Bloom 2, Where the Predators Prowl: [Ch 2-10] (Patreon)

2: Beware of Dungeon

I pulled onto the exit ramp, leaving Highway 70 behind me.

To my left, loomed the onramp to the infamous Highway 69—a road that didn't appear on my GPS but was marked with eerie, rusted signs warning travelers of “BEWARE OF DUNGEON!”, “Warning: death”, "temporal looping" and "reality distortions." 

Someone spray painted “BeWare of DoGgEon” at the base of one of the rusted signs with a lopsided imprint of a dog paw which made me smile.

Route 69 wasn't just a road; it was a dungeon disguised as infrastructure, one that had claimed countless unwary travelers over the decades who thought they were taking a shortcut.

I parked my car at the highway's edge, well clear of the actual pavement past the rusted signs. 

The edge of the dungeon lacked the usual ticket-selling infrastructure. According to the net chatter this dungeon really didn't like things being built on its edge and sent out a high level Magnetic Lynx monster in a blue vest who dismantled anything and everything that tried to commercialize the place. 

The government attempted to fence the dungeon in the 60s, but the Lynx pried the fence posts out of the ground, simply absorbing the metal into its body and fired metal shards through the construction crew at supersonic speed, reducing humans to blood puddles and devoured the excavators. Afterwards, everyone gave up on highway 69 as even gas stations and ticket stations built within a few kilometers away from the dungeon got obliterated by the invincible, monstrous prad lynx.

I was taking a bit of a risk parking here, as according to historic documents the lynx sometimes destroyed parked cars too, but I decided that it was worth it. Given my current condition—beaten, bruised, and sporting more claw marks than a scratching post—I could use some healing before the cuts become infected.

I looked at the field adjacent to the highway. I knew that dungeons changed the surrounding environment—all that entropic dust and magical residue that clung to adventurers' boots as they exited affected the local flora and fauna. Dungeon-adjacent plants often mutated in strange ways, absorbing ambient mana and developing new properties. Some turned poisonous, others explosive, but a select few developed healing attributes. The older the dungeon, the more magical shit grew around it and highway 69 was pretty damn old.

The only problem now was examining the plant life at the edge of highway 69’s dimensional boundary while staying out of it. 

Since this was a REALLY old dungeon this also meant that it was incredibly reactive. 

Now it was just a matter of figuring out what triggered it.

I picked up a small rock and tossed it toward the pavement. Nothing happened. The rock landed with a dull thud and just sat there, looking disappointingly ordinary.

"Alright, Highway 69, let's see what makes you tick," I announced to the empty air. According to veteran dungeon crawlers, dungeons had personalities—some responded to movement, others to sound, and a select few to specific words or phrases.

I cleared my throat. "Your asphalt looks cheap," I called out.

Nothing.

"Your lane markings are faded and pathetic!"

Still nothing.

I stepped closer to the boundary, my boots crunching on gravel. "Hey, 69! Nice number. Very mature. What are you, twelve?"

The air remained undisturbed. Not even a shimmer.

"Your potholes are so big, they've got their own postal codes!"

Nothing. This was getting frustrating. 

"You call yourself a dungeon? My grandmother's knitting circle is scarier than you!"

The wind whistled through the nearby trees, but Highway 69 remained unimpressed.

"I've seen better road design from a drunk toddler with a crayon!"

I was running out of insults. Time to get creative.

"You're so old, your monsters probably collect social security! The Magnetic Lynx probably needs a walker by now!"

Was it my imagination, or did the air tremble slightly? I pressed on.

"That Lynx of yours? Heard she wears a blue vest because she failed the interview at the Superstore! Couldn't even get a greeter position!"

A definite ripple disturbed the air about fifteen feet ahead of me. I was onto something.

"Hey, Magnetic Lynx! I bet you're just a cute kitty cat with some refrigerator magnets stuck to you! Ooooh, so scary!"

The ripple intensified, and I could now clearly see where reality ended and the dungeon began—a wavy, transparent barrier that shimmered like heat waves rising from hot pavement.

Perfect. I memorised where the barrier wobbled and started to walk along the edge, occasionally making comments about how lame the magnetic Lynx was to make sure I didn’t step into the dungeon by accident.

"Right. Let's see what Highway 69 has to offer besides certain death," I murmured, looking at the wild field below my feet.

My careful inspection determined that the vegetation was clearly not your standard roadside weeds. Some plants pulsed with faint luminescence; others seemed to shift position when I wasn't looking directly at them. A few appeared to be... breathing? Yep. Hard pass on those.

I knelt down and began a methodical process of snipping small samples from different plants with my pocket knife, then pressing them gently against a particularly nasty bruise on my forearm.

"Ow." A cluster of red fern-like growth made the bruise sting worse.

"Nope." A patch of yellow moss did absolutely nothing.

"Seriously?" Some purple vines actually made the skin around my bruise turn an alarming shade of green. I quickly wiped it off.

For twenty minutes, I continued this scientific approach of "poke myself with weird plants and see what happens," steadily building a small pile of rejects. Just as I was about to give up, I found a patch of blue-tinted grass growing beneath a gnarled bush. Among the grass were tiny flowers, no larger than my pinky nail, with petals so intensely blue they almost hurt to look at.

I snipped a flower and pressed it against my bruise. A subtle cooling sensation spread across my skin, and the throbbing pain dulled slightly.

"Jackpot," I grinned, carefully gathering a handful of the grass and flowers.

Sitting cross-legged in the field, I laid out my harvest and activated my Syntropic Fusion skill. A faint silver glow emanated from my fingertips—weak and pathetic compared to the spectacular light shows my brother could produce, but it was something.

I began weaving the plants together, channeling what little mana I had into the construction. The grass became more pliable under my influence, almost eager to be shaped, while the flowers seemed to pulse with a gentle warmth as I incorporated them into the pattern.

As I tied off the final knot, completing the bracelet, a silver notification appeared in my vision:

[Congratulations! You have created: Basic Healing Bracelet (Poor Quality)] [Effect: Regenerates 0.5% Health per hour] [Duration: 4 hours, 14 minutes, 37 seconds... 36 seconds... 35 seconds...] [At least you didn't accidentally weave in those poisonous red ferns this time. Progress!]

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered, slipping the bracelet onto my wrist. Immediately, a subtle warmth spread up my arm, and the throbbing pain in my ribs dulled slightly. Not miraculous, but better than nothing.

I checked my Syntropic Fusion skill, which had gone from 17% to 5% after the bracelet’s creation. Great, it would take weeks to reload my skill to make another bracelet. Add that to my Reconstitution at a whopping 0% and Depictomancy at 4%, and I was truly a force to be reckoned with. Watch out, world!

I made another snide comment about the lynx's blue vest to make sure I didn't accidentally step into the dungeon as I started walking back to my car. "Probably has 'Assistant Manager' written on it in crayon..."

"I'll have you know it says 'Floor Supervisor' in permanent marker," came a voice from my left side.

I flinched and slowly turned and nearly had a heart attack at what I saw. A prad lynx girl made from rusted metal stood there, staring at me with multiple unblinking eyes made from car beam lights. The rusted metal plates that formed her body shifted slightly as she tilted her head, examining me.

She was wearing an incredibly raggedy blue vest that had seen better days. A ‘Floor Supervisor’ was indeed written with a marker on a grimy-looking Superstore ID tag.

She raised a hand, and I heard the unmistakable hum of an electromagnet powering up inside her palm. 

I gulped, preparing for instant death.

"Nice top," she uttered into the silence. "I don't recall you beating my partner though."

I wasn't sure what to say, sweating madly.

The magnet in her hand hummed dangerously, and my car lurched slightly in response. I realized she could plow me into a pancake with my own vehicle in the blink of an eye.

"So," the Lynx said, her metal jaw groaning when she moved it. "Are you back for revenge, human?"

"Revenge?" I blinked in confusion. “Why?”

"I killed your pack, human," the Magnetic Lynx said matter-of-factly. The light from her headlamp eyes intensified, casting harsh shadows across the ground between us.

"Pack? What pack? I don't have a pack," I denied, trying to keep my voice steady despite the pure, undiluted terror creeping up my spine.

Was this dungeon monster mad? Did she confuse me for some other adventurer human?

She tilted her head again, metal scraping against metal, seemingly reading my thoughts. "Humans do look alike to me, but I remember your tree-soul quite clearly. If you're back to kill me for what I did, then you obviously suck at preparing." Her tail swished behind her, raining tiny rusted shavings in its wake.

"Umm… I haven't been here before," I insisted. "I don't know you."

“You don’t wish to fight me to the death then?” Her headlamp eyes dimmed slightly. "What's up with the insults then?"

“Um,” I swallowed hard. "I was just trying to see where the dungeon's boundary was. I needed to make a healing bracelet without accidentally stepping into your territory." I held up my wrist, displaying the poor-quality bracelet I'd crafted. "See? I'm just passing by and trying to heal up. Not here for revenge or anything."

The Lynx contemplated this, her metal frame creaking as she leaned in closer to examine me. "Hrm. You look the same as before… but a bit more clueless and beat up. Perhaps you lost or sold your memories at the Supercenter. That's fine." She straightened up, the electromagnet in her palm powering down. "Come back when you remember me, if you wish to punish me for what I did."

With that, she took two steps backward, the air around her shimmering as she crossed back into the dungeon's domain. Just before she disappeared entirely, she added, "And for the record, I passed the Superstore interview with flying colors."

Then she was gone, leaving me alone with my functioning but slightly magnetized car and the unsettling feeling that I'd just avoided death by the narrowest of margins.

I returned to my car, the countdown timer for my shoddy healing bracelet ticking away in the corner of my vision. With a sigh, I turned the key, and my loyal Tempest chugged back to life. 

Time to face Ferguson.

The road leading into town was almost suspiciously beautiful—a winding path through a verdant valley with cascading waterfalls and majestic mountains rising on either side. It was the kind of landscape that usually appeared on postcards with "Wish You Were Here!" plastered across them in garish font.

"Bet they spent a fortune terraforming this," I muttered, eyeing a particularly perfect waterfall that cast five rainbows above itself. "Nothing says 'we're better than you' like custom scenery on your access road."

As I rounded a bend, the road disappeared into the mouth of a massive tunnel carved directly into the mountainside. Above the entrance, an ornate sign proclaimed: "Welcome to Ferguson: Where Dreams Take Flight and Pradavarians Thrive!"

In smaller text below: "Humans Welcome! (With Valid Identification and Purpose of Visit)"

"How generous," I snorted. "They let us breathe their air as long as we have the proper paperwork."

The tunnel entrance was heavily fortified—magitek shields shimmered across its mouth, and massive magisteel gates stood ready to slam shut at a moment's notice. A checkpoint booth jutted from the tunnel wall, staffed by a serious-looking German Shepherd pradavarian in a green ranger's uniform.

I pulled up to the booth, rolling down my window and trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Not that I could look threatening if I tried—bloodied, bruised, and driving a car that predated most modern conveniences.

"Identification and purpose of visit," the dog barked, not bothering with pleasantries.

I handed over my driver's license and passport. "I'm... uh... enrolling at Ferguson High. My grandfather lives here."

The shepherd's nose twitched, and his expression soured. "Step out of the vehicle, please."

"Is there a problem?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Out. Now."

I complied, painfully extracting myself from the driver's seat. The shepherd circled me, sniffing audibly, his lip curling in disgust.

"You've been claimed," he stated flatly.

"Not willingly," I protested. "Look, I was attacked by a gang—"

"Silence." He raised a paw, and a glowing rune appeared in the air between us. "Place your hand on the truth rune."

I hesitantly pressed my palm against the floating symbol. It felt warm and tingly, like touching a staticky TV screen.

"State your full name and purpose in Ferguson."

"Alec Benoit Foster," I said, feeling the rune vibrate against my palm. "I'm here to attend Ferguson High School.”

“Where are you planning to stay?”

“My grandfather's farm. Daniel James Foster–he lives at the North edge of town.”

The rune flashed green.

"Did you willingly submit to being claimed by the pradavarian gang known as the Skid Marks?"

"No," I answered firmly. "They attacked me at a gas station, beat me up, and marked me against my will."

Another green flash.

The shepherd's expression softened marginally. He whistled sharply, and two more dogs emerged from the checkpoint—a bloodhound and a beagle, both wearing similar uniforms.

"Check him," the shepherd ordered. "He's been forcibly claimed by the Skid Marks."

The bloodhound circled me, sniffing methodically, while the beagle retrieved what looked like a handheld scanner from the booth.

"We'll need to scan you for obedience hexes and deep tracking tags," the beagle explained, running the device over my body. "Captain Adler's Binder is a devious mage."

Nothing like being treated like a lost Amazon package. I thought as the hound smacked me with various evaluation wands.

The bloodhound finished his inspection. "No active magical traces beyond the claim mark and that..." he gestured vaguely at my wrist, "...whatever that attempt at a healing bracelet is."

"We'll let you through," the shepherd decided, "but you should get that mark scrubbed asap."

He handed me an orange bracelet with a silver rune-marked rock in it. “This bracelet will disrupt the tracker and mostly mute the Astral connection inside the town’s ward, but it will only last 7 days. If you haven’t removed the mark by then, you will be escorted from town by one of our rangers.”

“Why?” I asked.

"Because Ferguson has a strict no-gang policy," he explained, eyes narrowing. "That mark on you is like a beacon in the Astral. Adler and his crew can track you, and more importantly, they can reach through that connection to influence you."

The bloodhound nodded gravely. "The longer you wear a gang mark, the stronger their hold becomes. It starts with simple communication and basic voicecast orders, but eventually, the property mark can compel actions.”

“Like what?”

“Like breaking into a shop or killing someone in town,” the guard said. “Captain Adler and her pack mates used to live in Ferguson before they were banished from town for highly inappropriate behaviour. It is possible that they hold a grudge against one or more of our residents.”

