Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

  Myrddin’s mind was a frantic storm, a loop of panic repeating endlessly as he plunged through the air.

  Every gasp felt like daggers scraping his lungs, the roaring wind ripping through his clothes and tossing his dark hair wildly around his face.

  Yet he forced his burning eyes open—his vision was the one strength he could truly rely upon.

  But even that keen sight found only darkness, an abyss punctuated by tiny flecks of eerie violet light.

  Those distant sparks blinked like mischievous spirits, offering fleeting moments of false hope as he plummeted toward whatever grim fate awaited him below.

  Relax… relax, damn it, he urged himself, but his pulse thundered, deaf to reason.

  All around him echoed the horrific symphony of human terror—agonized screams, cries for mercy, and sickening impacts when falling bodies collided midair.

  Myr refused to look anywhere but straight ahead, downward into the endless black. Witnessing others’ despair would only shatter whatever thread of composure he still clung to.

  This can’t be random. The Monarch wouldn’t lie. There must be a reason for this madness.

  Yet even as that desperate thought formed, a harsh truth crushed it.

  Figures streaked effortlessly past him, moving through the air with astonishing ease: some with shimmering wings unfolding gracefully behind them, others propelled by crackling jets of flame beneath their feet, soaring as if riding invisible waves.

  A few drifted serenely upon enchanted carpets, untouched by gravity itself.

  “…”

  Realization struck him harder than any physical blow, a cold, cruel awakening slicing through his chest.

  So that’s how it is.

  Even among those labeled as lower-stagers, some possessed miraculous artifacts.

  He’d lived in ignorance, isolated and sheltered. Stage 6 had kept him blind—unprepared.

  Now, as he plummeted helplessly, the bitter truth mocked him: others had come ready, while he and many more were condemned to this helpless, screaming free fall.

  I’m doomed.

  The thought slithered into his consciousness like poison—but then something deeper surged through him: defiance. A stubborn refusal to accept such a fate without a fight.

  Not yet.

  He narrowed his eyes, heart pounding violently as he fixed his sight on the approaching purple lights below.

  As he grew nearer, those distant pinpoints of violet sharpened into enormous feathers, black as midnight and streaked with luminous violet veins.

  Their serpentine forms spread outward, forming a strange, otherworldly canopy beneath him.

  Could those feathers soften my fall?

  The desperate thought flared briefly, quickly extinguished by doubt.

  Would the Houses truly rely on luck to determine who lives and dies?

  Yet what other choice was there?

  His jaw clenched, and determination surged through him.

  Myrddin inhaled deeply, ignoring the icy ache in his chest.

  He pressed his arms tightly to his sides and locked his legs together. With a tilt of his head, he angled his body straight downward, becoming a human arrow slicing through the wind.

  The gale lashed violently against him, yet he welcomed the brutal sting, accelerating his descent.

  It’s this or nothing!

  He dismissed the idea of grabbing someone midair—that would only doom them both.

  Instead, Myr aimed directly for one of those massive feathers, praying that whatever strange magic they contained would spare him from a swift, violent end.

  The roaring wind filled Myrddin’s ears, drowning out everything else as the feathers surged upward, rapidly engulfing his vision.

  Each colossal plume was thick as an ancient tree, quivering softly, their glossy surfaces shimmering with strange, luminous patterns in the dim light.

  His pulse quickened, hammering in rhythm with the gale. Adrenaline sharpened his senses, every detail magnified, vivid—

  Then, with shocking speed, one of the enormous feathers suddenly shifted, uncoiling toward him like a living serpent.

  “What—!” Myrddin choked out, but the rest of his voice was crushed from his lungs.

  In an instant, the feather enveloped him, wrapping him in its fibrous embrace.

  The force knocked the breath from his chest; its grasp was powerful, constricting yet strangely warm, a sensation neither fully plantlike nor animal.

  It tightened relentlessly, pinning his arms painfully against his sides.

  "Mmph!"

  Raw panic surged through him, survival instincts screaming for escape.

  Struggling wildly, he tried to reach the small dagger concealed within his boot, but each movement seemed only to tighten the feather’s suffocating grip.

