There’s a certain beauty about déjà vu. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve seen it once, or you’ve seen it a thousand times. The truth is you’ve seen it—and you understand it. That’s what it was like fighting the second Fungal Pincher.

  We knew where to aim this time.

  I shouted—“The eyes!”—and Sherry’s blade moved like it had been waiting its whole life for that moment. Clean. Precise. One stroke and the thing jerked, spasmed, and collapsed into a twitching heap. I watched the light fade from its eyes, and felt nothing.

  Not fear. Not victory. Well, maybe a little bit of both.

  Progress was the most important.

  Combat Victory!

  Fungal Pincher defeated!

  EXP gained: 12

  New Total: 18/40

  “Hopefully that was the last one.” Meryl leaned on his blade and shook his head. “I nearly lost a finger there.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure that thing never got closer than five feet.”

  “Five feet’s close enough when it’s got pincers the size of my damn arm,” he snapped, then frowned, “Some of us don’t have the luxury of having 11 Defense.”

  “That doesn’t mean I wanna get hit,” I retorted. “From the words of a famous hero: People die when they are killed.”

  Sherry crouched by the twitching remains of the Pincher, examining its glassy eyes. “Still ugly. Still stinks.”

  “You say that like you were expecting an improvement,” I said.

  “I dunno. Thought maybe the second one would come with better manners.”

  I chuckled, then glanced down the tunnel ahead. It sloped deeper, and the moss that once clung to the walls had thinned out, almost as if something was stopping it from growing. The warm air had thickened, heavy with moisture, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down from my forehead, coming to a stop at my chin.

  I wiped the sweat on my sleeve. The heat was getting oppressive, and the deeper we went, the more it felt like we were walking into the heart of something wrong. The air had a metallic taste to it now, mingled with something… heavier. Almost like the weight of the earth itself was pressing in on us.

  Walking on the vanguard, I looked back at Meryl. “Stay sharp. We haven’t seen the worst of this place yet.”

  He snorted, the sound echoing off the tunnel walls. “If this isn’t the worst, I don’t even wanna know what is.”

  I felt my skin prickle as I kept walking forward. The tunnel stretched on, darker now, and I couldn’t shake the feeling we were being watched. It was that instinctive feeling that crawled up your spine, the one you could never ignore if you valued your life.

  Sorren, who was walking beside me, looked curiously at his scroll. “Can’t be much further now. I'm getting the same feeling I did when I approached the leyline at the Alerensian Brewery all that time ago.”

  “Why can’t we use that one?” Rumiel chimed in, her finger on her chin.

  “Chaliceguard captain with the level thirty guard dog, remember?” Sherry quipped, ruffling Rumiel’s dull, gray hair.

  Rumiel tilted her head at Sherry, a sly grin creeping onto her face. “Well, yeah, but you’re always the first one to draw your sword. Don’t pretend you’re not itching for it,” she said, voice lilting with playful challenge.

  Sherry shot her a sidelong look, her eyes narrowing—but there was a flicker of something softer behind them. A weary kind of smile tugged at her lips. “I’m not itching for anything,” she said quietly. “I just want my life back. If swinging my sword gets me there faster, then I won’t hesitate.”

  “I sure know how to pick ‘em,” Rumiel announced, hands on her hips, nose in the air.

  Sherry sighed and drew in a breath. “Yeah, yeah, just be ready for anything.”

  Meryl rolled his shoulders. “Enough chit chat, it’s past my bedtime. Let’s get this over with. Scope out the leyline and get outta here.”

  We traversed further into the cave without much trouble. For once, Rumiel wasn’t talking. She walked near the back, her eyes flitting from wall to wall in fascination. Sherry moved without that same tension, fingers resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. Meryl’s hand hadn’t left the grip of his in ten minutes.

  I glanced ahead. Sorren had gone quiet too, eyes fixed on the scroll in his hands. Every few steps he’d hum under his breath or mutter something, then fall silent again. It felt like the deeper we went, the more the cave was listening.

  The tunnel gradually widened into a vast cavern—broader, taller, and eerily symmetrical, as if carved by deliberate hands rather than time. Faint, charred patterns scorched the stone walls, curling like the remnants of some long-forgotten fire. No glowing mushrooms grew here. The only source of light was a single, jagged crack splitting the cavern floor, pulsing with an alternating turquoise and amber glow that cast flickering shadows across the chamber.

  Sorren dropped his scroll and rushed to the center of the space. “There it is. It's the leyline!”

  Sorren rushed ahead like a man possessed. He knelt beside the glowing crack, hands trembling as he pulled something from his satchel—a small glass bottle filled with an unknown liquid. His excitement was palpable, almost childlike. With reverence, he gently set it atop the glowing fissure.

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  We gathered around, watching in silence.

  For a second, nothing happened.

  Then the liquid began to bubble—slow at first, then with growing enthusiasm. Tiny pockets of foam kissed the inside of the bottle, and Sorren let out a breath that cracked somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

  “It’s alive,” he whispered. “By everything that is holy… it’s alive. This leyline has the strength to ferment.”

  He turned to us, eyes wide with a kind of hope I hadn’t seen since we met him. “Orren, you'll get to taste it. You'll finally know what it means to be Alerensian. Alerensian Beer will finally touch your lips.”

  Orren stood a little straighter, pride flickering in his gaze. “I really hope so, Grandfather.”

  I smiled faintly. “Just make sure there’s enough to go around.”

  “Of course,” Sorren said with a chuckle. “What kind of brewer would I be if I didn’t bring enough for the whole party?”