I gulped. “Umm, a gas station attendant said that they can help me remove the mark at the Hare Krishna temple.”

“If you become one of their monks, the higher level monks can help,” the guard nodded. “But they will put their own mark on you, one that requires serious lifestyle and spiritual commitments.”

“Like?”

“Joining Hare Krishna as a monk means rejecting sex, intoxication, gambling, etc. It requires… material ambition to fully dedicate your life to celibacy, chanting, spiritual study, and temple service under strict discipline,” the beagle said, eyeing me up and down. “It is not an easy path to undertake for someone so… young.”

“Personal freedom? Gone. You follow strict routines and take orders from senior monks or gurus. Romantic relationships? You're done with dating, love, marriage. It's off the table. Modern culture—TV, movies, pop music, social media—gone. You're in a bubble of chanting, scripture, and service to the temple,” the bloodhound said. 

“I can go school and live with my grandfather though?” I asked.

The bloodhound exchanged glances with his colleagues, then shook his head.

"Full monks can get complete removal, but it's an all-or-nothing commitment. The Hare Krishna don't do partial measures with their spiritual healing," he explained. "If you joined as a novice or part-time devotee, you might get some relief—maybe dampen the connection longer—but the mark would remain."

The shepherd nodded. "It's like trying to erase permanent marker with hand sanitizer instead of proper solvent. It fades but doesn't disappear. Full removal requires full devotion."

"So I couldn't go to school?" I asked.

"Not as a full monk, no," the beagle confirmed. "Their schedule is rigid—4:00 AM wake-up for meditation, then hours of chanting, study, and service throughout the day. No exceptions, even for teenagers."

“Are there any other options?”

The shepherd leaned against the booth. "There's always the medical option. The Ferguson Health Center can remove gang marks, but..."

"But what?"

"But it'll cost you about five thousand dollars," he finished. "Even if you report the mark as a crime that’s been forced on you, the hospital won’t cover the necessary spellwork. And the procedure has a few week long recovery period with daily magiceutical treatments."

I winced. Five thousand dollars might as well be five million with my current finances.

"Great," I muttered. "Any other options that don't involve bankrupting myself or becoming a celibate monk at eighteen?"

“Not really,” the beagle shrugged. “That mark is pretty high level. I can't even tell what the unbinding condition is, but there's definitely one there. A temple evaluator or a doc would be able to tell you the deets.”

The bloodhound's expression softened slightly. "Look, kid, our job is to keep Ferguson safe. That mark makes you a potential security risk, but we can see you're not here by choice. Talk to your grandfather—maybe he can help with the medical costs."

The shepherd handed back my license along with a small pamphlet titled "New Human Residents: Essential Information."

"You've got a week before the muting bracelet stops working," he reminded me. "After that, either the mark goes, or you do. Clear?"

"Crystal," I replied, tucking the pamphlet into my pocket. “Can't I get another bracelet in a week or something?”

“No,” the guard replied. “That mark is a binding loop designed to grow stronger with time.”

The beagle tapped something on a control panel, and the shimmering magitek barrier across the tunnel entrance rippled and parted.

"Welcome to Ferguson," the shepherd said, stamping my passport with just enough irony in his voice to make it clear how welcome I actually was. "Stay out of trouble, and good luck with that mark situation."

As I climbed back into my car, I couldn't help but feel like I'd just been granted a temporary visa to a foreign country that was already planning my deportation.

I nodded my thanks and returned to my car. The gates groaned open, revealing the tunnel's dark interior illuminated by softly glowing magitek lanterns.

A week to find a solution to a magical mark. Just great.

3: Ferguson High

I headed straight for the school, not wanting to deal with my grandfather yet. I didn’t know the man and had never spoken with him. My mother assured me that he would host me on his farm at the edge of town, but I didn’t really trust her words. For all I knew, he hated me just like he hated my parents.

Many people hated my parents—they were dungeon frontage architects, the kinds of assholes that designed modern barrier gates that overcharged people for dungeon use. Everyone knew that barrier gates were just paperthin, fake sense of safety, the same as airport guards taking people’s water bottles away.

There really was no logical sense in taking everyone’s water away when a dungeon diver could just punch a hole in a plane with their pinkie.

Ferguson High School loomed before me, a sprawling campus of Gothic architecture and modern magitek additions that seemed to be trying too hard to look impressive. Stone gargoyles with glowing eyes tracked my movement as I parked my Tempest in the visitor's lot, which was conspicuously empty compared to the student parking area filled with gleaming Strand Gliders and DungeonRunners.

Compensating much? I thought, eyeing a particularly obnoxious gold-plated Glider with custom flame decals. Nothing says 'I have a personality' like daddy's money on anti-grav wheels.

I pulled my hood low over my face, partly to hide my bandaged and bruised appearance and partly to avoid the prying eyes of the security cameras mounted on every corner. The blue flower and grass bracelet on my wrist had helped a little—the swelling around my eye had reduced enough that I could see through a narrow slit—but I still looked like I'd gone ten rounds with a meat grinder and lost spectacularly.

The campus quad was bustling with students enjoying the last days of summer before classes began. Pradavarians of various species lounged on manicured lawns or hurried between buildings, many wearing expensive-looking dungeon gear even though they were just attending classes. Humans were few and far between, mostly clustered together in small, nervous groups or walking quickly with their heads down, collars glittering on their necks, signifying that they were ‘sponsored’ aka owned by some rich prad.

When in Rome, I sighed, hunching my shoulders and adopting the universal human posture of Please-Don't-Notice-Me.

As I made my way toward the administration building, I couldn't help but notice how the crowd parted before me—not out of respect, but disgust. Pradavarian noses wrinkled as I passed, some backing away dramatically, others whispering behind paws and claws. The combination of dried blood, cheap mark-eraser shampoo, and lingering dumpster smell apparently made for a powerful repellent.

In a way, it was convenient. At least no one was trying to talk to me.

It was at that moment that I spotted her across the quad—the husky girl from the Pradstagram videos, Nessy Whitepaw. In person, she was just as striking as in her photos, with gleaming black and white fur curls and little angel wings on her forehead. She was strumming idly on a guitar beneath a sprawling oak tree. She wasn’t alone.

Of course she has friends, I thought as I noticed her companions. Pretty, talented people always do.

Beside her sat a gray and white owl pradavarian boy, his wide-brimmed wizard's violet hat with silver stars casting his face in shadow. A massive dark tome hung from a chain at his side, and I did a double-take when I realized an actual eyeball was embedded in its cover, swiveling independently to survey the quad. The boy himself was engrossed in a smaller book, occasionally adjusting the round spectacles perched precariously on his beak.

Nothing says 'I take myself too seriously' like an animated eyeball accessory, I thought.

The eyeball in the book suddenly settled itself on my person, unblinkingly staring at me. I tried not to stare back at the magic eye and failed.

The third member of their group was a orange-gray fox girl with striking aquamarine eyes and a sleek pistol holstered at her hip. She lounged against the tree trunk, seemingly relaxed but with the alertness of someone who never fully let their guard down.

And a girl with a gun. Hrm. The music, the magic, and the muscle. What a wholesome little friend group.

I didn't mean to stand and stare, but something about seeing Nessy in person after watching her videos was jarring. The singer whose voice had been keeping me company during my lonely drive was now a real person, right there across the quad. It was like seeing a celebrity live, but one no one else seemed to recognize.

Before I could force myself to keep moving, Nessy glanced up and our eyes met briefly across the quad. Her fingers stilled on the guitar strings, and she tilted her head slightly, as if trying to place me. I opened my mouth, though I had no idea what I would say—"Hey, I watched your videos obsessively last night" didn't seem like a great opener—when the fox girl leaned over and whispered something in Nessy's ear.

Nessy inhaled sharply, her nose clearly catching my unfortunate bouquet of odors. Whatever mild curiosity had been in her eyes vanished, replaced by something like alarm, and she quickly looked away.

The fox didn't bother with subtlety. She glared at me and raised her middle finger in an unmistakable gesture.

Guess that mark-eraser shampoo wasn't as effective as advertised, I thought.

The owl boy frowned at what the fox-girl was whispering and tapped his staff against the ground. A shimmering barrier sprang into existence between me and their group, distorting my view of them like a frosted glass window.

"Nice to meet you too," I muttered, turning away. 

I continued my journey toward the administration building with a resigned sigh. So much for... whatever I thought might happen. In reality, I was just the smelly, claimed human that everyone wanted to avoid. Business as usual.

The hallways of Ferguson High were deserted compared to the bustling quad, most students apparently preferring to enjoy the sunshine while they could. I had almost reached the registration office when footsteps echoed behind me—quick, purposeful, and numerous.

"Well, well. What have we here?"

I turned slowly, already knowing this wouldn't end well. Three female raptors stood in a loose semicircle behind me, their emerald and violet feathers complementing their violet-blue scales. They wore the Ferguson High uniform—pleated skirts and fitted dark blazers—but had accessorized heavily with expensive jewelry and designer bags.

Lovely, I thought, recognizing them from the Pradstagram photos. The raptor mafia welcoming committee. Bet they've got a fruit basket and campus map all ready for me.

The one in the center was taller than the others, with distinctive dark markings on her face that reminded me of a shark's pattern. Her gold eyes flaked with green spots gleamed with predatory interest as she took a step toward me.

"I don't know what smells worse," she said, tapping a claw against her chin thoughtfully. "The garbage, the blood, a cheetah’s claim, or the human desperation."

"Just trying to register for classes," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "Not looking for trouble."

"But trouble found you anyway, didn't it?" The shark-faced raptor moved with blinding speed, shoving me hard against the lockers. Pain exploded across my already bruised back, and I couldn't suppress a wince.

Accosted twice in one day, I thought bitterly. A new personal record.

She reached up and yanked my hood down, exposing my battered face to their scrutiny.

"Slayer!" the youngest raptor with violet-blue feather marks gasped, her eyes widening. "What happened to your face?"

"I fell," I deadpanned.

"Into someone's claws, repeatedly?" The shark-faced one sneered. Her eyes flashed silver as she looked me up and down. "Public Cast - Identify Stats!"

My stats appeared above my head against my will, broadcasting my pathetic level and skills for them to see.

"Oh, this is rich," the third raptor with orange-violet markings on her emerald feathers laughed, pointing at the text floating above me. "He's property of the Skid Marks! Look at that tag signature!"

"Highway trash," Shark-face hissed, her claws digging into my shoulder. "You think you can just bring your biker gang drama into our town? Into our school? What’d they pay you to do here? How’d the idiot dog rangers at the gate let you in?!"

"I'm not with them," I managed through gritted teeth. "The biker gang attacked me and marked me against my will this morning. I'm just trying to—"

"To what?" she interrupted. "Infect our school with your claimed human stench and low-level presence? We have standards here in Ferguson!"

Clearly, I thought, eyeing her designer bag that probably cost more than my car. Standards that can be bought at a Citadel boutique.

“Seriously! How the shit are you only level three?” she added.

"Katherine," the youngest raptor said, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "Maybe we should let the school administration deal with this."

"Maybe you should shut up, Kaledonya," Shark-face—apparently named Katherine—snapped without taking her eyes off me. "This is exactly the kind of filth Daddy is always warning us about. Outsider humans bringing their problems to our doorstep!"

She leaned in closer, her breath hot against my face. "Let me make this very clear, human. Ferguson belongs to the Strand family. My family. We don't want biker-claimed, low level trash contaminating our territory."

I met her gaze, too tired and sore to be properly intimidated. "I'm just here to finish high school. I'm staying with my grandfather."

"Who's your grandfather?" the third raptor demanded.

"Daniel Foster."

The three exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them.

"Old Crazy Dan?" Katherine finally said, her lip curling. "The delusional human who lives in a farmhouse outside of the town’s defence barrier?"

"That's the one," I confirmed, struggling to keep my face neutral despite the insult to my local family. "Sounds like he's popular around here."

"Just as I expected," Katherine laughed, a cold sound devoid of humor. "Trash belongs with trailer trash."

She released my shoulder and stepped back, brushing her claws against her skirt as if touching me had contaminated her.

"You have a week to get that claim mark removed," she declared.

“I’m aware,” I said.

“Stay out of my way, trailer trash.” With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away, her companions falling into step behind her. The youngest—Kaledonya—glanced back at me briefly, something almost like sympathy or pity in her expression before she hurried to catch up with the others.

First day going great, I thought, remaining against the lockers for a long moment to catch my breath. Made friends with the bikers, the dungeon Lynx monster, the border patrol, the campus musicians, and now the local royalty. I'm on a roll!

The bracelet on my wrist pulsed weakly, the timer in my vision showing just under three hours of healing remaining. I pushed away from the lockers and continued toward the registration office. First things first: get enrolled. Then find my grandfather. Then to the temple to possibly get this claim mark removed before either the bikers tracked me down or the raptors made good on their threat.

Welcome to Ferguson, I thought bitterly. Where dreams take flight and humans know their place. At the bottom of the food chain.

This was fine. A challenge to ascend. A steep stairwell to climb. And climb it I would. I wasn’t the type to give up just because a few complications got in my way.

4: Interview

As I approached the registration office, my mind drifted back to the Magnetic Lynx's words. Tree-soul. What had she meant by that? Had she somehow glimpsed something in my aura, my essence? Or was it just the rambling of a dungeon monster who'd mistaken me for someone else?

In my dreams, I often saw myself as something rooted yet reaching skyward—stubborn, multiplying growing despite adversity. Not flashy like my brother's pyrokinesis, but enduring. Persistent. Was that what she'd sensed?

I'd heard stories of powerful dungeon entities developing a sixth sense for the nature of those who came to their domains. Some could supposedly see future possibilities, or the core of a person's being. But why would the Lynx think she'd killed my "pack"? I'd never even been to Highway Sixty-Nine before today. Maybe the Lynx would kill the bikers in the future and rid me of the magic mark? That seemed like the least insane explanation that would solve my problem for free.

