flared briefly, and the bodies deflated inward, their energy siphoned clean.

Dane’s stylus carved another series of sigils; each one flared as he barked a new command, forcing the creatures to crumple and narrowing the field. “Behind!” he called.

Nathan turned, blade dropping through a thorax. The crawler went still, twitching. Bob surged forward, engulfing what remained. Together, they moved with practiced rhythm—Dane corralling, Nathan disabling, Bob consuming.

When the last one fell, the fog went quiet again.

Nathan lowered his weapon but didn’t drop focus. The mana still prickled along his skin, waiting for his permission to dissipate.

Bob burped—a small, resonant sound—and dimmed to a steady glow.

Dane deactivated his final sigil, the stylus’ tip cooling from blue to gray. “That went well. Better than I expected. Controlled the wrap. More precision.” He nodded toward Bob. “And he can carry more than expected.”

Bob burbled, smug.

Nathan sheathed the sword but didn’t drop the wrap until Dane gave the signal. His arm still buzzed from the constant current. “So?”

“So,” Dane said evenly, “we try tomorrow.”

Ready wasn’t a feeling. It was a choice.

Nathan nodded once. “All right.”

Bob curled near his boot. He picked him up. He felt heavier—bigger. I don't think he’ll even fit in the pouch. As soon as he thought that, Bob seemed to shrink down, his glow still steady.

“Hm. We’re going to have a talk about this later.”

Bob chirped.

For a moment, everything was still—but beneath the petrified crust of the ground, Nathan could swear he heard roots shifting.

They packed everything in silence.

Gear tightened, Bob coaxed back into his pouch. Despite all the work they’d put in—the training, the drills, the kills—Nathan couldn’t shake the coil of unease in his chest. Not after how Dane had described this place. Not with a name like the Nightmare Realm.

They made it back to the clearing with the seam at a quick pace.

Nathan pulled the relic free. “Nyx,” he whispered. An image flickered faintly—no stag this time, but movement. She was fighting. The image shifted, blurred, and the light grew stronger when he turned it toward the tree.

“The image changed,” Nathan said.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I can see her through it—moving. Fighting something. Like… live.”

“Moving images?” Dane’s brow furrowed. “There are some guild artifacts—communication orbs that let people see and speak across distance. Only two are known to exist. No one could reproduce them. It sounds similar.”

“Like a video call?”

“A what?”

Nathan shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Either way, it means the compass is accurate,” Dane said.

“I mean, we’re betting on that.”

Dane came up beside him, scanning the petrified bark. “Still there, right?”

“Yeah.” Nathan’s throat felt dry.

The seam ran through the petrified trunk. At its center, an opaque yellow light glowed like resin trapped beneath the bark—solid, depthless, and wrong.

Nathan slipped the relic back into his pack. He checked his sword again, feeling the hum of mana through the hilt. His wrap stayed up—full coverage, blade included. He wasn’t about to step through anything called a Nightmare half-armed.

Bob shifted uneasily in his pouch. Nathan patted him. “Stay with me, buddy.”

Dane moved to stand just behind him. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Right,” Dane said. “Forward.”

A hand settled briefly on Nathan’s shoulder.

Nathan nodded once.

“Here we go,” he muttered—and stepped through the glowing seam in the tree.

Nathan blinked.

They stood surrounded by bone-white spires—towers cracked in the middle, leaning against each other like ruins caught mid-collapse. Above them hung a sky the color of dried blood, heavy and close, pressing the horizon into a dull red haze. The air tasted dry, almost scorched, but carried no heat.

“Looks the same,” Dane said quietly behind him. “I don’t see those shapes in the distance, though.”

Nathan nodded. “Maybe they found something else to eat.”

“That would be fortuitous for us. Okay, Boss—which way now? I’d like not to linger.”

Nathan took out the relic. “Nyx,” he murmured.

Another image flickered inside the watery surface—then vanished. When he turned the relic, the light brightened faintly, growing stronger in one direction.

“That way, I guess.”

Dane looked where the relic pointed. “We’ll call that east. Let’s get moving.”

Nathan tucked the relic away. The way Dane spoke—low, deliberate—made the silence feel louder. Even their breathing sounded wrong here, shallow, as if the air refused to carry it.

They began walking.

Dust drifted up around their steps and fell again like ash.

The air stayed heavy, thick enough to feel against his skin. Bob shifted in the pouch, a soft trill muffled by fabric. Nathan pressed a hand against it. “Stay put.”

No wind. No temperature change. Just endless sameness. Broken towers in every direction.

His mind filled the quiet too easily—too quiet.

After a while, he said, “How long since anyone came here?”

“Decades. The accounts stopped when the survivors stopped returning. And I wouldn’t know about the ones where whole parties never came back.”

