Daiyu’s boots echoed through the tunnel as they walked, the steady rhythm of iron and stone filling the silence between them. The weight on her shoulder—Quasi, smug as always—shifted with every step, tail flicking lazily against her neck.

  She finally broke the quiet. “Are you actually planning to blow up the facility? Because if the fume stops, the city suffers. People die.” Her tone was sharper than intended, but she didn’t retract it.

  The cat didn’t even look guilty. “Don’t worry about it.” He waved a paw dismissively. “All will be revealed in due time.”

  Daiyu frowned. “Maybe you could reveal sooner.” She taps the satchel at her side. “Because I’ve got half a mind to throw away these vials.”

  Quasi rolled his eyes. “Fine. A hint, then.” He stretched, claws flexing idly. “How is the fume produced?”

  She blinked. “I… don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t. Hardly anyone does.” His tone softened, though his eyes gleamed with mischief. “Now imagine—what method of producing fume would be so vile, so detestable, that stopping it would be a mercy?”

  The question hit harder than she expected. She’d never asked herself where the endless violet gas came from—only that it powered runes and lights. The thought that its creation could be immoral hadn’t crossed her mind.

  “If it harms innocents,” she said slowly, “then I’d destroy it. Or… shift that harm onto the ones who deserve it.”

  Quasi’s grin widened, fangs flashing faintly in the dim light. “And if that’s impossible?”

  Daiyu folded her arms, frown deepening. “Then I’d stop it. Permanently.”

  The cat’s paw tapped gently against her head. “Good girl.” His voice was almost approving, but the glint in his eyes made it hard to tell if he was teasing or testing her. “Now pick up the pace. I’d like to reach the tower before nightfall.”

  She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag and kept walking, unease gnawing at the edge of her thoughts. For the first time, she wondered what kind of line she’d just agreed to cross—and whether her new captain already intended to burn right past it.

  _______________________________________________

  Leaving Fumehold behind, Daiyu and Quasi walked the long stone road that cut through the island’s central wilderness. The land between cities was quiet—too quiet. A place with no laws should’ve been swarming with bandits, slavers, and desperate men.

  Instead, Quasi watched a fully armed Inquisition patrol march past, silver masks gleaming, halberds resting on armored shoulders. Every one of them slowed to give him and Daiyu an evaluating side-eye.

  “So,” Quasi mused, tail swishing, “why are the Inquisition babysitting the main road? This place screams ‘rob me’ energy.”

  Daiyu kept her stride steady. “Sparkhold and Fumehold have… issues.”

  “Violent issues?” Quasi prompted, already guessing the answer.

  “Constant issues,” she corrected. “Skirmishes, sabotage, political pettiness turned lethal. The Inquisition stepped in and offered to patrol the roads so merchants—and civilians—don’t get caught in the crossfire. In exchange, the islands agreed to no taxes and full self-governance for Inquisition grounds.”

  Quasi flicked his tail as another patrol passed—their footsteps unnervingly synchronized. “And how’s that working out?”

  “No idea,” Daiyu admitted. “But fewer guards meeting means fewer opportunities for people to start killing each other.”

  “Fair,” Quasi said, deadpan. “Less murder is generally good for public morale.”

  They rounded a bend, and the Tower came into view—an impossibly tall white spire spearing the sky. Even from a distance, it radiated reverence and danger simultaneously.

  “Huh, the Tower Ecclesiasticus has a presence here too,” Quasi muttered.

  At the base sat a gathering of wolven folk, all kneeling in orderly rows. A [Priest] delivered a sermon, his voice calm and steady. Behind him stood armored [Paladins], shields gleaming with runes.

  And further back—watching with open distaste—the Inquisition stood guard, hands never far from weapons. Their masked faces tilted with silent judgment toward the [Paladins], who returned the sentiment with similar contempt.

  Daiyu scanned the tension between factions and swallowed. “This… looks like a fight waiting to happen. Are you absolutely sure you want to go there?”

  “Oh yeah,” Quasi said cheerfully. “Gotta get this over with. Hopefully it doesn’t take days.”

  “Days?” she echoed. “Over with? What are you talking about?”

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  He grinned. “I’d show you, but I need to be on my ship to add you to my crew. Shame, really.”

  They approached the base of the tower. As they did, both Paladins and Inquisitors shifted, hands resting on hilts, but neither group moved to stop them.

  Only when they stepped near the kneeling worshippers did the [Priest] falter mid-sermon. Dozens of wolven heads lifted.

  “No need to stop.” Quasi exclaims aloud.

  Hearing his voice, they turned their heads in surprise. Then—they all stared at Quasi.

  A heartbeat of stunned silence passed.

  Then every single worshipper lowered themselves further, heads nearly to the ground, whispering a single word:

  “Apostle…”

  Daiyu froze, utterly blindsided. “What—Why—why are they bowing to you?”

  Quasi closed his eyes and exhaled a long, suffering sigh. “Goddammit, James,” he muttered. “I’m not a fucking Messiah.”

  “What’s happening?” Daiyu demanded in a whisper.

  “It’s a long story,” he groaned. “Long, stupid, story. Just… stay here. Don’t start a religion while I’m gone.”

  He hopped off her shoulder and trotted between the bowed forms. Some of them reached trembling hands toward him—none dared touch.