Lost in these thoughts, I pushed open the door to the registration office and stepped into a surprisingly plush waiting area. The walls were adorned with photographs of Ferguson High's delving teams holding various trophies aloft, interspersed with portraits of stern-looking raptors in expensive suits. The Strand family gallery, no doubt.

A bored-looking white fox pradavarian secretary glanced up from her desk, her nose wrinkling instantly.

"Can I help you?" she asked, making no effort to hide her distaste.

"I'm here to register," I said, approaching her desk. "Alec Foster. My grandfather is Daniel Foster."

She tapped something into her computer, her claws clicking against the keys.

"Foster... Foster... Ah, here we are. New transfer, senior year." She looked me up and down with barely concealed disdain. "The principal wanted to meet with all new transfers personally. Particularly... unique cases such as yourself."

She gestured to a door labeled "Principal Kerberos" in gold lettering.

"He's expecting you," she said, though I hadn't seen her make any calls or send any messages.

I nodded my thanks and approached the heavy oak door. Before I could knock, a deep voice rumbled from within.

"Enter."

The office beyond was spacious and immaculate, dominated by a massive desk carved from a single slab of redwood. Behind it sat possibly the oldest dog pradavarian I'd ever seen—a mastiff with deep wrinkles crisscrossing his jowly face and silver fur so faded it was almost white. He wore a perfectly tailored suit that somehow managed to look both ancient and timeless, with a school pin on his lapel.

"Mr. Foster," he said, his voice surprisingly strong for his apparent age. "Please, sit."

I lowered myself into the chair opposite his desk, trying not to wince as my bruised body protested.

"I am Principal Kerberos," the old dog continued, studying me with eyes that seemed too sharp, too aware for his withered frame. "Welcome to Ferguson High."

"Thank you, sir," I replied automatically.

Something about him set my teeth on edge. It wasn't just the typical pradavarian intimidation factor—this was something deeper, more primal. A presence that seemed to fill the room, pressing against my consciousness like a physical weight.

His eyes flashed silver briefly—not the usual identification scan, but something more... invasive. I felt a slight pressure behind my eyes, as if something was gently probing at the edges of my mind.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting indeed."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "What's interesting, sir?"

He smiled, revealing teeth that looked too sharp, too numerous for a normal mastiff's mouth.

"Your... resilience, Mr. Foster. Most humans in your condition would be in the hospital, not sitting in my office discussing enrollment."

A chill ran down my spine. I hadn't told him about the biker gang or my injuries. My hood was back up, concealing the worst of the damage to my face.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I said carefully.

"Oh, I think you do." He leaned forward, and I could have sworn his eyes briefly flickered from brown to a deep, burning amber. "I can smell your injuries, Mr. Foster."

“What about them?” I asked.

“You’re not curled up in a ball and crying,” he pointed out.

“Should I be?” I squinted at him.

“Yes. Far too many of your nerves are sliced right through,” he said. “Yet you persist.”

“I’ve been hurt before,” I shrugged. “Half of my nerves and my sense of smell were fried by my brother’s spellchain experiment on me a few months ago.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “There is a lot of damage there. Far too much for a… human body to handle. You shouldn’t be walking at all right now.”

I squinted at him.

“Yes,” he mused. “I believe you have... unique potential."

"I wouldn't call Level 3 with barely functioning skills 'unique potential,'" I said dryly.

Principal Kerberos tilted his head, reminding me suddenly of the Magnetic Lynx's similar gesture. "Numbers and percentages rarely tell the whole story, young man. The system isn’t real, you know."

“What?” I blinked.

“She’s not real,” he stood abruptly, his movements smooth and limber, completely at odds with his apparent age as he walked to a large window overlooking the campus. “A limitless entropy wave masquarading as something that pretends to evaluate reality. You really shouldn’t trust her… or her fellow Numbers.”

I had no idea what he was ranting about.

"Ferguson High was founded on principles of excellence and tradition," he said, his back to me. "The Strand family has long ensured that our facilities and faculty are the best money can buy. But money cannot buy true potential. True... determination of deep delving."

He turned to face me again, and I could have sworn his shadow on the wall behind him didn't quite match his shape—it seemed larger, more bestial, with what looked like three distinct outlines overlapping. A thing with tree heads covered in spikes.

I blinked and the shadow snapped together into one.

“I will place you in Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum, Mr. Foster,” he said.

I blinked in surprise. Advanced Dungeoneering was typically reserved for high-level delvers with proven combat skills—raptor femme territory, essentially. A human with my level had no business even approaching that class.

"Why?" I asked.

“Because I believe that you have potential,” the Principal answered. “Potential that must be bathed in infinite hellfire for it to… bloom. Yes, you’ll do nicely. I believe that you have what it takes to be in Advanced Dungeoneering.”

I blinked at him.

“I can smell her on you, you know,” he said. “Rust, metal attraction and death. The unstoppable one, we call her.”

“The… Magnetic Lynx?” I guessed.

“So you have truly seen her and survived,” Principal Kerberos nodded. “What were you doing near Highway 69?”

“I was trying to map out the edge of the dungeon,” I revealed. “So that I could make myself a basic healing bracelet without getting stuck inside the whole infinite time loop thing.”

I shook the blue flower bracelet on my wrist.

“You tried to measure her borders, acquired an artifact and lived? This alone is impossible Mr. Foster,” the Principal breathed out. “Last time anyone’s seen her was on October 24th, 1984. She destroyed a Gurrwolf corp van that was trying to survey the edge of the dungeon. Everyone inside was pulverised into a pulp except for a girl prad tech. The Lynx cut off her limbs but left her barely alive with a note.”

“A… note?” I blinked.

“A note carved into her forehead, neck and chest,” the Principal intoned. “‘Do not fuck with us. Do not attempt to measure our borders. Do not try to build a fence around our domain. Do not try to sell entry tickets. We will permit small independent delver packs only. No larger than five. They will not survive. There is no reward here, no victory, only your death.’”

I swallowed, the hair on my neck standing up.

“So,” the Principal said. “You’re either a really talented liar tricking all of my senses, or you’re someone extraordinarily lucky or good at dealing with high level dungeon monsters.”

“Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum sounds like a terrible placement for level three,” I said. 

Principal Kerberos laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you'll surprise yourself, Mr. Foster. After all, you can't really die, can you?"

"My Reconstitution skill is at zero percent," I pointed out.

“Perhaps if you go deep enough into a dungeon you’ll find a way to make it reload faster?” The principal shrugged. “I understand that your problem is your slow reload rate. The deeper levels are richer in mana. So what’s it going to be, Mr. Foster? Are you going to grovel at my feet for a lesser schedule or show me what you’re really capable of?”

"I'll take the advanced classes," I said finally.

Principal Kerberos nodded, seeming unsurprised by my decision. "Excellent. Classes begin tomorrow. Pick up your schedule from my secretary. Have a Good tomorrow, Mr. Foster. For today—enjoy our campus, make some friends.”

“Right…” I muttered, thinking of my wonderful experience so far. “Friends.”

The old dog ceased talking, turning away from me to the window.

I felt that my interview was over and shuffled out of the office.

I glanced at the schedule that the secretary offered me in a few minutes of waiting.

Tomorrow’s offerings were as follows:

Period 1: Advanced Dungeoneering - Prof. Ignis L. Fern
Period 2: Applied Enchantment Theory - Prof. Willowbark K. Grim
Period 3: Pradavarian History & Culture - Prof. Stonetalon A. Goobs
Period 4: Lunch
Period 5: Theoretical Dungeon Mechanics - TA Renfield Strand
Period 6: Practical Survival Skills - Prof. Moonhowl O. Stein
Period 7: Independent Study

Yep, that sounded like the Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum alright. The exact classes that my brother had that nobody sane would ever sign me up for. Maybe this was a conspiracy to rid Ferguson of an undesirable human. After all, people vanished and died in dungeons all the time.

I made my way out of the administrative building, my mind reeling from the bizarre encounter with Principal Kerberos. Between his cryptic comments about "blooming in hellfire" and his insistence on placing me in the Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum, I was beginning to think everyone in this mountain town was slightly unhinged.

The hallway was mercifully empty as I headed toward the exit.

[School System Link Established] [Ferguson High School Profile Created] [Status: Enrolled, Pending Orientation] [Warning: Claim Mark Detected. Resolution Required Within: 6 Days, 23 Hours, 42 Minutes] [Skill Assessment Scheduled: Tomorrow, Period 1] [You have (1) New Message from Ferguson High Administration] A system notification flashed in my vision.

As I rounded the corner, my attention still fixed on the silver letters floating in front of my eyes, I collided with something solid and warm. The impact knocked me back a step and sent a fresh wave of pain through my already battered body.

"Watch where you're going, you idiot!" A voice snarled.

I looked up to find myself face-to-chest with a rather tall female pradavarian specimen. A raptor—because of course it was—with gleaming emerald feathers accented with peacock-style violet dots that seemed to shimmer in the fluorescent lighting. Her athletic build and curvy form was wrapped in a fitted track jacket bearing the Ferguson Firestorms logo. She was wearing the standard uniform skirt.

"What are you even doing in this building, trash-smelling human? The janitor's entrance is around the back."

"I'm just trying to leave," I said, raising my hands in a placating gesture. "So if you could just—"

"Did you just speak back at me?" Her gold eyes narrowed dangerously, glinting with predatory focus, emerald feathers fluttering. "Get out of my way, human! I have places to be."

I should have stepped aside. Any sane person would have. But something about the day's accumulation of insults, beatings, and general dehumanization had worn my patience to a dangerous thinness.

So instead of moving, I simply stood there, looking up at her, my eyes meeting hers directly. A subtle challenge that no pradavarian could miss.

Her jaw dropped slightly, genuinely shocked at my audacity. We stood frozen for a heartbeat, her towering over me, our eyes locked in a standoff that even I knew was monumentally stupid.

"So you've chosen death," she growled, her voice dropping to a register that vibrated in my chest. Her claws extended with a soft snick sound, gleaming under the hallway lights. “Fine. I could go for some disemboweling today.”

5: The Chase

Survival instinct finally kicked in. I broke eye contact—belatedly remembering that direct eye contact was a dominance challenge to prads—and stepped back.

"My mistake," I said quickly. "I'll just be going now."

But it was too late. Something had shifted in her posture, a coiling of muscles beneath those shimmering feathers. She took a step forward, matching my retreat.

Time to go.

I pivoted and bolted down the hallway, my bruised body protesting every step. Behind me, I heard a sound that chilled my blood—a predator's excitation call, half-purr, half-growl, signaling the start of a chase.

I pushed myself harder, my shoes squeaking against the polished floor as I rounded another corner. The sound of her pursuit grew louder—not the frantic slapping of shoes on tile, but the controlled, rhythmic padding of a predator who knew she had her prey cornered.

"Running only makes it more fun, human!" she called, her voice lilting with amusement.

I spotted the stairwell ahead and threw myself toward it, grabbing the railing and vaulting over it entirely rather than taking the steps. It was a risky move, but I'd done similar jumps during my short-lived parkour phase until I broke my neck falling off a particularly tall building and spent several months reconstituting my spinal cord back into the correct shape that would allow me to use my legs.

My hands caught the railing on the lower flight, and I swung myself down, pain lancing through my shoulders as my arms absorbed the impact. I landed on the mid-level landing with a grunt, glancing up just in time to see the raptor girl spring onto the wall, her claws digging into the plaster as she bounced from wall to railing to wall with absurd agility, closing the distance between us with terrifying speed.

No time to admire her athleticism. I threw myself down the remaining stairs, taking them three at a time and nearly losing my balance on the last step. The hallway stretched before me—empty except for a water fountain and a row of lockers. No witnesses to my impending mauling.

I could hear her breathing now, quick and excited, the sound of a predator reveling in the chase. I made a desperate break for the exit at the end of the hall, knowing I wouldn't make it but unable to do anything else.

The impact came from behind, a solid wall of muscle and feathers colliding with my back and sending me sprawling across the floor. I skidded to a stop against the wall, the wind knocked out of me, more pain blooming across my already abused body.

I rolled onto my back to see her looming over me, chest heaving, eyes bright with the thrill of the chase. Her claws were fully extended, and a smile that was all teeth stretched across her face.

"That," she panted, "was the most pathetic chase I've had in years. Time for a lesson…"

She raised a clawed hand, and I braced myself for the inevitable slashing. Instead, her expression shifted abruptly, eyes widening as she took in my battered appearance now that my hoodie had been dislodged in the fall.

"Oh," she let out, more exhale than word.

Her gaze traveled over my bruised face, the bandaged cuts visible through my torn shirt, the healing bracelet on my wrist. The predatory gleam in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something I couldn't quite identify. Confusion? Concern?

"What the fuck happened to you?" she asked, her voice lower now, the growl gone from it.

"Bad day," I managed, wincing as I tried to sit up. "Biker gang. Dungeon monster. Angry raptors. The usual."

She continued to stare, her head tilting slightly in that universal pradavarian gesture of reassessment.

"You didn't even have the sense to be afraid of me," she said, more to herself than to me. "Running with those injuries... Are you stupid or just completely lacking in self-preservation?"

"Yes," I replied automatically.

To my surprise, a short bark of laughter escaped her. "And you still have the audacity to be a smartass."

She crouched down, bringing her face level with mine. This close, I could see flecks of amber in her gold eyes, the intricate patterns in her fluttering feathers, the subtle texture of her scaled skin where it met plumage shifting from sparkly violet blues to emerald greens.

"Hrmm. I see. You're that new transfer everyone's talking about," she said. "The level three human claimed by Adler’s biker pack?"

"Word travels fast," I muttered.