“Comforting. Doesn’t this seem… shouldn’t we have come across something by now?”

Dane stayed quiet for a moment. “I’ve been wondering the same. Feels too quiet. I do feel something is aware of our presence here—maybe they’re watching.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Right. Maybe it’s scouts, and they’ve gone to inform the rest.”

“Shit. Doesn’t that mean they’re smart?”

“More intelligent. Human-like specters.”

“Double shit.”

“Enjoy this quiet for now,” Dane said. “We should think about defense in case they come en masse.”

Not many places to hide here. “Let me know if you think of something.”

Dane nodded.

“A defensible height would be good. Maybe?”

Dane didn’t answer.

The landscape rolled shallowly ahead—broken towers and ruins. Most were shattered near the top, hollowed, their insides slick with pale residue. Nathan didn’t want to guess what it was.

Minutes turned into an hour. It was hard to tell time here. The sky didn’t change.

He stopped to check the relic again. “Nyx.”
It brightened in the same direction. Still east. He slipped it back into his pack.

Dane slowed, scanning behind them. “Don’t turn,” he said quietly.

Nathan’s stomach tightened. “Why?”

“We’re definitely being followed.”

“How many?”

“Several.”

It sounded like he meant a lot more than several. Nathan tensed.

“They’ve surrounded us—coming in from the back.”

He tried to swallow, but the air was too dry. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. The dust trails behind us shifted. Not wind.”

Nathan exhaled slowly. “No retreat now, right?”

Dane’s reply came like a vow. “No retreat.”

Nathan wanted to ask if that was meant as encouragement or resignation, but the look on Dane’s face told him it didn’t matter.

“Fuck. Okay… I’ve been noticing for a while—in the distance,” he said, pointing casually. “That tower seems to be intact.”

“Yes,” Dane said. “Keep a steady pace for now. Conserve energy.”

They picked up the pace toward the distant tower. The landscape didn’t change—just more gray, more ruin, more distance pretending to be progress.

Nathan kept his eyes forward. He could feel them out there, somewhere behind the dust, watching. If they wanted to attack, why didn’t they? Waiting for something? Herding them?

Even Bob stayed still in the pouch, unnaturally quiet. No soft noises, no curious movement. There was mana in the air—Nathan could feel it—but the little creature didn’t stir. That scared him more than anything.

The silence felt stretched, like the world was holding its breath.

When the first tremor came, it was small enough he thought he imagined it.
Dust rippled outward in a neat ring from somewhere ahead. Then again—closer.
Not thunder. Not falling rock. Rhythmic.

Nathan stopped. “Dane.”

“I hear it. And feel it.”

Right. Hard not to.

They crouched low. The sound grew—a pattern like multiple steps syncing, too many limbs for a few creatures.
Then the dust ahead began to rise, column by column, as if stirred from beneath.

Dane’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s a lot of somethings.” He stood a little taller. “They’re… riding…?”

“Who’s they?”

Dane froze. His eyes widened.

The dust parted.

Shapes emerged—thin riders astride massive, spider-shaped beasts, the creatures moving in perfect, wrong synchrony. Their legs bent both ways, joints clicking in a rhythm that made the air feel uneven. The beasts’ bodies were black and bristling, covered in coarse hair matted with dust, their eyes faintly gleaming like wet obsidian.

The riders looked ghostly, almost skeletal, with pale bone frameworks visible beneath stretched skin. Their torsos tapered seamlessly into the spiders’ spines, as if they’d been grown there—one body, one motion, never separate. Where faces should have been, hollow cavities flickered with faint, shifting light.

Nathan’s pulse kicked. “Oh, come on. Spiders? Giant spiders.”

“Run!” Dane barked.

Nathan spun, took three steps, then half-turned, flinging bursts of mana wide—too much.
“Remember—not too much!” Dane shouted.

“It’s spiders! With ghost riders! I'm trying,” Nathan yelled back, hurling another wave before sprinting again.

“More incoming—from the sides!”

“What?” Nathan glanced back. Between the towers, new shapes crawled—hordes of smaller things and larger things. Different beasts. So damn many!

"Physical and mana types?"

"Yes!" Dane huffed.

“Ah, hell, no!”

He turned and ran full tilt with Dane toward the tower. The ground shook under them, dust rolling in sheets as the gaps closed behind.

Up close, the surface looked like carved stone—still intact, impossibly smooth beneath layers of gray dust. They circled the base, searching for any kind of seam or opening.

They hit the far side hard. “Where—where’s the door?” Nathan gasped.

“I’ll make one.”

Dane shouted, “Alter!” A sigil flared across the wall, lines of light threading through the bone-like surface.

He grabbed Nathan’s arm, and they stumbled through. The wall solidified again the instant Nathan’s foot cleared it—just as the first wave struck outside.

