Kael stood in the center of his square, brushing dirt off his robes after being unceremoniously dumped through a portal by Zibbit. He barely had time to collect himself before the voices started flooding his mind, one after another, each one pulling his attention in different directions.

  Kael could feel the pressure of Vor’s voice, harsh and demanding through his link with Argarath, the wisp he had just given Vor.

  Kael? Where you?

  Kael’s mind flicked to Lira’s voice next, soft but filled with concern. Kael? Did you make it back to your square safely?

  Before Kael could respond, Skrindle appeared beside him, as if conjured by the mere thought of him. The imp buzzed in the air, his wings fluttering as he looked Kael over with panic in his eyes. “You’re crazy, Kael,” Skrindle muttered, his voice in disbelief. “You really asked Zibbit those questions?”

  And just when Kael thought he could ignore the rest, a voice broke through—sweet, almost sickly, like the air thick with the scent of flowers gone foul. "Kael," the voice cooed, its presence curling around him. "Could I have a word with you? If you have a moment..."

  Kael stiffened. He recognized that voice. He didn’t need to hear it again to know who it was.

  Kael focused on Argarath, the wisp that floated in a square far away from him. Argarath, sensing his discomfort, pulsed lightly in response.

  Please wait.

  The wisp traced the words in the air through the mental link, and Kael hoped it could placate the demon general.

  He took a slow breath and focused on Lira’s voice. "Give me a minute," he telepathically responded. "I need to speak to someone."

  He could feel Lira’s presence, her usual steadiness, her understanding even without words, but she gave no immediate response. Kael slipped the Ring of Link off his finger. The gold band, engraved with runes, fulfilled its purpose for now.

  I know where all these voices are coming from, Kael thought. His gaze flicked toward the air around him, sharp and knowing. Except one.

  "I recognize that voice," Kael said aloud, his voice carrying in the quiet of his square. “How could I talk to you outside of the Sunday meeting, Pathox?”

  There was no response. Instead, Kael felt a peculiar skittering against his skin, as if something small and rapid was moving over his shoulder. He instinctively jerked his head to the side and was met with an unsettling sight. A little fleshy mass had sprouted on his shoulder, its many legs wiggling in frantic circles, its body quivering slightly. The mass opened up, and a slit appeared on its surface, like a mouth.

  Pathox’s voice, as smooth and insidious as ever, came from the fleshy creature. "I apologize for the intrusion, Kael. But I needed to have a word with you. Privately."

  Kael’s eyes widened in shock. He had thought his wisps to be a method of communication between Masters was genius. But it looked like other Masters had found workarounds like him.

  “You’ve got my attention, Pathox. Now what?”

  The creature’s mouth slit stretched slightly wider, as though it were smiling. Pathox’s voice rang out once more, smooth and deliberate. “I know you intend to help Vor with his goals. But let me be clear,” he continued, the voice turning cold and final. “It’s a futile effort.”

  “Why do you say that?” Kael asked, his voice almost dismissive but he thought it in his mind too. Why?

  The wriggling creature shifted, its tiny legs moving erratically as it spoke again. “Vor will never top the all-time kill record,” Pathox said. “It’s impossible. And the reason is simple.”

  “Go on.”

  “Vor’s method of warring, his army versus army approach, will never work. It only prolongs the system. Kael, the Outside Races’ armies that Vor kills. They come back. They reincarnate. And his own army? It’s resummoned, again and again. The war becomes a cycle. Endless. Mindless. And in the end, Vor’s conquest won’t have any lasting impact.”

  Kael’s mind turned the words over. It was a conclusion similar to his own. The system seeked to trap Masters in an endless cycle and Vor’s brute force method lacked something needed to break the cycle.

  “I see,” Kael said. “But if that’s true, then why do you think Vor continues to use the same methods? Why does he persist?”

  “Because he does not understand the system, Kael. He cannot see beyond the bloodshed.”

  The fleshy mass twitched, a barely noticeable shudder, and then Pathox’s voice continued, slow and deliberate. “I heard the questions you asked Zibbit. You want to change things, don’t you? You want to break the system.”

  "How do you propose I do that?"

  “Kael, you need to think more like the Dread Architect.”

  The mention of the Dread Architect caught Kael off guard. Kael knew nothing about the Architect, aside from his record, and Pathox was suggesting to think like him.

  “Think like the Dread Architect? What do you mean?”

  Pathox didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, there was nothing but the soft skittering of the fleshy mass.

  "Do you know the population of Outside Races, Kael?"

  Kael blinked, his thoughts briefly derailed. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. He had seen the races, interacted with some—humans and fae. But he never considered how many of them existed.