"It's a small school with big gossip." She reached out, and I flinched instinctively. She paused, then more slowly extended her hand, gently tilting my chin up to examine the claw marks on my face. "These are fresh. Skid Marks gave them to ya?"

I nodded, surprised by her knowledge and the unexpected gentleness of her touch.

"Captain Adler has distinctive claw patterns," she explained, releasing my chin. "I've seen her work before. She… she’s never gone out this much though. What the hell is wrong with that knobfold? She in cycle or something? I…” she inhaled deep. “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?” I asked, looking up at her.

“You smell dead,” she said after about fifteen seconds, a gold necklace with a ruby gemstone pulsing on her very curvy chest.

“What?” I asked.

“Like… a zombie. You know? A dungeon sentinel… Many of your cells smell like they’ve atrophied, rotten from inside. And you’re… running, jumping around, being a sassy knob? How?”

“Shitty spellchain experiment combined with my rare skill,” I said. “While I appreciate being smothered by a very pretty raptor, mind getting off me now before I lose more blood?”

She got off me with a violet blush and stood, offering me a hand. After a moment's hesitation, I took it, allowing her to pull me to my feet with effortless strength.

"Claiming is a serious crime when done without consent," she said, her tone shifting to something more formal. "I ought to find that beerch and snap her neck."

"So I've been told," I replied, brushing dust from my clothes. "I've got a week to get it removed."

She studied me for another long moment, then nodded sharply, as if coming to a decision.

“Follow.”

“To where?”

"To the school nurse, you knob," she replied, already striding down the hallway with the confident gait of someone who expected to be followed. "Those injuries need proper treatment, not whatever bargain-bin bandages you’ve got on there."

I hesitated, eyeing her retreating back. On one hand, proper medical attention sounded lovely. On the other hand, following a predator who had just chased me through the halls seemed like questionable decision-making.

"I don't bite," she called over her shoulder, not bothering to look back. "At least, not humans who already look like they've been put through a severe whalloping."

"Comforting," I muttered, but found myself limping after her anyway. Better the raptor you know is only half-interested in killing you than the ones who might be fully committed to the idea.

As we walked—or in my case, hobbled—she cast occasional glances my way, her expression unreadable. The predatory intensity from earlier had vanished, replaced by something that almost resembled concern, though I wasn't naive enough to fully trust it.

"I'm Krysanthea, by the way," she said finally, breaking the awkward silence. "Krysanthea Strand.”

"Strand? As in...?"

"Yes, that Strand family," she confirmed with a roll of her eyes. "Before you ask—yes, my father is Lord Marshall, and yes, I'm related to those three harpies who harassed you earlier today and ranted on Pradstagram about a fucked up, half dead human gangster."

"Katherine, I think her name was?" I offered.

“Kat,” she nodded. “My sister. I cracked my egg a few minutes before she did. She never forgave me.”

I chortled, which earned me a look of brilliant, gold eyes.

We turned a corner, and the nurse's office came into view—a modern-looking clinic with actual high end medical magitek equipment visible through the glass door, not the glorified band-aid dispensary most high schools called a health center.

"So," Krysanthea continued as we approached, "You've met three of my younger sisters, and apparently had a run-in with the Skid Marks, all before even completing enrollment. Is there anyone in Ferguson you haven't managed to antagonize yet?"

"The day's still young," I replied dryly, which earned me a surprised snort of laughter.

She pushed open the door to the nurse's office, and a wave of antiseptic air and ozone washed over us. The interior was spotless, with several examination beds separated by privacy curtains and cabinets filled with medical supplies, healing potions and glowing herbs.

"Nurse Redstriss," Krysanthea called out, "Got a new student who needs attention."

A raptor woman with deep crimson plumage emerged from a back room, her white lab coat crisp and immaculate. She took one look at me and immediately switched into professional mode.

"On the bed," she ordered, her tone allowing no argument. "What happened?"

"Adler happened," Krysanthea answered for me, gently but firmly steering me toward the examination bed. "Attacked outside of town."

The nurse's expression darkened. “That girl manages to bring students into my office even after her expulsion.”

I eased myself onto the bed, wincing as my abused body protested yet again. "Yep. They caught me at a gas station this morning, about two hours out from town."

Nurse Redstriss's claws clicked as she pulled on medical gloves. "And you drove all this way in this condition? Humans, I swear..."

She ran a medical scanner over my body, frowning at the readings. "Multiple lacerations, bruising consistent with pradavarian claw and impact trauma, two cracked ribs, subcutaneous hemorrhaging in several areas..." Her frown deepened. "And significant… partial organ failure, nerve and deep tissue damage that appears to predate today's injuries. What happened there?"

"Spellchain experiment gone wrong," I explained. "My brother, a few months ago."

"Your brother experimented on you?" Krysanthea asked, her brow ridges furrowing.

“I can’t die,” I said. “He paid me. With… money he stole from our parents.”

“What the fuck,” Krysanthea’s claws opened and closed. “Family… family shouldn’t do that to each other!”

I shrugged, wincing.

The nurse made a disapproving noise as she calibrated a magitek healing device. "I'm going to apply a targeted mana field to accelerate healing. It won't fix everything, but it should handle the worst of the immediate injuries. Honestly… I’ve never seen anyone this injured and mobile. You should be in shock from pain, passed out on a stretcher. And your blood…”

“What about my blood?” I yawned.

“It’s not… flowing right,” Nurse Redstriss said. “It’s like… it’s trying to stay in your body. On purpose. I’ve never seen anything like this. Many of these cuts burst completely open very recently. You should be bleeding to death now, yet you are not. Hrm. What in the Abyss happened?”

I glanced at Krysanthea with a poignant look.

“I… urm… chased… him down and… crashed into him,” the raptor girl rubbed the back of her head.

“I expected better of you, Miss Strand,” Nurse Redstriss shook her head. “Attacking an incredibly injured student in the hallway?”

“He goaded me into it!” The raptor girl tried to defend herself. “I didn’t know… Didn’t notice how hurt he was, I swear! I didn’t mean too…”

Nurse Redstriss's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Miss Strand, this is the third incident this month. I've shielded you enough."

"It wasn't like that," Krysanthea protested, her feathers flattening against her head. "I didn't realize—"

"You didn't realize?" The nurse's voice cracked like a whip. "A human stumbling through the hallway covered in bruises and bandages, and you thought what—that he'd make excellent prey?"

I watched the exchange with growing discomfort, feeling like I'd stumbled into a long-running argument.

"I think it's time we informed your father," Nurse Redstriss continued, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The effect on Krysanthea was immediate and dramatic. Her confident posture collapsed, and something like genuine fear flashed across her features.

"Please, Nurse Redstriss," she said, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "I swear this was different! I stopped as soon as I realized. I brought him here myself."

"After you chased him down the hallway and tackled him to the ground," the nurse countered, adjusting the healing device over my ribs. "You reopened at least twenty of his wounds, Krysanthea!"

"I didn't mean—"

"Intent doesn't matter when the result is the same." The nurse's expression softened slightly as she looked at the raptor girl. "This is your last chance, Kristi. I mean it this time. One more incident like this, and I won't have a choice."

Krysanthea nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor.

6: Assigned Friend

"You want to do better?" Nurse Redstriss's voice was gentler now. "Then do better! Take care of him."

"What?" Krysanthea's head snapped up, her eyes wide.

"Take care of him," the nurse repeated firmly. "Become his friend. You brought him here for me to heal when you could have walked away. That shows me there's still hope for you."

"But—"

"I'm not asking, Miss Strand." The nurse's tone made it clear the matter was settled. "Mr. Foster will need help navigating his first week, especially with those injuries and that claim mark to deal with. Consider it your rehabilitation project."

I opened my mouth to protest that I didn't need babysitting, but a sharp look from the nurse silenced me.

"I've seen how you're slipping lately, Kristi," Nurse Redstriss said, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "These incidents, the fights, the aggression. It's the same path Adler Silvertail took before her expulsion."

Krysanthea flinched as if struck. "I'm nothing like Silvertail.”

“No, you are not,” the nurse sighed. “In some ways, you’re worse.”

“Worse?! What?!” Kristi sputtered. “How am I worse than that… that beerch?! I’d never claim someone… without their consent, especially not with a fucking magic chain loop!”

“Your father expects you to handle social situations well. If you wish to become a ranger you must learn how to talk to the people under your care. You don’t have a single friend,” Nurse Redstriss pointed out. “You assault and aggravate anyone who gets in your face like it’s your life’s mission. You’ve repeatedly targeted a particular prad student for reasons beyond my…”

“Staphhh! I get it! Fine! I… I just don’t know how to take care of a half-dead human!” Kristi stammered out, burying her face in her hands, flashing deep violet.

“Then learn,” the Nurse said. “You have so much potential, Kristi. Don't throw it away. It’s either this or detention for a month, which will undoubtedly ruin your perfect record and make you even more angry and antisocial.”

“I'm… I'm not antisocial! I have friends!”

“Hanging out with your younger sisters doesn't count as having friends.”

“Ughhhh, fineeeeee,” she groaned. “I’ll take care of a dumb human.”

"Thank you," Nurse Redstriss said with genuine relief in her voice. "I think you'll find it's not such a terrible assignment."

“You do realise that I’m here, right?” I said.

“Yessss,” Kristi ground out. “You’re here. I’m quite well aware of the human-shaped lumpy boulder that’s now hanging from my neck.”

“Oi,” I said. “I’m a nice boulder.”

The nurse turned her attention back to me, deactivating the healing device and checking her readings. "That should handle the worst of it. You'll still be sore, and those deeper injuries from months ago... well, they're beyond what I can address here." She frowned at her scanner. "You really should see a specialist about the brain, bone, nerve, organ and deep tissue damage. Here, drink this. It'll help heal some of the internal damage."

"Costs money," I said simply, chugging the awfully tasting healing potion with a wince.

“Did… you just say he has brain damage?” Kristi, gold eyes blinked at the nurse between her fingers.

“Yes,” the nurse nodded. “He has incredibly extensive brain damage. The kind that people don’t normally wake up from.”

“What… the fuck,” Kristi let out with a barely audible whisper now staring at me with a shocked expression. “Slayer!”

“The intact parts of his brain, just like some of his nerves, look like they’ve… rewired themselves into the most bewildering shapes around the dead tissue sections. It’s all very… unusual and I’ve never seen anything like it. It all has to do with his rare skill, I suppose.”

Nurse Redstriss added a layer of healing ointment to my face from a large jar and stepped back, examining her work with a critical eye.

"That should do for now," she said, peeling off her gloves. "The magitek treatment accelerated your natural healing, but you'll still need to take it easy for a few days." She fixed me with a stern look. "And by 'take it easy,' I mean no more getting tackled in hallways or chased by predators."

"I'll try to pencil that into my schedule," I replied, carefully easing myself off the examination bed.

Kristi stood by the door, her posture rigid with discomfort, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world than babysitting a battered human. Her violet and emerald tail swished irritably behind her, and I could see the tension in her shoulders as the nurse handed her a small medical kit.

"Basic supplies and another potion and salve for when his bandages need changing tomorrow," Nurse Redstriss explained. "And my contact information if his condition worsens."

"I'm not a nurse," Kristi protested weakly.

"No, but you're responsible for him now." The older raptor's tone brooked no argument. "Consider it practical experience for your ranger aspirations."

Kristi's feathers flattened against her head in what I was beginning to recognize as embarrassment or frustration. Possibly both.

"Fine," she muttered, snatching the kit and stuffing it into her small, leather backpack that swallowed the kit that was too big for it. Ah, she had an overpriced extradimensional bag. "Let's go, human."

"He has a name, Krysanthea," Nurse Redstriss chided. 

Kristi rolled her eyes dramatically. "Let's go... Alec."

"Such enthusiasm," I deadpanned, following her out the door. "I can feel the friendship blossoming already."

Once we were out of the nurse's earshot, Kristi spun to face me, her gold eyes narrowed.

"Listen up," she hissed. "I don't want this arrangement any more than you do, but I'm not getting detention because of you. So here's how this works: I show you around campus, make sure you don't die during the week. In return, you don't tell anyone I tackled you, and we both survive this nightmare with our dignity somewhat intact. Deal?"

“I dunno,” I rubbed my chin. “Seems like I hold all the cards in this… arrangement.”

Kristi’s eye twitched.

“I’m kidding,” I laughed. “Slayer, look at your cute angry face. I don’t want to depend on a girl for my survival. I can figure out my own shit—I can keep going lonely-tree style just fine as I always have. If you want to, feel free to go n’ do whatever it is you raptors do in your free time.”

“Mmmm… no,” Kristi shook her emerald mane. “Nu-huh. Redstriss will sniff out that I didn’t spend any time with you. Pretty sure she has Seer stones sprinkled all around campus watching out for injuries. So do try to look like you’re enjoying my company with dignity.”

"Very well," I shrugged. "Just know that my dignity left town about the same time that biker cheetah decided to use me as a toilet."

Kristi's expression shifted from annoyance to disgust. "She— Wait, she actually—"

"Marked me the old-fashioned way too, yes," I confirmed. "Hence the lingering eau de dumpster despite my best cleaning efforts."

"Urghhh," She shuddered visibly. "No wonder my sisters were losing their minds."

"Glad to know I've made such a strong first impression on the Strand family."

"You have no idea," she muttered, gesturing for me to follow her down the hallway. "The amount of Pradstagram posts about you would make your head spin. 'Disgusting claimed human infiltrates Ferguson.' 'Low-level trash brings gang drama to our school.' My sisters have been working overtime to destroy your reputation before you've even had a chance to establish one."

"Charming," I remarked, limping alongside her. "Any chance they're adopted?"

That actually drew a snort from her. "Sadly, no. I just had the misfortune of hatching first."

“I’m surprised you didn’t smell Addler’s claim right away,” I said.

“I, urm,” her voice fell apart momentarily. “I… was distracted.”

“With?”