“Fuck, that was close!”

A thunderous BAM—BAM—echoed through the wall, dust spilling from seams above.

“Up!” Dane ordered. “Go—now!”

Nathan looked around. The interior was a hollow shaft wrapped in ribs—a warped chute that might once have been stairs. The walls pulsed faintly under the glow of Dane’s sigil, organic and wrong.

“How? The stairs are gone!” Nathan shouted.

“Shit.”

Dane’s hand flew, stylus flashing. “Carve!”

The word cut through the air. Sigils flared. The nearest rib thickened, flexing into a narrow path that clung to the inner wall. It wasn’t stone—it was something that decided to be solid when commanded.

Not true stairs, just footholds—architecture taking instruction and pretending it had always been that way.

“Move,” Dane said. “They’ll breach soon.”

“How are we supposed to hold them off? You’re going to run out of mana at this rate!”

“I know,” Dane said, already climbing. “I’ll hold back when we reach a vantage. Let’s find a window and assess.”

Nathan followed close behind. The spire creaked under their weight, like climbing through a creature’s throat. Every vibration from outside rattled through the ribs.

He reached a slit first—an opening in the wall where faint gray light bled through. He looked out.

“Holy shit.”

The world outside churned—masses of creatures flooding toward the spire from every direction, riders fusing into larger forms, dust boiling around them like a storm.

“This is worse than I thought,” he breathed.

“Boss,” Dane said, voice sharp. “Your mana—extend it around the tower.”

“Do what now?”

“Shield it. Reinforce the outer skin before they break through.”

Nathan’s pulse spiked. “You think I can cover a whole building?”

“Think smaller,” Dane said. “Just do it.”

Nathan gritted his teeth. “We’re going to die.”

“Not yet.”

“Fine. I’ll try!” Nathan pressed a hand to the inner wall.
“Wrap.”

It took a moment, but his mana extended—slow at first, like pushing through thick syrup—then spread wider, coating the inner surface in a translucent shimmer. The spire vibrated under his palm, as if tasting it.

“Not sure how long I can keep this up!” he yelled.

“It’s an extension of yourself,” Dane said, calm even now, stylus moving over the ribs.

“Easy for you to say!” Nathan shot back. The glow along the wall rippled with the strain of his pulse.

“Then breathe with it. Calm. Precision.”

“Yeah, thanks for the tip, Mr. Miyagi.”

The spire groaned again—another impact rolling through from below. Dust rained down in thin gray streams.

“It looks like it’s working,” Dane said. “Absorbing the impacts.”

A crack spidered up the wall at that moment.

“Or not!” Nathan snapped.

Bob stirred in the pouch, gave a nervous trill, and slipped free—climbing up Nathan with a soft glorp. His glow deepened, tendrils twitching.

“Not the best time,” Nathan muttered, switching one hand for a foot to keep contact with the wall.

Bob pressed a tendril to Nathan’s neck.

The surge hit instantly—like a hundred energy drinks at once.

“Oh, fuck.” Nathan’s vision swam; he lost contact with the wall for half a second before Dane caught his arm.

“I think you should keep—oh.” Dane froze. “You’re glowing.”

“Wha—?”

Nathan could feel the mana now—every thread of it. His feet alone were enough to maintain contact, the current moving through him like backpressure from something vast.

Bob went dark, collapsing back into a dull, swamp-colored blob.

“Bob? Are you okay?” Nathan asked, cupping him in both hands. He pushed a little mana back into the creature.

He gave a soft chirp.

“Good job, buddy,” he murmured, sliding him carefully back into the pouch.

“He’s out of mana,” Dane said quietly.

“It’s fine! Let’s get to the top and start thinning them out—on the crow’s nest. It looked open up there!”

They climbed fast. The ribs of the tower flexed beneath their boots, reforming into slick footholds whenever Dane stabbed a sigil to force compliance. Nathan could still feel the mana running through him, burning cold under his skin, pricking every nerve.

By the time they reached the top, light bled through the last curve of the shaft. The opening wasn’t really a roof—just a jagged ring of ribs with nothing above it but the blood-colored sky.

Nathan hauled himself up and froze.

The view hit like a gut punch.
A full 360 degrees of ruin.
The bone field stretched endlessly, spires jutting at every angle. And in every gap between them, movement—riders, crawlers, and pale shapes that shimmered like heat mirages. The entire horizon was alive.

“Holy… hell,” he breathed. “We’re not fighting an army. This is—this is the world trying to kill us.”

Dane pulled himself up beside him, scanning the chaos below. “Hold your focus.”

Nathan’s pulse hammered. He could feel everything—a thousand signatures in the dust. Mana currents crawled across the landscape like veins under skin, each one a flare of colorless energy in his mind.