  Pathox’s voice grew quieter, almost as if savoring the moment. "There are two hundred million living beings among the Outside Races," he said. “Humans, fae, Ardurans, Beastfolk, and the others. Two hundred million, Kael. Two hundred million souls, fighting, struggling, living."

  Kael thought about it. It was a large number but Kael couldn’t put together the reason Pathox asked this until it finally hit him.

  "If there are two hundred million," Pathox continued, his voice taking on a darker tone, "how did the Architect kill fourteen billion?"

  The question struck Kael like a hammer blow. That was more than the combined population of all the Outside Races. It didn’t make sense. No amount of war could account for that many deaths.

  "I’m sure you’re going to tell me," Kael said.

  "No," Pathox said with a laugh that eerily came from the skittering mass. "I don’t know how the Architect did it. The methods he used, the means of it—that is something I possess no knowledge on."

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Kael’s chest tightened. If Pathox, with all his power, didn’t know the answer, how could he?

  "So," Pathox said, "that’s why you shouldn’t be helping Vor. You should figure out a way to break the record.”

  The implications of Pathox’s words were heavy. But Kael had already made the decision.

  “I need the gold from Vor to start my own conclave. So futile or not, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why do you even want a conclave?”

  Kael blinked, his thoughts grounding themselves for a moment. He had asked himself that question countless times. He was driven by something deeper than just power. It was the need to make a difference in a world that was so often twisted by greed and destruction. His people, the Masters, his kind, needed guidance, something beyond the constant battles for survival.

  “I want to help,” Kael said, his voice steady, though there was a quiet force behind the words. “I want to help Masters. Help my people. They’re caught in this endless cycle of struggle and suffering.”

  “Is that so? You’re not interested in the record, then?”

  Kael could feel the thoughts of the wish stirring in the back of his mind. The desire, the need for the wish, the power to have anything, to rewrite everything. The temptation gnawed at him..

  No. What he wanted was something else.

  He thought of the wish again—the possibility of wishing the squares away, of freeing the Masters from their endless war, of removing the chains that bound them all to this twisted system. The idea was intoxicating, but it was too far out of reach.

  “I’m not going to reach the record,” Kael replied. "I’m not chasing that impossible dream. Not when I can do something real."

  “But why do you want the record, Pathox?” Kael asked. “Why are you so obsessed with it?”

  Pathox’s response was slow, thoughtful. The mass’s tendrils shifted slightly as if reacting to Kael’s question.

  “I don’t want the record, Kael. The record isn’t the goal. It’s the method."

  “The method?” Kael repeated. It sent a shiver down Kael’s spine. “All this is to you is a puzzle. Something for you to figure out?”

  “Oh yes,” Pathox said, the slit in the mass twisting to a deformed grin. “A puzzle. A game. And, like any game, it’s fun to figure out the rules. To bend them. To make them work for you.”

  Kael’s jaw tightened. Kael’s fists clenched at his sides, his gaze hardening. He had known, deep down, that this wasn’t just about survival. It was about manipulation. It was about playing the system. And Pathox talked about it openly like a child’s game.

  Pathox's laughter, deep and low, filled the space between them. "You have to understand, Kael," he said.

  The little fleshy lump began to wither. Its flesh seemed to dissolve, turning from a soft, fleshy texture into something that appeared dry, cracked, and brittle. The skittering legs that had been so alive moments ago slowed, their movements stilled as if its lifeforce was drained.

  The laughter ceased. The voice ceased too.

  The small, wriggling creature had turned to ash, its purpose in this moment extinguished as easily as a candle blown out in the wind. Was this how Pathox treated his tools? It wasn’t just the creature that had been discarded. It was the entire interaction, the coldness of it all, that left a bitter taste in Kael’s mouth.

  The air felt still after Pathox’s departure, the conversation replaying in Kael’s mind. But before he could lose himself in his thoughts, a familiar voice interrupted his contemplation.

  Skrindle had been hovering nearby, listening intently to the exchange. The imp zipped into view, his wings buzzing with an odd combination of irritation and curiosity. “Pathox is obviously up to something. You can’t let that slide.”

  “Yeah, I know. He is up to something, and I need to figure out what.”

  Skrindle’s wings fluttered as he hovered in front of Kael, almost as though he were preparing to land. “You know,” the imp said, his voice sharp again, “Zibbit is going to punish you for asking all those questions. You realize that, right?”

  The imp’s words were a sobering reminder, the shift in conversation pulling him into the present, rather than the future.

  “Yeah, I thought Zibbit would answer my questions,” Kael said. “But it’s okay. I’ll find those answers myself.”