  He stopped before the tower’s entrance: a shimmering translucent barrier, shimmering like frozen light. Above it, carved in stone:

  Here lies the test of the World

  Through Strength you will Climb

  Through Endurance you will Ascend

  Through Vitality you will Scale

  Quasi squinted up at it.

  “Oh great. Climbing. Definitely climbing. Probably a mountain. Or a giant tree. Or a metaphorical cliff. Well… good thing I can fly.”

  He stepped through the barrier like passing through water. The air inside shifted instantly—thick, heavy, tinged with earth and ancient stone.

  Before ascending, he glanced back. Every worshipper stared with wide, astonished eyes. Even the [Paladins] tensed in quiet awe.

  Quasi flashed them a wink and a toothy grin.

  Then he turned and padded up the stairs, tail swaying behind him.

  Ready to begin whatever ridiculous “test of the world” waited above.

  ________________________________________________________

  The moment I step out of the tower, I am greeted not by some elegant divine challenge of marble and light, but by a tree—a single colossal trunk at least a mile thick, rising so high into the heavens that its peak disappears into a dense, churning cap of clouds. Layers upon layers of branches, each broad enough to host a modest town, stretch outward in tangled architecture, forming a vertical jungle dense with interwoven leaves the size of sails and vines as thick as rigging rope. Circling this monstrous thing are birds, though calling them birds feels like underselling the problem: some are human-sized, others nearer to horses, and a few skirt the border of “wyvern,” all of them wheeling in endless screeching patterns that thicken the air with a furious, feathered storm.

  “So, flying is probably out of the question,” I sigh, watching a particularly large one flap its wings with hurricane force. “Guess it’s climbing time.”

  I let the Fenrimorph take me—muscle swelling, fur bristling, the new white spine protruding like a proud banner—and sprint toward the roots. The movement immediately draws attention; several hawks break formation and begin tight spirals down toward me, talons poised. Curious about their durability, I deliberately slow, letting them think I’m easy prey. When they dive, I pivot sharply and meet each one with a punch powerful enough to turn their hollow bones into splintered bursts of feathers. Their bodies crumple on impact, light as paper, and for a moment I think maybe they’re not as dangerous as their numbers suggest and that I can indeed just take flight.

  That thought dies instantly.

  A shriek so loud it feels like a physical force tears across the sky. I look up to find the entire flock descending en masse—thousands upon thousands, a black vortex of wings and beaks and fury pouring downward like some cosmic punishment. They don’t dive so much as fall toward me with murderous intent.

  “Right. Not hawks. Crows. Giant, angry, industrial-grade crows. Perfect.”

  I bolt. My leaps crack the earth beneath me and send me soaring toward the tree’s shadow. The instant I cross beneath its lowest branches, the cawing cuts off sharply, as though someone slammed a door on the sound; the flock scatters back to their aerial territory. Apparently the tree itself is neutral ground.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “We do this the old-fashioned way.”

  Above me stretches a jungle turned vertical: a wild, interlocked ecosystem stacked on top of itself in precarious, tangled architecture. I bend my knees and spring upward, landing on a massive branch that trembles under my weight before I leap again. Dozens of creatures scatter as I ascend—monkeys with too many eyes, lizards that spark when startled, something like a wingless bat dragging itself across bark—but I spare none of them a glance as I drive myself higher and higher through the living labyrinth.

  My momentum halts abruptly as I nearly plunge face-first into a spider web.

  Not a delicate web. A monstrous one—strands of silk as thick as my finger, glistening with sticky resin. A single test tap reveals the substance is clingy enough to become a lifelong regret if it touches fur.

  “I wonder what the giant spider looks like,” I murmur, already knowing the answer is “horrific.”

  Curiosity getting the better of me, I tap the web again, mimicking the vibrations of something helpless and juicy. Immediately, the strands thrash, and the rhythmic clatter of countless legs echoes downward. What descends from above is not a spider so much as a nightmare: a mantis-headed thing with a swollen cranial sac, four serrated forelimbs, and a centipede’s worth of spindly legs that navigate the sticky silk without difficulty.

  It pauses when it realizes I’m not actually trapped, then lunges twice as fast.

  I brace for a close-range strike—but instead, the monster pulls back, inflating its grotesque mandible plates before spewing a pressurized stream of gluey webbing directly at me. The instant before it hits, the runed spike on my back drains my mana, the world twists, and I Flashstep, reappearing mere feet from its head as the web splashes against the tree trunk behind me.

  “That was clever,” I say, “but I’m cleverer.”

  My fist lands squarely in its face.

  The impact unleashes a blast that rattles the branches, ignites strands of silk, and sends the spider’s body twitching into its final death throes. Smoke curls upward, and the air fills with the scorched scent of chitin and singed fur. A quick check reveals my mana has drained by nearly a third—Flashstep is strong, but damn is it expensive.

  I’m about to hop off the corpse when the web begins to vibrate beneath my feet—not from settling, but from weight.

  Many weights.

  Dozens of legs clatter in unison. Then more.

  I look up.

  Six more spider-mantis horrors descend from the web above, eyes gleaming. A dozen more cluster behind them. And farther up the tree—another wave. And another.

  A slow, dreadful realization settles in.

  “Oh… shit.”

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