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  “Let go… you damned tree-feather!” he rasped through clenched teeth, lungs burning, each word choked by the crushing pressure.

  With sheer determination, Myrddin forced his trembling fingers downward, reaching desperately into his boot for the hidden blade.

  Darkness swam at the edges of his vision; his chest felt ready to burst.

  Almost…there…!

  Finally, his fingertips brushed the dagger’s hilt.

  With a fierce, desperate pull, he wrenched the blade free and slashed upward, carving deep into the fibrous material.

  Purple threads exploded outward like shredded silk, and the feather shuddered, loosening its grip as if recoiling in agony.

  In a sharp, spasmodic jerk, the feather released him.

  “Finally—!” Myrddin gasped out—but gravity seized him again, sending him plunging downward.

  He struck the earth with brutal force, a dull, heavy thud reverberating through his body as dust billowed up around him.

  “Damn this…” he muttered, voice muffled by dirt as he lay sprawled, half-buried in dry, orange-brown soil. Pain radiated through his bruised limbs—but he was alive.

  Winded, shaken, but undoubtedly alive.

  He didn’t waste a second longer lying prone.

  Ignoring his throbbing body, Myrddin scrambled unsteadily to his feet, his gaze quickly sweeping across his strange new surroundings.

  A bleak, unsettling forest stretched endlessly around him, filled with thin, leafless trees, their branches heavy with massive black feathers.

  He glanced warily upward. Now motionless, those same feathers that had attacked him swayed gently, as if suddenly innocuous. Yet their earlier violence lingered clearly in his mind.

  “What in damnation is this Stage…?”

  He’d expected Stage 10 to be more refined, more structured—perhaps less obviously deadly.

  Yet here the darkness pressed down, oppressive and omnipresent, the massive feathers blotting out the sky, broken only by thin shafts of pale, weakly glowing light that pierced the canopy in jagged patterns, painting ghostly shadows on the soil.

  “Fine…” Myrddin sighed, gripping his dagger tightly before slipping it back into its sheath.

  With no plan other than survival, he stepped forward, deeper into the shadowy forest.

  The Monarch’s vague promise echoed bitterly in his mind: "to test your potential." But how? To wander aimlessly, hoping to prove himself worthy?

  Yet, beneath his frustration lingered a small flame of hope. Surely there’s a higher purpose to this madness.

  Because otherwise, he truly was doomed.

  “Damn it, screw this place!” Myrddin finally burst out, frustration boiling over after two hours—by his own increasingly desperate count—of trudging through the endless, suffocating forest.

  Nothing ever changed.

  The same dusty, orange-brown soil stretched endlessly beneath thin, lifeless trunks crowned by drooping black feathers.

  They loomed overhead like silent guardians, mocking his attempts to find anything resembling a landmark.

  His breath came in ragged gasps, echoing softly through the oppressive silence as he fought back the urge to punch the nearest tree in exasperation.

  This can't possibly be the test the Monarch spoke of… can it?

  And what about the countless others who’d plummeted alongside him?

  He hadn’t seen a single person—not a living soul, not even a corpse, nor any sign anyone else had ever walked this bleak terrain.

  It was as if the fall had scattered them across an endless wasteland.

  A sickening unease twisted his stomach. Were they trapped in those feathers, as he himself had nearly been?

  Had they already been devoured by some unseen, monstrous presence?

  Or were they merely scattered, lost somewhere in this grim, sprawling maze?

  Frustration giving way to exhaustion, he rubbed his temples and sank down onto the gritty soil, the tiny grains digging uncomfortably into his legs.

  It hardly mattered—his head ached far worse.

  He drew in slow, steadying breaths, trying to quiet the chaotic swirl of thoughts inside him.

  As he exhaled, his gaze drifted absently across the monotonous landscape, left, then right—

  “…?”

  He froze. Something had moved, subtly yet unmistakably.

  A distant feather quivered slightly—so slightly, he almost dismissed it as the breeze. But then, beneath the dense black plumage, came another twitch: frantic, desperate.

  Someone’s trapped!

  “Dammit!” Myrddin hissed, launching himself upward, dagger already flashing in his grip.