  “No, Kael. It’s not okay. There are always consequences."

  “What are the consequences?” Kael asked.

  Skrindle stammered for a moment, caught in the tension that had suddenly filled the air. “I-I’m not sure,” the imp said, his wings faltering as he hesitated. “But... but Zibbit has a way of making things go his way.”

  “Whatever they are, I’ll be ready for them.”

  Kael wasn’t interested in backing down. He never had been.

  ******

  Zibbit’s massive form lumbered down the long hallway, his footsteps echoing through the stone. The sound reverberated like the steps of something ancient, something that had been here far longer than the fragile Masters who populated the squares.

  His body was a grotesque mix of impish features and oversized proportions. His wings twitched nervously behind him, a constant reminder of the fear that always gnawed at him, no matter how much power he wielded.

  As he walked, orbs floated beside him, their glow illuminating the path. Each orb contained the image of a different square, a different Master. Some alive, some not.

  They flickered in and out, their images constantly shifting. Zibbit’s own orb, a massive, gleaming sphere that followed him like a shadow, hummed faintly behind him, its surface reflecting the corridors around them.

  He reached the set of massive double doors at the end of the hallway, the doors larger than anything he had ever seen. Zibbit hesitated for a moment, his wings twitching in uncertainty, before he pushed the doors open with a grunt of effort.

  Zibbit’s head hung low as he entered the grand chamber, a floating platform in the void. Zibbit knelt immediately, his massive form folding into a bow that seemed almost comical given his size.

  “My Lord,” Zibbit’s voice quivered as he spoke. “A Master is asking questions that shouldn’t be asked."

  The voice that responded was not one Zibbit would ever dare challenge. It was a deep rumble that vibrated through the very air. It came everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  WHO?

  The orb floating behind Zibbit flared brighter, casting a flickering light across the void. He gestured toward the orb, and it shifted. The image that appeared was of Kael, standing in his square, his face firm, his posture unwavering.

  There was a silence that stretched for far too long before the voice returned.

  HE NEEDS TO LEARN.

  “Yes, my lord," Zibbit said, his voice barely audible. "I will ensure it is done."

  As the voice fell silent, Zibbit remained kneeling. He could feel it. Kael, that young, ambitious fool, was playing a game. A dangerous game.

  Still, Zibbit could not stop a small twinge of pity for the new Master. Even the Gods can’t save him from the Lord Of The Squares.

  ******

  In the dead of night, Mrs. Keys was stirred awake by a sudden, unnerving sound.

  Jingling.

  Jingling like a thousand keys at once, reverberating in her home. Then came the tremor.

  Her eyes snapped open. The chest of keys at the foot of her bed was shaking violently, more aggressively than she had ever seen. The light from within the chest flickered, each pulse brighter than the last.

  The tremors subsided as quickly as they had begun, leaving a stillness in the room. The glow from the chest dimmed, returning to its usual steady radiance.

  Mrs. Keys, her hands trembling slightly, stood and went to her chest of keys. She opened the lid and inside, instead of a single spawned key, she found a pile of bronze rank test keys.

  Bronze keys, each one gleaming in the faint light, each one unique. And on each key was a name—etched clearly into the metal. Some she knew but others she didn’t recognize.

  Her chest of keys had never acted this way before. The keys had always come in their own time. But something had changed.

  Far across the sands, in Isuk-Ur, a city of scorching heat and ancient stone, the scene was mirrored. In the heart of the desert city, a shopkeeper of the Anduran race, a figure of stone with ornate silks draped across his broad, granite form, felt a violent tremor. He turned to the chest that rested behind his counter. The keys inside the chest clattered violently, the glow blinding.

  His fingers trembled as he moved toward the chest, a heavy sigh escaping his stone lips. He had seen many strange occurrences in his time, but nothing like this.

  With great care, he opened the chest, and much like Mrs. Keys in Newvale, his gaze fell upon a pile of keys—bronze rank tests. Etched into each piece, names he recognized, and others he did not.

  A thousand miles away, a cat-like humanoid worked in a distant workshop, her sharp claws lightly tapping on the metal. She wore thick goggles, the lenses smudged with ash and soot, as she welded pieces of iron and steel together, shaping them into something useful.

  But then, it came. The vibration. She paused, a frown creasing her face as she looked up and saw the chest at the corner of her shop shake intensely.

  The noise was like a thousand little bells, clanging against each other endlessly. With a quick flick of her hand, she removed her goggles, setting them down as she moved toward the chest. And when she opened the lid, there they were—bronze keys in a pile.

  The game was changing.

  ******