Chapter 10

  “Leave me be,” she said, her voice cool and clipped. She wore leather armor—lighter, more mobile than the clunky studded junk Wormpool had dumped on him. Two small daggers poked out from her back, tucked neat against her spine. Her skin was “olive” but not like how people bullshit about back home—it was a pale green, legit forest-hue, smooth and weirdly striking. Cute, in an elf-troll kind of way—sharp cheekbones, pointy ears, maybe 25 if Tyler had to slap a human age on her.

  “Come on, don’t do me like that,” he pressed, flashing that grin. “I need someone to talk to—I’ve been stuck with that bat thing for hours, and the fucker tried to kill me.”

  Her eyes sparked with interest, narrowing slightly. Fuck, Tyler thought, did I say too much?

  “Those creatures are Lord Severen’s servants,” she said, her tone low and skeptical. “They’re only meant to guide us—they can’t harm you. They’re bound to serve.

  Tyler smirked, leaning in a little. “Yeah? Maybe he nudged me just enough that I tried to kill myself—real subtle, that one. Slipped me a gem and said ‘go nuts,’ then watched me fry.” He tapped his chest where the Ability Gem had burned, playing it off with a shrug. “Point is, I’m still breathing.”

  She tilted her head, not quite buying it but not walking away either. “I really need to know what to expect in this place,” he added, dropping the grin for a second. “When I got dragged here, they didn’t tell me shit—Severen kept it all vague as hell. What’s the deal?”

  Her gaze flicked up to the balcony, then back to him. “Look, we’re contestants in a dungeon,” she said, voice steady. “Those nobles up there? They place bets on us. Our goal’s simple—survive long enough to hit Tier 4.”

  “Tier 4?” Tyler cut in, eyebrow cocked. “What, like I level up and get a gold star? Then what?”

  She didn’t flinch—the humor sailed right over her head. “When you make it that far, you’re allowed to either join Severen—or claw your way out to somewhere else in this realm. Your call, if you don’t die first.”

  “Alright, cool,” Tyler said, smirking. “Thought I was gonna have to fight Godzilla or some shit.” Another reference lost on her—her blank stare was almost cute.

  She tilted her head, eyeing him now. “What world are you from? You have a strange way of speaking. Are you human, like those ones over there?” Her finger—nails painted red to match her hair—pointed at a cluster of rough-looking humans across the room. She was growing on him, green skin and all.

  “Human, yeah,” he said, leaning into it. “From a place called ‘Merica, as some say. Land of the free, home of the brave—and shitty coffee.” Shit, he thought, mind snagging on Sandy. How long had it been—weeks, months, years since that elevator crushed him? Was she still slinging drinks at Café Royale, sassing customers? This chick kinda reminded him of her—not the green skin or the face that could burn holes or ears that could poke eyes out, but that sass Tyler always vibed with.

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  He shook it off, flashing the grin again. “Where you from, Red? Somewhere with better manners than this dump, I hope.”

  “Unlike you, I wasn’t summoned from some other universe,” she said, her voice flat but edged with something heavy. “That costs a ton of energy. I’m from an edge world—one being claimed by our Lord Vacuus.” She said in mock reverence.

  Tyler cocked an eyebrow. “Being claimed? What, like a mortgage? Your world didn’t pay its bills or something?” He glanced around—purple flames flickering, obsidian decorations glinting, the light bending in ways that made no damn sense. “So are there places that don’t look like this haunted-ass funhouse? What’s it called?”

  “Lamaora,” she said, unfazed by his jab. “It’s only been around about 120,000 years.”

  “Only?” Tyler snorted. “My apartment’s older than that—or feels like it.” He leaned in, grin widening. “So what’s the deal with this claiming shit?”

  She didn’t bite at the humor. “My parents say our ancestors came from another universe, like you. But me?” Her eyes flicked to the balcony, then back. “They sold me into this game—thought a rare Core might win favor with Siruc.

  Damn,” Tyler said, letting out a low whistle. “Sold you like slavery? Cold world.” He paused, scratching his jaw. “Mine was cold too, once. Few hundred years back, I’d have been a slave myself—chained up, no ‘Merica bullshit.I feel for you, seriously. ” The tension was creeping up, thick as bar smoke, so he flashed a grin to cut it. “It's a cold world, but I can keep you—”

  “Fresh meat’s chatty,” a gravelly voice growled behind him. Tyler spun to see scar-lip stomping up—built like a World of Warcraft block, all bulk and broad shoulders that didn’t match the rest of his frame. Dude carried a two-handed axe, its head the size of Tyler’s torso, gleaming like it’d slice him in half cleaner than a deli cutter. Not some piece-of-shit hand-me-down like Tyler’s gear—this thing was crafted, mean.

  The beast towered over him, and Tyler gulped down saliva like a cartoon character, throat bobbing loud. “How’s it going, big dog?” he said, forcing a grin to ease the buildup. Eyes swung their way—green-skins, long-ears, humans—crowd forming, all stares pinned on him and this moose-faced freak.

  Up close, its face was mostly human—if a human got drunk and hooked up with a moose. Snout, not a nose, jutted out, slick and shiny, catching the purple flames like a damn spotlight. “So you’re the reason we’ve been waiting days?” it rumbled, voice like rocks grinding.

  There it was—the question Tyler’d dodged with Vlad and Wormpool, too busy bullshitting to ask. Don’t beat yourself up, he thought, shrugging it off. “Yeah, sorry, man—my ring malfunctioned or some shit. Took the scenic route.” The gray-fur beast—short fuzz, not skin, he saw now—didn’t crack a smile. Not even a twitch.

  Before scar-lip could open his moose-maw again, a loud boom slammed into Tyler’s eardrums, deep and rattling like a bass drop at a shitty club, but heavier—less a gong’s clang and more a wall of sound rolling down from the balcony level. The air shifted, thick with it, and Tyler’s chest vibrated faintly. Up top, the suave bastards in their capes stirred—laughter fading, footsteps shuffling as they drifted to their polished seats, settling in like vultures circling a fresh kill.

  Shit, man, Tyler thought, neck prickling. I think it’s about to start. The crowd below went still, breaths held, eyes darting up. Even Red’s pointy ears twitched, her gaze flicking to the balcony then back to him, like she was waiting for something to drop. The silence stretched, heavy and unnatural, until a voice cut through it—low, resonant, like Wormpool’s Batman growl but smoother, clearer, dripping with authority.

  “I present,” it began, each word deliberate, echoing off the obsidian walls, “Harbinger of the Hollow Star, Warden of the Last Silence, Bearer of the Umbral Crown, Voidfather of the Hollow Kin, Living Lord of Bakarus Vine—Acolyte Severen Siruc, The Master of the Bleeding Sea.