“None of your biz is what!” she snapped angrily.

We emerged into the sunlight, the campus quad now even more busy than before. Students milled about between classes, lounging on benches or hurrying across the manicured lawns. I noticed how they parted around us—or more specifically, around Kristi—noticing her tall form and lowering their eyes and giving her a wide berth that spoke volumes about her apparent reputation.

"So," she began, gesturing vaguely at the sprawling campus, "welcome to Ferguson High, home of the Firestorms and breeding ground for pradavarian superiority complexes."

"I noticed," I said dryly. "The brochure failed to mention that last part."

"To your left is the Computational Science and Mathematics building," she continued, pointing to a sleek, modern structure of glass and steel. "State-of-the-art labs, mostly used by pretentious owl prads trying to create the next big spell matrix or whatever."

"And to our right," she gestured toward a Gothic-looking building with ornate stonework, "is the Humanities and Arts center, where you can learn about pradavarian history and why humans should be eternally grateful for our benevolence."

"You really sell the place," I remarked.

"Hey, umm, when was the last time you ate?"

I realized with a start that I hadn't had anything since...? Between the biker attack, the highway healing adventure, and everything else, food had fallen pretty low on my priority list.

“Uhhhh,” I pondered. “Nine days.”

“What?!”

"I'm fine," I lied. “I don’t feel hungry. A little dizzy maybe?”

The truth was that I felt hella hungry, I was just really good at suppressing it, just like I was constantly suppressing pain and trying to make sure my blood stays inside my body. Kristi’s eye twitched.

“Effing brain dead knob,” she growled. "Cafeteria. Now."

"I don't have cash on—" I started to protest.

"It wasn't a suggestion," she cut me off, her stride lengthening so that I had to hurry to keep up.

The cafeteria turned out to be surprisingly impressive—more like a lavish food court than a typical school lunch room, with multiple vendors offering different cuisine options. Students sat at polished tables or in comfortable lounge booths, their meals looking suspiciously like actual food rather than the mystery meat I was accustomed to in my previous schools.

As we entered, I became acutely aware of how many eyes turned in our direction. Conversations hushed, and the weight of countless pradavarian gazes pressed against me like a physical force.

"What's Kristi doing with that human?" "Didn't you hear? That's the one Kat was raging about on Pradstagram." "Eww, he smells like—" "Why is she even—"

The whispers weren't exactly subtle. To my surprise, Kristi didn't shrink from them but instead straightened to her full height, her gold eyes sweeping the room with a cold challenge that sent most gazes skittering away.

"Ignore them," she said under her breath. "Half of them are just jealous I'm talking to someone new, and the other half are terrified I'll notice they exist."

She marched me directly to a vendor serving what appeared to be noodles in some kind of broth. Without consulting me, she ordered two large bowls, swiped her celesteel student card to pay, and handed me one of the steaming portions.

"Eat," she commanded. "Before you pass out and I have to carry your unconscious ass back to the nurse."

I looked down at the bowl—thick udon noodles swimming in a rich, aromatic broth with slices of what might have been beef, green onions, and some kind of egg. It smelled incredible.

"I don't have any money to pay you back," I admitted quietly.

Something flickered across her face—surprise, then understanding, then what might have been a flash of sympathy quickly smothered.

"Consider it an investment in not having to explain to Nurse Redstriss why her patient collapsed from hunger," she replied, already heading toward an empty table in the corner. 

I followed, cradling the warm bowl carefully. We settled at the isolated table, somewhat removed from the main dining area. Kristi positioned herself with her back to the wall, giving her a clear view of the entire cafeteria. Old habits of a predator, I guessed.

For a few minutes, we ate in silence. The food was as good as it smelled—the best meal I'd had in recent memory. I tried not to eat too quickly, but hunger overrode manners, and I found myself devouring the noodles with an enthusiasm that would have horrified my mother.

Kristi watched me with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

“Yes?” I asked her.

“What the fuck are you?” She asked. “No human I know can go for nine days without eating and then merrily chatter with a smile.”

“Wow. Rude much?” I arched an eyebrow. 

“Ughhh,” she drowned her soup in a single gulped and leaned back, squinting at me with half lidded eyes. “Fine. Yes, I’m rude and angry to the point where I’m losing control of my future. Deal with it.”

“Have you tried being less angry?” I asked.

She sent me a glare that promised future dismemberment.

7: Campus Roaming

“You know… you could talk about what's bothering you or whatever,” I said, trying to put forward my best therapist impression. “Let it out instead of steaming on it and being snappy.”

She stared at me and then tapped a hexagram on the booth we were inhabiting with her card, activating a privacy curtain. The hum of the hall fell silent, the view blurring like frosted glass.

“With whom do you expect me to talk about my problems?” She scoffed. “I don’t effin’ trust anyone in this damned place. I have a reputation to keep.”

“A professional therapist?” I suggested.

“Not happening,” she shook her head. “My sisters will eat me alive if they find out that I went to therapy.”

“Then here’s your best next option,” I pointed at myself.

She stared at me like I'd just suggested we go skinny-dipping in lava.

"You?" She laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "A half-dead human who smells like a dumpster, who I met literally one hour ago, and who my sisters are already plotting to destroy? That's your suggestion for a confidant?"

"Precisely," I nodded, slurping another mouthful of noodles. "The perfect confidant. I know no one here, have no social standing to speak of, and will probably be dead by the end of the week anyway—either from my injuries, your sisters, or the Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum."

"You're in Advanced Dungeoneering?!" Her eyes widened. "How? Why? That's—"

"A death sentence for a level three human?" I finished for her. "Yeah, Principal Kerberos seemed pretty excited about that part."

Kristi's mouth opened and closed a few times before she gave up and let her forehead drop to the table with a solid thunk. Her elaborate emerald head feathers splayed out across the tabletop like an exotic flower arrangement.

“You… you have to switch out of it!” She sputtered. 

“Aww, it almost sounds like you care for whether I survive,” I grinned.

“No—you—Argh!” She made frustrated raptor noises. “Why the fuck did Kerb put you into that program?! That’s for…”

“Someone like you?” I offered. “That’s convenient. Guess we’ll see each other in class often then.”

“You’re so fucking dead,” she let out. 

"Been there, done that, got over it," I agreed cheerfully, savoring another spoonful of broth. "Which makes me the perfect person to vent to. What are you going to do—ruin my sterling reputation? Get me expelled from the school I just enrolled in? Kill me before the dungeon does? Which dungeon are we heading into for our practical? The sheet didn’t clarify that part.”

“The Superstore,” she gritted her teeth. “And you didn’t answer my question, you damned knob.”

“Kerberos was impressed because I made this,” I showed Kristi my bracelet.

“The fuck?” She stared at the blue flowers. “What are you, five? What’s with the grass friendship bracelet?”

“First of all,” I said. “It’s a healing bracelet. And second of all, after I made it I was accosted by the Magnetic Lynx. We chatted for a bit then she went back into the dungeon.”

Kristi stared at me like I drew a second head. “What. No. You’re lying. You couldn’t have met her. If you did, we wouldn't be talking right now.”

“Eh,” I shrugged. “She seemed nice, if a bit weird.”

“Alec,” Kristi said. “Stop making shit up to impress me. The Magnetic Lynx isn’t ‘nice’. She’s a legendary-tier, unstoppable abomination that obliterates anyone who looks at her wrong. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t just come out to… talk.”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” I smiled at her. “I really met the Magnetic Lynx… she told me ‘Come back when you remember me, if you wish to punish me for what I did.’”

Kristi chortle-choked. “What?!” She lifted her head just enough to glare at me through her fingers. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

"I'm enjoying this soup," I corrected her. "And your lovely, if somewhat grochedy company. The rest of my day has been a dumpster fire. Literally, in one case."

“Come off it! Stop fucking with me! Being half-brain dead is no excuse to make stuff up!”

I sighed, leaning back in my seat. I didn't have the energy to convince her of something she was determined not to believe. My body ached, my head was swimming, and the warmth of the soup was making me drowsy.

"Look, whether you believe me or not doesn't matter," I said with a yawn. "Principal Kerberos believes me, and that's why he shoved me into the… deadliest dungeonery or whatever.”

Kristi's expression shifted from skepticism to something more contemplative, her gold eyes studying me with renewed interest.

"If—and that's a massive if—you actually encountered the Lynx and lived... that would explain Kerberos's interest," she admitted grudgingly. "But it still doesn't explain why you're not dead."

“I’m not dead because the Lynx confused me for some other unkillable bastard who’s pack she killed or something. Anyways, thanks for the soup, I’ma rest now.”

I closed my eyes, leaning back into the soft booth.

My body shut down automatically, begging for sleep I had not been skipping out on for about a week, relying on power naps.

. . . 

When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't sure how much time had passed. My head was tilted back against the booth, a small pool of drool had collected at the corner of my mouth, and my neck had a crick in it that promised future misery.

I glanced at my hand. My blue flower healing bracelet was gone, decayed into ashes, its power spent on healing me.

I turned my head.

The privacy curtain was still active, the outside world reduced to blurry shapes and muffled sounds. Across from me, Kristi was hunched over the table, her talons manipulating what appeared to be... food?

I blinked, trying to focus my sleep-addled vision. She had assembled an assortment of items from an order of several meals—bread, meat slices, vegetables—and was meticulously arranging them into a small, humanoid shape.

As I watched, she carefully placed two olive slices for eyes and used a sliver of carrot for the mouth. The little bread-and-meat figure had ragged hair made from shredded lettuce and even wore a tiny hoodie fashioned from a folded slice of ham.

"Is that... supposed to be me?" I asked, my voice still rough from sleep.

Kristi yelped, her feathers flaring in surprise. In one swift, panicked motion, she scooped up the elaborate food sculpture and shoved it into her mouth.

"What? No!" she spluttered through a mouthful of sandwich-me. "You didn't see anything! Just having a snack waiting for your busted up ass to wake up!"

I stared at her in bewilderment as she chewed frantically, her cheeks bulging and crumbs and meat bits falling to the table. Her scales had darkened to violet with what I now recognized as a blush spreading across her face.

“Pretty sure I did.” I yawned. “Was sandwich-Alec delicious?”

"Shut up," she hissed after swallowing with difficulty. "I was bored! You just fell asleep on me mid-conversation like a narcoleptic sloth!"

I couldn't help it—I started laughing. It hurt my ribs and pulled at my healing cuts, but I couldn't stop. The absurdity of the situation, of this fierce raptor predator caught making a food doll of me and then panic-eating it, was just too much.

"It's not funny!" she protested, but her indignation only made me laugh harder.

"It's a little funny," I managed between wheezes.

She glared at me, but the corner of her mouth twitched slightly.

"I used to make art too," I said when I'd finally regained my composure. "Drawings and such. And little figurines out of whatever I could find—clay, paper, wire. Even tried animating them with my Depictomancy."

“And how did that work out for you?” She asked snarkily.

“They didn’t animate very well and fell apart quickly. Pretty sure it requires really magical materials to work, I think,” I said. “Anyways, my reload rate is absolute shit, plus I didn’t have anyone to show it to, so I gave up on it.”

Kristi's expression shifted, the embarrassment of stuffing her mouth with sandwich-me fading into something more somber. "Hrm," she said finally. “I thought that I had it bad but you’re just a case of pure depresso.”

“You have it bad?” I arched an eyebrow. “The Strand princess? Really? I’ve seen your Pradstagram, you know.”

Kristi’s eye twitched as I had seemingly hit a nerve. “Go fuck yourself,” she growled. “'No one to show my art to, boo-hoo.' Little whiny knobfold human!"

“Poor little raptor princess, trapped in her tower of privilege,” I fired back. “Look, if you're going to be mean, I'm just going to go. I appreciate the soup and the medical attention, but I don't need your name calling on top of everything else I'm dealing with.”

I wiggled out of the booth to leave, but her voice stopped me.

"Wait."

I glanced back. Kristi was staring at the table, her claws leaving small scratches in the surface.

"I didn't mean..." She trailed off, then tried again. "That came out wrong."

I waited, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

She made a frustrated noise. "I'm not good at this, okay? The whole... talking to people thing. Especially humans."

"I noticed," I said dryly.

Her gold eyes flicked up to meet mine, and to my surprise, there was no anger in them—just a weary resignation with a pitch of pure despair that looked out of place on someone so young and privileged. Guess money really couldn't buy happiness.

“So,” I asked to fill in the awkward silence between us. “Did you really just watch me sleep for hours? Don’t you have classes to go to?”

“Nah,” she said. “This is my last year of Advanced Dungeoneering. The first day was general assembly and teacher re-introductions and today is mostly team coordination and general delve prepping. I don’t need to do shit for that—I already have a team and I’ve got all of my gear updated with a private instructor during summer.”

She looked me up and down. “Wait. You don’t have any gear, do you?”

“Nope. Can’t afford it.”

“And no delving team?”

“Don't know anyone.”

“Slayer damn it! Have you ever even been in a dungeon?”

“Nope.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Kristi rubbed her face. “What the fuck Kerb?! What did he even tell you before he gave you your schedule?”

"He said I had potential that needed to be bathed in infinite hellfire in order to bloom," I recited. "Then he told me to enjoy campus and make friends."

Kristi's eyes widened. For a moment, she simply sat there, frozen in shock. Then something seemed to snap inside her. She began to laugh—a high, slightly manic sound that contained no actual humor.

"Make friends?!" she repeated, her voice cracking. "Make. Friends. The principal of Ferguson High, the guardian of the school's sacred traditions and an absolute monster of a prad, told you—a level three human with no equipment, no team, and a gang claim mark—to make friends?!"

"Is that... unusual?" I asked.

"Kerberos hasn't used the phrase 'make friends' in the fifty years he's been principal," she said, her laughter dying into something more akin to a whimper. "He once expelled a student for suggesting the school host a friendship festival.”