  We all shared a quiet smile—the kind born from something rare, something real. Orren slung an arm around his grandfather’s shoulder, pride clear in the gesture. Sherry and Meryl exchanged a quick fist bump, subtle but sincere. And Rumiel, ever the jokester, wiped an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow and grinned like she’d done all the work.

  But the warmth of the moment didn’t last.

  A low rumble cut through the air—deep and guttural, like the earth itself was growling. The leyline’s glow pulsed erratically, and the bubbles in the bottle suddenly hissed to a stop. Sorren backed away instinctively, clutching the bottle to his chest.

  Then I saw it.

  Something stirred at the edge of the chamber. At first, I thought it was part of the wall—a curl of blackened rock—but then it moved. A long, sinuous body uncoiled from behind a cluster of stone. Its scales shimmered in shades of copper and coal, and twin lines of molten light ran down its sides like veins of living fire.

  Combat Initialized…

  Barrett – Level 3 | Class: Rookie

  Equipment: Neglected Shortsword

  HP: 130

  Strength: 7 (+1)

  Defense: 11

  Magic: 3

  Dexterity: 7

  Intellect: 8

  Speed: 8

  Enemy identified: Embercoil Wyrm – Level 10

  Exp Gain: 80

  Its eyes were slits of pure heat. It slithered forward, low to the ground, mouth slightly open. I could feel the temperature rising—not unbearable, but enough for my body to shoot out warning signals.

  “I think it’s guarding the leyline,” Sherry said, already drawing her blade.

  The Wyrm reared back, and I didn’t wait for confirmation. “Scatter!”

  A blast of fire roared across the cavern, turning the stone floor into a river of heat. I barely dove to the side in time, the flames licking at my heels.

  “We’re not ready for this!” I shouted. “Commence standard maneuvers!”

  “Is that what I think it means?!” Meryl shouted back.

  “Yeah, run like hell!”

  Meryl was already hauling Rumiel towards the way we came. Sherry covered our flank, slashing at the Wyrm’s coils as it surged after us, but her blade barely scratched it, causing zeros to flash across my vision.

  Another wave of heat hit us—closer this time. I made a hard left to dodge, but pain flared through my right leg. The fire didn’t get all of me, but it caught enough. My calf seared with white-hot agony, and I stumbled forward with a curse.

  Sherry grabbed me by the arm and yanked me upright. “Move!”

  I didn’t argue.

  We ran like hell, chased by the sound of jagged scales scraping across the stone. The Wyrm didn’t follow us into the tunnels, but it didn’t have to. It made its point.

  The leyline wasn’t unguarded.

  When we finally reached the cave's entrance—hearts racing, chests heaving, and my leg feeling like someone had tried to cook it—I collapsed against the wall and muttered, “Well. Good news is, the fermentation still works.”

  Sherry gave me a look. “And the bad news?”

  I winced as I prodded the burn. “The guardian’s a little spicy.”

  Sherry knelt beside me, her expression shifting from battle-hardened to concerned in a blink. “Let me see.”

  “I’m fine,” I muttered, already knowing how unconvincing I sounded.

  “Don’t care,” she said, already tugging up the hem of my pants to inspect the damage.

  The fabric stuck, peeled, then finally revealed a raw patch of red flesh streaked with angry blisters. It pulsed like it had its own heartbeat.

  Meryl let out a low whistle. “That is not the kind of tan you want.”

  “Can you still walk?” Sorren asked, crouching beside us. He looked pale, eyes darting between the burn and the path we’d come from.

  “I should be okay,” I replied knowing it wouldn’t wash away everyone’s concern.

  “We need to let that heal,” Sherry said. “You won't last ten seconds if that thing breathes fire on you again.”

  “No one’s going back down there anytime soon,” Meryl warned, wiping soot from his cheek. “That Wyrm could barbecue the whole town. We need a better plan—that’s not running away.”

  Sorren stood, bottle still cradled against his chest. The bubbles inside had stilled, but a faint shimmer clung to the liquid’s surface. “We accomplished what we came to do. This leyline is active. It can ferment. That’s more than I ever dreamed.”

  “But we can’t get close enough to actually use it. Not without getting charred alive.” Sherry sighed. “Which means we’ll need to get stronger. First, Barrett needs to heal. And second…”

  “Ingredients!” Sorren turned toward the rest of the group. “We’re still missing everything we need to make a true Alerensian Beer. The grain, the water, the yeast—they’re almost all impossible to cultivate or procure.”

  “Let me guess,” Meryl said, voice dry. “We have to find them.”

  Sorren nodded. “And we have to do it quietly. The Chaliceguard won’t hesitate to jail—or kill—anyone trying to revive brewing. Which means if we want this to happen, we do it under their noses.”

  Rumiel perked up. “Ooh, secret missions! I knew this was gonna be fun.”

  “You say that like we didn’t just almost die.” Sherry rolled her eyes. “And remember. Level. Thirty. Guard. Dog.”

  Sherry and Meryl each offered me a hand. I obliged and was briskly hoisted on their shoulders. We started walking—slow, steady steps over uneven ground—as the ache in my leg pulsed with every movement. I clenched my teeth, doing my best not to groan out loud. The path back to Alerensia wasn’t long, but at that moment, it felt like we were crossing an entire continent.

  That’s the thing about déjà vu. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve seen it once, or you’ve seen it a thousand times. The truth is you’ve seen it—and you can’t stop it. Whether it be running away or being the only one to come out injured, it hits the same every time: the weight of retreat, the sting of failure wrapping around you like smoke after a fire. You tell yourself it’ll get better, but deep down, you wonder how many more times before they finally stop carrying you.