  Without a second thought, he sprinted forward, closing the distance in seconds.

  The thick fibers resisted his blade at first, but with a fierce burst of determination, he drove the dagger through, slicing cleanly across the feather’s constricting coils.

  The enormous plume shuddered, releasing its captive—who tumbled out, sprawling gracelessly into the dirt in a heap.

  Breathing hard, Myrddin stepped back warily, dagger held at the ready, watching as the stranger coughed violently, spitting grit and dust from his mouth.

  After a moment’s struggle, the man rose shakily to his feet, brushing himself off with an oddly casual air, as though being nearly devoured alive was little more than a minor inconvenience.

  Myrddin’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  The man wore baggy beige trousers beneath a dark brown coat, all layered over a simple black shirt—an odd ensemble, but not altogether remarkable.

  Yet it was the oversized, puffy hat with two floppy, ear-like folds dangling comically at either side of his head that drew Myrddin’s incredulous gaze.

  What in the Tower…?

  He kept his dagger raised, muscles tense, ready for anything.

  Yet the stranger seemed utterly unfazed by his brush with death, rolling his shoulders and giving Myrddin an unexpectedly cheerful, almost childlike grin.

  “Ah, my sincerest gratitude for the timely rescue, friend,” the stranger chimed in an oddly high-pitched voice, brushing himself off as if he'd merely tripped on the street.

  “No need.” Myrddin's reply was clipped, wary, his dagger still raised cautiously.

  The man waved off Myrddin's tension with an airy sweep of his hand. “Well, then. Many thanks again, but I really must be off!”

  Without another word, he spun neatly on his heel and started away.

  “You’re joking, right?” Myrddin snapped, incredulous. “You almost died, and now you’re just going to stroll away?”

  The stranger paused mid-step, peering back over his shoulder with exaggerated confusion. “Would you rather I remain here indefinitely?”

  Myrddin stared at him, speechless with irritation. He's utterly mad.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Myrddin exhaled slowly, gathering what little patience he had left.

  “Look, I've been wandering this damn place for hours. There's nothing but dirt and feathers—no paths, no landmarks. Exactly where do you think you're going?”

  With theatrical grace, the stranger pivoted back to face him, a curious glint brightening his eyes.

  He took a long, leisurely appraisal of Myrddin, eyes tracing from head to toe as if inspecting a valuable but unusual artifact.

  “Hmm…” he finally murmured. “So you've encountered nothing at all? Just feathers and dirt?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I just said.”

  A knowing smirk tugged at the corners of the stranger's lips. “Then you must be one lucky fellow indeed.”

  Myrddin’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And what exactly does that mean?”

  Instead of answering directly, the stranger pressed a thoughtful finger against the bridge of his nose, eyes squinting theatrically as if analyzing an intriguing puzzle.

  “You look sturdy enough to serve as an excellent meat sh—I mean, companion."

  Myrddin’s grip tightened sharply around the dagger’s hilt. “You were about to call me a meat shield, weren't you?”

  Feigning wide-eyed innocence, the stranger raised his hands defensively. “Oh, perish the thought! Just a slip of the tongue, my friend.”

  Myrddin’s expression remained cold, suspicion darkening his gaze.

  The stranger quickly adjusted his tone, sensing he'd pushed too far.

  “Look, friend, your good fortune today is truly remarkable. You've saved exactly the right person from a truly miserable fate.”

  He stood straighter, puffing out his chest in exaggerated pride. “Come along, now. I have valuable information that you really need.”

  Without waiting for a response, he turned once again, striding confidently into the bleak forest ahead as if he were marching down a familiar, bustling street rather than a shadowy maze of living feathers.

  Myrddin lingered, tension and irritation warring within him. He ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair, releasing a resigned sigh.

  Not like I've got a better option…

  With reluctant acceptance, he sheathed the dagger back into his boot, casting one last wary glance at the silent, swaying feathers around them.

  Then, with an air of grim determination, he hurried after the strange figure.

  “If this turns out to be a waste of time,” Myrddin muttered under his breath, “I’ll personally shove him back into one of those damned feathers.”