I shrugged as a reply.

She buried her face in her hands, her emerald feathers drooping. "This is it. This is how my life ends. Not in a glorious battle with high level dungeon monsters. No, I die of embarrassment when my ‘assigned human’ gets eviscerated because Principal Kerberos has finally lost his mind."

"Actually," I said, the reality of my situation finally sinking in, "Yes. How am I even supposed to go delving? I don't have gear, no team, and I certainly can't afford a dungeon ticket."

Kristi stared at me, mouth slightly agape. "You're just now thinking about this?"

"I've been a bit preoccupied with not bleeding out," I pointed out. "The logistics of dungeon delving seemed like a problem for the tomorrow me."

"Tomorrow is the first day of class," she said slowly, as if explaining something to a particularly dim child. "Advanced Dungeoneering starts with a practical session.”

“As in going into the Superstore dungeon?” I asked nervously.

“Pff no,” She shook her mane, sending light reflections from her scales across the booth. “Just a dungeon sim in the gym.”

“Oh good,” I relaxed. “Then I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not going to be fine you effing knob!” She barked. “They’ll murder you!”

8: Not Done

“Who’s going to murder me?”

“The other students!” 

"Can you like, backtrack, and explain what dungeon sim is?" I asked, feeling like I'd missed some crucial information.

Kristi sighed dramatically, her gold eyes rolling skyward. "Dungeon simulation. First week of Advanced Dungeoneering always starts with it. The class gets split into two teams—delvers and monsters. Everyone wears their full delving gear with red or blue cloth tags to show which team they're on."

"Sounds like capture the flag," I offered.

"Kind of, except it's in the gym and extends into the Ferguson forest section. The monster team hides a 'treasure' somewhere in the forest, and the delver team who starts in the gym aka the Adventurers Guild has to find it while surviving monster attacks." She leaned forward, talons clicking against the table. "It gets intense. Last year, twelve students ended up in the nurse's office with serious injuries, and one kid's armor melted to his fur."

"So, like dodgeball but with the potential for hospitalization," I mused. "Sounds fun."

"For someone with actual gear, skills, and combat experience, sure," Kristi growled. "You're going to get obliterated. The others won't hold back just because you're new and not equipped."

"Look," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt, "I'll figure something out. I always do. Maybe I can borrow some gear..."

"Borrow?" She lifted her head, her expression incredulous. "From whom? The Gear Fairy?”

I looked at her.

“My gear won’t fit you. I’m like a head taller, different species and a girl,” she said. “You don't just 'borrow' dungeon equipment, Alec. It's magically bonded to its owner. Using someone else's gear is like trying to wear their skin—technically possible but incredibly uncomfortable and is likely to get you killed when the gear turns against the wearer."

"Then I'll get my own," I insisted. "There must be some kind of student assistance program or equipment rental—"

"The school offers basic loaner gear for beginners," Kristi cut in, "but that's for Dungeoneering 101, not Advanced. The loaner gear would shatter upon encounter with high level gear everyone wears in Advanced class."

I opened my mouth.

Her feathers ruffled in frustration. "You don't understand. The others have specialized weapons, enchanted armor, custom spellseals. Some of them have been preparing for these classes their whole lives."

"So I'll be at a disadvantage," I shrugged, which immediately made me wince as pain shot through my shoulders. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Kristi stared at me for a long moment, her head tilted in that pradavarian way that meant she was reassessing something.

"You really don't get it," she said finally. "This isn't like getting beat up by some drunk bikers or surviving a hallway chase. These are trained combatants with actual magical abilities who take the simulation very seriously because it affects their ranking, college scholarship and future placements for the real dungeon dives."

I absorbed this information while finishing the last of my soup. The warm broth and a power nap had done wonders for my energy level, but she was right—I wasn't prepared for whatever tomorrow would bring.

“You have to go back to the principal and get him to change your schedule,” she said. “This is not acceptable!”

"No," I said simply.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Her feathers bristled with indignation. "Did you not hear a single word I just said? They will destroy you."

"I heard you," I replied, gathering the remains of my meal. "And I appreciate the concern, but I'm not backing down."

"This isn't about 'backing down,'" she hissed, leaning across the table. "This is about not getting yourself killed on your first day!"

"Look," I said, meeting her glare, "I've spent my entire life not being given a chance, being told that I'm too pathetic, too weak, not good enough, that I don't belong. If Kerberos thinks I can handle Advanced Dungeoneering, I'm going to prove him right."

"He doesn't think you can handle it!" Kristi exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "He's setting you up to fail! Spectacularly! Possibly fatally!"

"Maybe," I conceded, "but at least I'll go down trying."

"You're an idiot," she snarled. "A suicidal, brain-damaged idiot with a death wish."

"Probably," I agreed, standing up. "Thanks for the pep talk. I'll see you tomorrow in class, Kristi."

I passed through the privacy shield of the booth headed for the exit, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed me across the cafeteria. Behind me, I heard Kristi scramble out of the booth, her claws clicking rapidly against the floor as she caught up.

"Where do you think you're going?" she demanded, falling into step beside me.

“Home,” I replied.

“Home?!”

“My grandfather’s farm.”

I pushed through the cafeteria doors into the late afternoon sunshine, quickening my pace despite the protests of my aching body. Kristi stayed right on my heels, her tall form looming in my peripheral vision.

"Why are you still here? I release you from your obligation, raptor bae," I said, scanning the parking lot for my car. "Consider yourself officially off human babysitting duty."

Kristi opened and closed her mouth.

I spotted the Tempest, its weathered black paint dull in the afternoon light, and made a beeline for it. Kristi followed, her frustration practically radiating from her in waves.

"Alec. Go. Back. To. Kerberos." Each word was punctuated by a sharp gesture. "Get your schedule changed before it's too late!"

"No."

"Arrrgh!" She grabbed my arm, spinning me to face her. "Why are you being so stubborn about this? Is your pride really worth more than your life?"

I looked down at her hand on my arm, then up at her eyes—those intense gold irises that seemed to hold a miniature perpetual sunset within them. "This isn't about pride," I said quietly. "This is about finding out what I'm capable of. I've been told my whole life that I'm worthless because of my level and skills. Maybe it's time I proved my family wrong."

"So you'll throw yourself off a cliff and break your neck just to prove a point?" she scoffed. "The fuck is wrong with you?! That's not bravery, Alec. That's stupidity."

"Then I guess I'm stupid," I replied, pulling away from her grasp and continuing toward my car.

She followed, muttering a stream of Slayer-adjacent curses under her breath. When I reached the Tempest and pulled out my keys, her patience finally snapped.

"You brain-dead, self-destructive, stubborn knob!" she exploded. "Is this some kind of twisted death wish? Because if you want to die so badly, I can arrange it right here, right now, and save us both a lot of trouble!"

I unlocked the car door and slid inside, ignoring her tirade. The Tempest groaned to life when I turned the key, its ancient engine coughing twice before settling into its familiar rumble.

"We're not done talking about this!" Kristi declared, planting herself directly in front of the car, arms crossed, feet firmly planted.

"Move," I said, rolling down the window so she could hear me.

"Make me."

I put the car in reverse, backed up a few feet, then shifted into drive and swerved around her, gunning the engine as I passed. In my rearview mirror, I saw her standing there, momentarily stunned—then she launched herself after me with predatory speed.

I pressed on the gas and she accelerated, digitigrade legs and feathery arms flashing, resembling the scene from Terminator two.

Before I could escape her, a heavy thud landed on the roof of my car, denting the metal inward. Clawed fingers appeared at the edge of my driver's side window, followed by Kristi's upside-down face, her feathers rippling in the wind.

"STOP THIS CAR RIGHT NOW!" she roared.

"ARE YOU CRAZY?" I yelled back, the car swerving as I tried to keep control while a raptor clung to my roof. "GET OFF!"

"NOT UNTIL YOU STOP BEING AN IDIOT!"

"YOU'RE THE ONE RIDING ON TOP OF A MOVING VEHICLE!"

I slowed down, intending to shout at her more effectively, which turned out to be a tactical error. With the window open, Kristi seized her opportunity. In a fluid motion that defied both physics and common sense, she swung her body through the open window, somehow folding her entire frame into the car without releasing her grip on the roof.

For a terrifying moment, she was halfway through the window, her tail whipping in the wind outside while her upper body invaded my personal space. I slammed on the brakes, and she tumbled the rest of the way in, landing awkwardly across my lap before climbing over me and maneuvering herself into the passenger seat.

We both sat there for a moment, breathing hard. Kristi's feathers were disheveled, her priorly immaculate appearance ruffled by the impromptu car stunt. Despite everything, I couldn't help but notice how the sunlight filtering through the windshield caught the iridescent patterns in her scales, shifting between emerald and violet like a thousand gems.

"That," I finally managed, "was nuts. What the shit?”

"Says the human who thinks he can survive Advanced Dungeoneering with zero equipment and a gang mark," she retorted, smoothing her feathers with quick, irritated movements.

"At least I'm only endangering myself," I pointed out. "You could have caused an accident!"

"Oh please, we both know this rust bucket can't go fast enough to cause any real damage. Most cars and buildings in town are armed with personal barrier shields." She kicked at the dashboard with one clawed foot. "Unlike this mundane old junk. I'm surprised it still runs at all."

"Leave my Pontiac alone," I growled. "She might not be a fanciful Strand Glider, but she’s gotten me this far."

"Where are you even going?" she demanded.

"I told you - to my grandfather's place," I said, pulling back onto the road. "I need to get settled in before tomorrow's suicide mission. Maybe borrow some cash if he has such."

"And where exactly is this grandfather of yours?"

I pulled out my phone and showed her the address that my mother had given me. "Old Foster Farm on Blackwater Road."

Kristi's eyes widened as she looked at the screen. "...The old farm? On Blackwater Road?"

"You know it?"

"Everyone knows it," she said, her voice strangely quiet. "It's... got a reputation."

"What kind of reputation?" I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

"A bad one," she replied simply, her claws tapping nervously against her thigh. "It's past the town barrier shield."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that it's not protected from random flying bullshit," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the sky. "The town's defensive magitek barrier doesn't extend that far. It's in the wild zone."

"Lovely," I muttered. "Any other good news?"

"Well," she drew out the word, "there are rumors about your grandfather."

"Like?"

"Like he's completely insane," she said bluntly. "People say he sees things that aren't there, talks to himself, builds weird contraptions from junk. The local kids call him 'Crazy Dan' and dare each other to approach his property."

“Sounds about right,” I sighed. “You know, you don’t have to come with me. You’re welcome to leave.”

“No.” She hissed angrily. “I’m not going fucking anywhere until you see sense, contact the principal and ask to be transferred to Dungeoneering 101 curriculum.”

“Then we’re at an impasse,” I shrugged.

We drove in uncomfortable silence for a while, the landscape gradually changing from the manicured perfection of Ferguson's center to something wilder, more unkempt. The paved road gave way to gravel, then to dirt as we passed through a series of black towering obelisks covered in gold celesteel runes that marked the edge of the town's protective barrier.

I could feel the moment we crossed the threshold—a slight pressure change, like descending too quickly in an airplane. My ears popped as I yawned.

"Turn right at the fork," Kristi directed, pointing ahead. "The farm should be about two miles down that road."

I followed her directions, the Tempest bouncing and rattling over the increasingly rough terrain. The road narrowed, hemmed in by dense birch and pine forest on both sides. Twisted trees crowded close to the path, their branches reaching overhead like grasping fingers, creating a tunnel of dappled shadows.

"How do you know the way?" I asked, navigating around a particularly deep pothole.

"I've been dared to go there when I was younger. Plus my father owns most of the land around here," she replied. "Including the parcel adjacent to your grandfather's property. He's been trying to buy Foster Farm for years, but your grandfather refused to sell."

"Why does your father want it?"

Kristi shrugged. "I dunno. Our family already owns a third of the town already.”

9: Home Sweet Home

As we rounded a bend, the forest suddenly gave way to open space—a clearing that might once have been farmland but was now overtaken by what could only be described as the world's most disturbing junkyard boxed in by forest and rising gray and black cliff sides featuring mundane-looking, non-rainbow waterfalls. Piles of scrap metal, broken appliances, and unidentifiable mechanical parts stretched in every direction arranged in random towers and uneven piles.

I parked outside a rusted, warped fence that marked the property line and got out, staring at the scene before me. Kristi exited more cautiously, her nostrils flaring as she scented the air.

"This is way worse than I remembered," she murmured, moving to stand beside me.

As we approached the fence, I noticed something strange—a faint metallic tinkling sound that seemed to come from all directions at once. It wasn't until we were closer that I realized the source: hundreds of makeshift wind chimes constructed from scrap metal, old cutlery, and what disturbingly appeared to be animal bones, all strung together and hanging from metal frameworks throughout the property.

"What the actual fuck," Kristi whispered as I pushed open the creaking gate and we stepped stepped onto the property.

The eerie chimes intensified as a breeze picked up, creating a discordant, eerie symphony that sent chills down my spine. Between the towering piles of junk, I could now see massive intricate web-like structures—complex geometric patterns woven from wire and string, with bits of broken glass and metal fragments embedded throughout.

“Huh,” I said. “Those look like oversized… dreamcatchers.”

“These weren’t here before,” Kristi shuddered. “Old Dan was completely bonkers before but this is… probably the freakiest thing I’ve seen outside of a dungeon.”

Upon closer inspection, I could see that the web patterns weren't random—they formed spirals and fractals that seemed to continue toward the center of each dreamcatcher where clock gears hung suspended featuring what looked like mirror and broken glass shards secured with tape or glue into odd prisms.

"I don't think we should be here," Kristi said, staying close behind me, her eyes darting around nervously. "This place smells... wrong."

“It’s fine,” I shrugged, channeling the dog on fire meme. “This is fine.”