“I can see them,” he whispered. “No, feel them. The mana types—fire, decay, void… they’re all bleeding together. The big ones are clustering east.”

“That’s our direction,” Dane said grimly.

Nathan laughed once, short and wild. “Of course it is. Let's worry about the current situation.”

Shapes swarmed up the spire—the human-shaped first, orc-like things, others he couldn’t name, black- or green-limbed—scrabbling for purchase. They slid off his mana wrap, then started stacking. The tower drummed under constant impacts.

Nathan drew the sword. The blade caught the red sky and reflected it back in white. “Alright. New rule. We don’t die on the first floor or the first defensive nest.”

He took a breath, feeling the mana flood his limbs—too much, but controlled. He picked one direction, let instinct and that strange, heat-map sense guide him. Every mana type pulsed in his mind like signals, and he chose the brightest, nearest cluster.

“Annihilate,” he whispered.

The sword sang—mana searing through in an arc sharper than anything he’d ever swung.

“I can see your mana!" Dane’s voice jumped, just short of a shriek. "Very clearly."

Far below, dozens of climbing shapes vaporized at once, their signatures blinking out of Nathan’s vision.

“Boss,” Dane said softly. “You’re drawing their attention.”

“Good. Maybe they’ll stop climbing.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The horizon shifted—more large shapes were inbound.

“Oh, come on,” Nathan groaned.

Dane’s voice stayed steady. “I’ll take the other side! You keep cutting them down here.”

Nathan grinned without looking back. “Oh, you mean keep doing what I’m doing? Great plan!”

“Exactly,” Dane called, sigils flashing in the corner of Nathan’s eye.

Nathan set his jaw, raised the sword again, and focused on the next surge of mana. The world below screamed as he swung.

For a moment—just one—it looked like light could win.
Then the next wave started to climb.

More than an hour passed before the waves finally began to thin.
Not over—just… slower. The tower still shuddered now and then, but the climbing shapes were fewer, scattered.

Nathan leaned on his sword, catching his breath. “Finally,” he muttered. His arms still buzzed. He wasn’t sure if that was power or impending burnout.

Across the crow's nest, Dane was panting, one hand braced against the stone. “I’m… too low on mana. My reserve’s dry.”

“Got it!” Nathan called. “I’ll cover! Eat something—herbs, jerky, whatever you’ve got left!”

Dane didn’t argue. He dropped to one knee, fumbling for his pack, chewing a handful of dried leaves and grimacing. “Tastes like dirt.”

“Yeah, well,” Nathan said between breaths, scanning the horizon. “Beats dying.”

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The swarm had stopped climbing. Nathan could almost feel his heartbeat slow. He’d gotten better at cutting—at separating physical and mana types, reading them through that heat-map sense. It felt… easy now. Too easy.

He frowned. “Hey, Dane. This adrenaline thing—I’m not gonna crash later, right? Like a burnout?”

“Not a clue,” Dane said, voice muffled. “We’ll deal with that when you stop glowing.”

Nathan snorted and looked at his hand—he really was glowing. The world below was still for the first time since they’d arrived. A lull.

“So,” Nathan said finally, quieter. “We still heading east?”

“That was the plan.”

“Right.” He exhaled, wiping grit from his cheek. “Guess after a nap, we—”

A deep rumble cut him off.
The tower vibrated—not an impact this time. A pulse.

They froze.

It rolled again, lower, slower… then stopped.

The silence that followed felt wrong. Too even. Too clean.

Nathan straightened, every nerve prickling. “Dane…?”

Then he heard it.

A chanting—like something whispering along his bones.

Hun…gry…

The word repeated, fractured across a thousand voices.

Hun…gry… hungry… hungry…

He went still, throat dry. “You hear that?”

Dane looked up sharply. “The shrieking?”

“No.” Nathan’s voice thinned. “They’re saying something.”

“They’re screaming.”

“No.” He swallowed hard. “They’re saying hungry.”

Dane stopped chewing greens stuck to his lips. "Are you saying you can understand the monsters?"

They went silent again. All at once.

Nathan peeked over the side.

A large human-shaped specter rode a beast the size of an elephant. Looks important.

Then it spoke in a booming voice. “Human!”

Nathan’s eyes went wide. He pointed at himself. “Yes?”

The thing smiled—something wicked.

Dane hissed, “You can understand it?”

Nathan didn’t look at him; he waved a hand behind him to shush.

“You seem to have quite the mana presence,” the creature said. “I am going to drain you dry.”

Nathan blinked once.
“Well, that’s not very friendly.”
He laughed—low, breathless, and just a little unhinged.
“I’m feeling pretty good today.” He lifted the sword, eyes bright. “Let’s go, bitch.”