Something about the arrangement of junk, the mathematical precision of the web structures, the hollow tinkling of the bone chimes—it all combined to create an atmosphere of calculated madness.

Ahead, partially obscured by scrap piles, stood what must have been the main farmhouse. Or rather, what remained of it. The structure was a blackened shell, its roof collapsed in sections, windows gaping like empty eye sockets. Yet even in its ruined state, I could see that it wasn't exactly abandoned—more of the wire webs stretched across the doorways and between the charred support beams, even more elaborate than those outside.

"Alec," Kristi's voice had a warning edge. 

"Shush. I’m going in," I replied, drawn forward despite the growing unease in the pit of my stomach. "He's supposed to be expecting me."

I navigated through the junk labyrinth toward the house, the chimes growing louder, more frantic as the wind picked up. Inside, the devastation was complete—burned furniture, melted plastic, ash-covered floors. Yet amidst the destruction, the wire webs were pristine, their patterns extending from floor to ceiling in complex three-dimensional arrays.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing through the empty rooms. "Grandfather? Daniel Foster?"

No response except for the tinkling of the chimes outside.

I moved deeper into the house, Kristi following reluctantly. In what must have been the living room, the webs were concentrated around a particular section of wall that had somehow escaped the worst of the fire damage. As I approached, I could see that something was etched into the cracked, black mold-covered plaster—words carved directly into the surface.

"To whoever finds this," I read aloud, "know that I have left this mortal coil, departing to the city of System Wizards, Manchester. I bequeath the farm and all of its contents to my grandson Alec Benoit Foster. If you’re reading this Alec—make good use of whatever remains after my departure."

Beneath this cryptic message was a stylized symbol—a number eight wrapped by what looked like a circle of tree-like branches extending into an eight-pointed star.

"What the shit is the city of System Wizards?" Kristi asked.

I shook my head, a cold emptiness settling in my chest. "I have no idea."

My grandfather was gone. The house was destroyed. There was no place for me here—just broken dreams and bizarre wire sculptures that whispered in the wind.

"Mom knew," I said, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "She knew he wasn't here anymore. Or maybe not… She probably didn’t even bother to call him. She just sent me here to... to what? Get rid of me?"

Kristi didn't answer. I felt something crack inside me—not grief for a grandfather I'd never known, but a deeper pain at the knowledge that my own mother had abandoned me to a ghost farm filled with junkyard art.

I sank to my knees in the ash, defeated in a way that even the biker gang's assault hadn't managed. Around me, the wire webs seemed to mock my misery.

"Alec," Kristi said softly, her hand coming to rest tentatively on my shoulder. "We should go. It's not safe here. Sometimes hungry things wander out of the Birchwood dungeon."

“Maybe… I can sell this farm to your dad,” I said. “Buy some delving equipment with it.”

"I don't think that this counts as a proper will," Kristi said, glancing at the wall message. "Without legal paperwork, the farm will likely go to your parents."

I let out a hollow laugh. "Great. Well, then I won’t tell them shit. As long as they think that he’s still alive, I can live here.”

“Alec… you can’t live here, that’s… this place isn’t safe!” The raptor-girl waved her hands around the devastated farmhouse. “There’s no barrier shield here! Nothing prevents random wandering monsters or Astral Phantoms from snacking on you.”

I was about to reply to her when silver sparks filled my vision, manifesting into a semi-transparent fuzzy figure.

“Human-tater,” a staticky voice spoke in my head. “Where the fuck are you? I told you to wait for me at the gas station. I’ve been trying to voicecast you for an hour now! Donutz, are you picking up his location?”

The figure of a sparks-formed cheetah turned to her left side where a fox-girl appeared formed from the same silver static.

“On it boss,” Donutz said. “Ugh. Signal’s barely getting through. Got it! He’s… right outside of Ferguson, North of the town’s barrier shield.”

“North of… wait,” Captain Adler sputtered. “Can we pick him up from there?”

“Not on our bikes,” Donutz replied. “That entire area is basically surrounded by impassable mountains. You’ll have to use the anti-grav function on your wheels and even that might be dangerous as fuck—those cliffs there have metal wyvern and papercraft dragonette nests.”

Kristi had been hovering nearby, watched the silver projection with growing fury. At the mention of retrieving me via a flying bike, she stepped forward, glaring directly into the Astral projection.

"Maybe he's just trying to get away from the trash prads who assaulted him!" she snarle.

The projection of Adler flickered. "The fuck? Who's that?"

"Krysanthea Strand," Kristi spat, her tail lashing behind her. "Remember me, Adler? The one who testified at your expulsion hearing?"

"Strand?" Adler's projection crackled with barely contained rage. "What are you doing with MY human?"

"He's not YOUR anything, you psychotic bitch," Kristi growled, her claws extending reflexively. "You claimed him against his will after beating him half to death. That's a criminal offense!"

“Pfff,” Donutz her eyes. “Maybe in your mafia-controlled town, but out here in the wilds there’s no such laws. He’s of age and unclaimed. As such, we claimed him as is the tradition of free range prads.”

"Fucking Strand-beerch," Adler hissed, her static image leaning forward as if trying to get a better look at Kristi. "Still the same self-righteous princess, I see. How's daddy's little ranger-in-training? Still relying on overpriced artifacts to hide the fact how weak and pathetic you are? Still failing at getting anyone to sleep with ya? Just had to steal my boy toy, did ya?"

Kristi choked at Addie’s words. "You were expelled for a reason, Silvertail," she hissed back, using Adler's family name like a curse. "Harassing classmates, setting that fire in the chem lab, constantly drinking in class, assaulting an instructor and now forcibly claiming humans? You haven't changed a bit. You're still the same out-of-control trash prad you were when they kicked you out."

“Like you’re any better, Strand,” Adler laughed. “You just have daddy’s money and influence to sweep your naughty behaviour under the rug. Not all of us are born with a celesteel spoon in our mouths. I’ve made something of myself, brought my buds from different species together in a pack of pro delvers. Unlike your legacy-shackled Prima-beerch ass, I’m free—I can do whatever the fuck I want to out here! You pretend to be top shit on Pradstagram but I know that ya slowly rot from within and suffer in misery. Always playing by the rules while setting everyone else up to fail. How many students did you get expelled again?

"I didn't get anyone expelled on purpose," Kristi snapped, eye twitching, clawed hands opening and closing, feathers fluttering. "Their own fucked up behaviour got them expelled. Just like yours did."

"Keep telling yourself that," Adler sneered. "Anyways, I'm checking on my human, you can piss off.”

“I’m not yours.” I interjected, unable to stay silent any longer. 

“Ah!” Adler's projection turned toward me. "Alec-tater! Hrm. You’re looking better already. Did that banging Reconstitution finally kick in? I’m glad. N’ways—don’t trust that Strand cunt, she’s only pretending to be polite and proper but in reality she’s far worse than me as a GF. The only reason she’s hovering around you is cus’ she's a jelly beerch obsessed with taking my shit. If our mark wasn’t on ya, bet she wouldn’t even look at ya.”

“What? Are you listening to yourself?” I laughed. “You beat me up and chucked me into a dumpster. Why the fuck would I consider you my girlfriend?”

“You were asking for it!” Adler said. “You pushed me! I was being nice… if a bit drunk. Come on Alec-tater, you’ve got a rare as shit skeel—you should be levelling the fuck outta it with me. I… I did ya a service, see?”

“What fucking service?” I said.

“I smacked you around a bit to level up your skeeell,” she said. “It’s how it works. The more you use it, the better it gets. Donutz’ loop should be funneling mana your way from our pack if she set it correctly. You set it correctly, ye?”

“I wasn’t anywhere as drunk as you, Cap,” Donutz nodded. “I set the tag properly, bound to you n’ me. Ain’t nobody getting it off—the condition’s unbreakable.”

“Candace you had so much potential as a Binder mage,” Kristi growled. “A future, a scholarship to Howlward, internship offers from Archtek Enterprises, Strand Inc and Gurrwulf Industries. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you with this beerch? You weren’t even expelled! You just up and left Ferguson! Your parents are still furious!”

“What’s wrong with me?” Donutz tilted her head. “I simply see the world for what it is—a bunch of binding loops leading everyone to a most unfortunate end. Might as well make the best of it and do whatever I wanna. You might be satisfied with being slowly strangled to death by parental and corporate knots, but I aint.”

“So you bind others in magic loops against their will?” I asked her. 

“I did it to protect you from twats like her,” Candace crossed her arms. “From the future that leads you straight to your permanent death.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “You did it so you could control me, claim ownership over me!”

“What?” Donutz blinked. “There’s no controlling mechanism in there. It’s just a tag that connects you to me n’ Cap. Without it on you, any Ferguson knobfold would be able to claim you at anytime. Trust me—that tag is for your own good.”

“I have no trust in your gang,” I said. “You didn’t offer me a choice. I’ll scrub that tag off as soon as I can afford it.”

“Afford it?” Donutz laughed. “Darling, that tag can’t be taken off with money—that’s the whole point of it. The binding condition is… love.”

“Love?” Kristi laughed. “What?! That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard.”

Donutz traced a number eight in the air with her claw. “I’ve learned something from the Superstore, babes. A loop bound with the Dagaz Rune can’t be broken with brute force. It's conceptually infinite. It will take a delver mage of infinite level to snap off that tag by brute mana approach.”

“What?” I sputtered.

“If you don’t wanna be our boy toy,” Donutz said. “Then all you have to do is find two prad femmes who are love each other and you more than we will. It’s a pretty simple condition.”

10: What is Love

I stared at the flickering Astral projections of Adler and Donutz, their words sinking in like a punch I hadn’t braced for. The idea that their claim on me was tied to some bullshit “love” condition made my stomach churn, and not just because of the lingering dumpster stench clinging to my skin. Kristi stood beside me, her feathers bristling, looking like she was one snarky comment away from lunging through the projection to throttle them both.

“Love?” I echoed, my voice dripping with disbelief. “You’re seriously trying to sell me on the idea that this—” I gestured vaguely at my bruised, bandaged body—“is because you love me? You beat the shit out of me, pissed on me, and tossed me in a dumpster. That’s not love. That’s a fucking felony!”

“Oh, come on, Alec-tater. Don’t be so dramatic,” Adler let out. “We didn’t mean to go that hard. We were drunk, havin’ a bit of a laugh! And you… you took it like a champ, y’know? Most humans woulda been cryin’ for their mommies after one swipe. But you? You kept swingin’ and kicking our asses.” She grinned, sharp teeth flashing. “You almost got away from five delver prads, dude! That’s why we like ya. You can take a beatin’ and keep on tickin’. That’s rare as fuck, genuine delver potential!”

“Like you?” I shot back, my voice sharper than I intended. “That’s not affection. That’s you getting off on someone who doesn’t break easily. I’m not your fucking punching bag!”

Donutz’s projection tilted her head. “Hold up, darling. You’re twistin’ our words. Liking someone, lovin’ someone—it’s a very gradual scale, not a switch. We like you, Alec. A lot. Me and Cap, we see potential in you. Most prads in Ferguson would see you as a walking liability, a level three human with no gear and a shitty mana reload rate. But us? We don’t give a shit about that. We wanna make you stronger. Free you from all the crap that’s holdin’ you back.”

“Free me?” I laughed. “Really?”

“Yea mang,” Donutz sighed, crossing her arms. “We don’t expect you to be some perfect delver, we don’t expect you to have high grades to move forward, or for you to kiss our boots like the Strand bitches expect from their pets.” She shot a pointed glare at Kristi, who growled low in her throat. “We like you for you, Alec. For the stubborn bastard who stood up to us and flung pepper in Cap’s face. For the guy who’s still standin’ after we fucked you up. That’s why I bound you—to keep you safe from the real controlling' cunts out there.”

“Safe,” I repeated, my voice flat. “You think I feel safe with your tag on me? With you voicecasting into my head, tracking me like I’m your lost luggage? You don’t even know me!”

Adler snorted “Know you? We know enough. You’re a fighter. You’ve got guts. We respect guts. Ain’t that right, girls?”

“Damn straight,” Donutz nodded along with a chorus of ‘hear, hear’ from the other bikers. “Look, Alec, we ain’t sayin’ we’re in love with you like some mushy rom-com shit. But we like you enough to want you with us. To train you up, level that skill of yours, make you someone who can stand toe-to-toe with any prad in this shitshow of a doomed world infected with Systemfall and crawling with dungeons. And yeah… Maybe we got a bit rough, but that’s how we roll. If you just backed down, lowered your eyes, cried, begged for mercy we would have bothered with you. We'd like to know ya, that's why we're calling you.”

Kristi, who’d been simmering beside me, finally exploded. “You’re delusional! Both of you! You think you can justify assaulting him, claiming him, because you ‘like’ him? That’s not how it works! You’re just five washed-up delinquents who can’t handle the fact that you’re irrelevant outside your little biker gang fantasy!”

Adler’s projection snarled. “Fuck you! You don’t get to lecture us about morality when your family owns that town and treats humans like exotic pets. At least we’re honest about what we want. You’re just playin’ the good girl to score points with Daddy.”

“Enough!” I snapped, my patience fraying. “Adler, Donutz, let’s get one thing straight: you don’t love me. You don’t even like me. You like that I don’t die easily. That’s not the same thing. And if your tag’s condition is love, then it’s a fucking joke, because what you did to me isn’t anywhere close to it.”

Donutz’s expression softened, just a fraction, her eyes studying me through the static. “Alec, you’re wrong. We do like you—more than you think. Maybe it’s not love yet, but it’s somethin’. And out here, in a world full of selfish cunts who’d chew you up and spit you out, that’s worth more than you know.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You think you’re gonna find two prads in Ferguson who’ll care about you even a smidge as much as we do? Good luck. That town’s a viper pit. Every prad there’s either owned by the Strands or clawin’ their way up the social ladder, and a level three human with an unbreakable claim mark ain’t exactly prime real estate.”

Kristi’s claws dug into her palms, her gold eyes blazing. “He doesn’t need your pity or your so-called ‘protection.’ He’s not some helpless stray you get to collar because you’re bored. Alec’s got more strength in him than your entire pack combined!”

“I didn’t say that he’s weak,” Donutz shook her head. “Alec’s a strong boy. I know the town rules as well as you do, Kristi—he’s got a week before he’s kicked out. If you want him so bad, then all you have to do is like him more than me, plus find another prad who’d share such feelings and also love you as much as I love my Captain. It’s too bad that you’ve never bothered to make your own pack, hum? Too bad that you’re just a stuck up, hearless rich beetch who doesn’t love anyone, huh?”

“Ha ha, buuuuuuurn,” one of the wolves laughed from behind.

“You think you’re gonna swoop in and save him from us? You can’t even save yourself from your own liminal curse, loser,” Adler said.

Kristi flinched, just barely, but I caught it. Whatever nerve Adler had hit, it was a deep one. 

“Right then, you knobs. Here’s the deal,” I said. “I don’t belong to you. I don’t belong to anyone. And if your tag’s condition is finding two prads who care about me more than you do, then I’ll take those odds. Because frankly, the bar’s so low it’s buried in the dirt. You don’t get to decide my worth, and you sure as hell don’t get to decide my future.”

Adler’s projection flickered, her grin faltering for a split second before snapping back into place. “Big words, tater. But words don’t mean shit when reality comes knockin’. You’ll come crawlin’ back to us when Ferguson chews you up and spits ya out. And we’ll be waitin’—with open arms, ready to take you on the open road.”

“Mhmmm. We’re offerin’ you a place where you don’t have to bow to anyone. Where you can be strong, free, you. But if you’re set on this path… well, we can’t force you to see sense.” Donutz smirked. “Mathematically speakin’, findin’ two prads in that town who’ll give a damn about you and each other without wantin’ anything in return? That’s a probability so close to zero it might as well be a myth. Aight, I’m running low on mana. We’ll call you later, kay? Kay. Toodoles. Smoochies!”

The projections began to fade, their outlines dissolving into silver sparks. Adler’s voice lingered for another second before fading to static that fell silent. “See ya later, Alec-tater...”

"Fuck, FUCK, FUUUUUUUUUCK!" Kristi growled. "I cannot believe those fuckers!”

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

I stood there, speechless as Kristi's tough exterior cracked before my eyes. Gone was the fierce raptor who'd chased me through the school hallways, replaced by someone who looked genuinely hurt, broken. Her feathers drooped, and she turned away quickly, but not before I caught the glimmer of moisture on her scales.

"Hey," I said, my voice softer than I'd intended. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she snapped, wiping at her eyes with the back of her clawed hand. "Just... I hate them. I fucking hate them."

I wasn't sure what to do. Comforting a crying raptor wasn't exactly in my limited social playbook. 

"What did Adler mean?" I asked carefully. "About your liminal curse?"

Kristi stiffened, her tail going rigid. "Nothing. She meant nothing. She's just a bitter beerch who likes hurting people."

Her voice had a brittleness to it that contradicted her words. Whatever Adler had hit on, it wasn't nothing.

"Look," I said, running a hand through my hair. "This has been a really shitty day. For both of us, I think."

Kristi let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah. You could say that."

The farmhouse creaked around us, the wind chimes outside creating their eerie symphony. The reality of my situation was sinking in—no grandfather, no place to stay, a magical claim I couldn't possibly remove.

"So," I gestured at the ruins around us. "Home sweet home, I guess. Slightly more burned down than advertised."

Kristi looked around, her composure gradually returning. "You can't stay in this decrepit farmhouse, Alec."

"Don't have much choice," I replied. "Unless you're offering to put me up at the Strand mansion?"

She gave me a look that said that wasn't going to happen.

We made our way back to my car in silence, the eerie wind chimes fading behind us as we left the junkyard farm. Kristi seemed lost in thought, her earlier tears replaced by a distant, resigned expression.

The Tempest groaned to life as I turned the key, its familiar rumble somehow comforting. I pulled away from my grandfather's bizarre memorial to madness, heading back toward the main road.

"I'm going to stay at the Hare Krishna temple," I said after we'd been driving for a while. "They might help with this claim mark, and I need a place to sleep."

Kristi nodded, too defeated to argue. Her earlier fire seemed extinguished, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like depressed acceptance.

"They're strict," she said finally, her voice flat. "But they're fair. It's probably your best option right now."

The sun was beginning to set as we crossed back through the barrier obelisks into Ferguson proper. The town looked different in the twilight—more magical, with magitek streetlights flickering on and spellwork runes glowing softly on building facades.

"Take a left at the next intersection," Kristi directed. "Then right at the stoplight. The Strand estate is just past the park."

I followed her directions until we pulled up to a massive wrought iron gate set into a tall stone wall. Beyond, I could see a sprawling mansion that looked more like a castle than a home, with manicured gardens and what appeared to be a private lake. The Strand family crest—a raptor holding a globe in its talons—was emblazoned on the gate.

"This is me," Kristi said, opening her door.

"Thanks," I said. "For today.

“Why? I… I didn’t do shit,” she let out.

“You were more welcoming than anyone else here,” I said. “And I do consider you a friend.”

She paused, one foot on the ground. "Don't thank me. I haven't helped you at all. I'll see you tomorrow, in class." Her voice dropped. "If you insist on showing up."

“Want to trade Pradstagram ids?”

“Okay,” she let out, pulled her phone from her backpack, opened the app and tapped it on mine.

I clicked accept contact in the app.

With that, she slipped out and approached the gate. A security guard—a dog in an immaculate uniform—nodded to her and the gate swung open. She didn't look back as she walked through.

I sat there for a moment, watching her disappear into the Strand estate, before putting the car in gear and heading back toward town. According to the GPS on my phone, the Hare Krishna temple was on the eastern edge of Ferguson, where the town met the forest.

The temple itself was a relatively modest building compared to the grandeur I'd seen elsewhere in town. Its white stone walls were adorned with intricate carvings, and golden domes caught the last rays of sunset. The parking lot was small but well-maintained, with spaces for about twenty vehicles.

I parked the Tempest and sat for a moment, gathering my strength. My body ached, my mind was exhausted, and the day's emotional whiplash had left me drained. But I had nowhere else to go.

The temple's interior was cooler than outside, filled with the scent of incense and the soft sound of chanting from a distant room. Orange and gold decorations adorned the walls, depicting deities and spiritual scenes I didn't recognize. A few monks in saffron robes—both pradavarian and human—moved quietly through the space, some reading, others cleaning or meditating.

A gray wolf pradavarian woman approached me, her movements graceful. She wore the same orange robe as the others, but hers was particularly meticulously arranged. Her fur was neatly groomed, her eyes a calm, perceptive blue. Wooden prayer beads clicked softly between her fingers as she walked.

"Namaste," she greeted me, her accent distinctly Slavic. "I am Sister Zheniya. Do you seek enlightenment this evening, or perhaps something else?"

"Something else," I admitted. "I need a place to sleep. My grandfather's house... it burned down."

Her eyes widened slightly, taking in my battered appearance

"I see and smell that you carry many burdens, friend," she said, her voice gentler now. "You have indeed come to the right place. Come, tell me more."

We walked together to a small garden courtyard, where stone benches surrounded a simple fountain. She gestured for me to sit, then settled across from me, waiting patiently.

"My name is Alec Foster," I began. "I just arrived in Ferguson today. My grandfather, Daniel Foster, was supposed to be living at Old Foster Farm on Blackwater Road, but when I got there, the house was burned down, and he was gone. Left a message saying he'd 'departed to the city of System Wizards' or something."

“I see,” Sister Zheniya tilted her head, her ears perking up with interest. "And now you have nowhere to stay?"

"Exactly. I've enrolled at Ferguson High, but..."

"But there is more troubling you," she finished for me, her nose twitching slightly. "You carry a claim mark. Forced upon you, yes?"

I nodded, relieved that I didn't have to explain.

"The Skid Marks gang," I confirmed. "This morning at a gas station outside town. And apparently, the condition to remove it is... complicated."

Sister Zheniya nodded, continuing to work her prayer beads between her fingers. "The temple can offer you shelter, young Alec. We have rooms for those seeking a path. But I must be honest—our help with the claim mark would require commitment to our ways."

"So I've heard," I sighed. "Full devotion for full removal."

"Yes. This is the way. But even as a guest, you would need to follow certain rules. No meat, no intoxication, no gambling, no... Physical relations with the opposite gender. Early rising for meditation, assisting with temple duties, respecting the sacred spaces."

"I can do that," I said. "At least until I figure something else out."

Sister Zheniya studied me, her gaze penetrating. "Come. Let me show you our temple, and explain what life here would be like, even for a temporary guest."

She led me through the temple complex, pointing out the meditation halls, the communal kitchen where monks and volunteers prepared vegetarian meals for humans and special, protein-infused meals for prads, the simple dormitories where devotees slept on narrow cots. As we walked, she explained the daily schedule—waking at 4 AM for the first meditation, followed by chanting, study, service to the temple, more meditation, and finally retiring at 9 PM.

"It is a simple life," she said, "but one of purpose and peace. Even for those who stay with us briefly, the discipline can be... clarifying. The meditation we teach helps delvers sharpen their skills, to become more attuned to their souls."

We ended our tour in a small, spare room with a single bed, a wooden chair, and a small window overlooking the garden. A stack of orange clothing sat folded on the bed.

"This can be your place for now," Sister Zheniya said. "The washrooms are at the end of the hall. Dinner is in the grand hall in thirty two minutes. It will be announced by a gong."

"Thank you," I said, genuinely grateful despite the austerity of the accommodations. 

“Sit,” she said, sitting down on the stone floor. “I will assess your binding.”

I sat in a lotus pose next to her.

Zheniya reached out, gently taking my wrist with one paw. Her touch was cool and clinical as she turned my arm to examine my hand. I couldn't see anything there—no mark, no rune, nothing visible to the naked eye—but Sister Zheniya closed her eyes in concentration.

"Assess binding," she murmured, her prayer beads stilling in her other paw.

Her eyes suddenly ignited with silver light—the universal sign of a pradavarian using their Astral sight—but instead of the calm assessment I expected, she let out a sharp yelp and released my arm as if it had burned her. The silver light flickered and died as she scrambled back, putting distance between us.

"Sister Zheniya?" I asked, confused by her reaction. "What's wrong?"

Her expression had darkened considerably, her earlier serenity replaced by something like alarm mixed with disgust. She rubbed her paw against her robe as if trying to cleanse it.

"This binding..." she said, her voice lower now, almost a growl. "It is not what I expected."

"What do you mean? What did you see?"

She shook her head, her ears flattened against her skull. "The temple will not be able to unbind this mark, young Alec. Not now, not ever."

"But the border guards said—"

"They were mistaken," she cut me off. "This binding was created by an incredibly high-level Binder amplified by their domain." She studied me with new wariness. "The condition set upon it is the exact opposite of our temple's principles."

"Love," I said, remembering Donutz's words. "The Prad who bound me said the condition was love."

“Yes. Love. Not just love for another. An equilateral relationship triangle. Carnal attachment. Possession. Desire. The binding draws power specifically from the type of conceptual connection our order renounces." She stood up with a sigh. "If we attempt to purify you, the mark would only grip your essence with greater vigor. It is a limitless binding, pure, absolute [[[Love]]]—like nothing I’ve ever seen. Whoever set this mark upon you is a cruel genius wielding the dark power of the Infinite Superstore Dungeon."

I sighed.

"You may volunteer at the temple as a novitiate to be granted a bed and food," she said after a moment's hesitation. "But you would not be permitted to become a full monk, nor aided with… the mark. I am sorry, Alec Foster. I truly am. But some bindings are beyond even our abilities to cleanse."

“Thanks for trying,” I said.

She nodded, her blue eyes kind but serious. "Rest now, then enjoy dinner. Tomorrow will come soon enough, and with it, new challenges."

With that, she left me alone in the small room. I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the orange robes, the bare walls, the simplicity of it all. At least it was something.

The dinner gong's resonant tone echoed through the temple, its vibrations seeming to ripple through my aching body. I changed into the orange robes left for me—simple cotton pants and a loose shirt that smelled faintly of incense and detergent. The fabric was soft against my healing wounds, a small mercy after all of the bullshit.

Following the flow of orange-clad devotees, I made my way to the refectory—a large, open, white hall with long wooden tables arranged in neat rows. The walls were adorned with paintings of blue-skinned deities and spiritual scenes, their vibrant colors contrasting with the otherwise austere décor. The air was thick with the aroma of spices, legumes, and fresh bread.

I joined the line at the serving table, where smiling monks ladled food onto metal thali plates with separate compartments. My tray soon held a colorful array: yellow dal, fluffy rice, spiced mixed vegetables, a small salad, and a piece of flatbread that a cheerful pradavarian informed me was called chapati.

The room hummed with quiet conversation and the occasional soft chant. Despite my exhaustion and the strangeness of my surroundings, my stomach growled appreciatively at the sight and smell of real food. I found an empty spot at one of the tables, sitting somewhat apart from the others, conscious of my outsider status.

The first bite of dal surprised me with its complex flavor—earthy, spicy, and somehow comforting. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until food touched my tongue. I began to eat with single-minded focus, barely registering the movements around me.

Someone sat across from me with a deep weary sigh. I looked up, and the spoon slipped from my fingers, clattering against the metal plate with a sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence of my mind.

Nessy Whitepaw was sitting across from me, holding her own tray. Her black and white curls gleamed under the soft lighting, the distinctive angel wing pattern on her forehead somehow more pronounced against the orange fabric. Her ocean-blue eyes—up close and even more vibrant in person than in her videos stared right into my soul.