The clicking ceased. A silence descended, thick and heavy as a shroud, pressing against Eli's eardrums in the suffocating darkness of the ancient refinery. It was a silence more unnerving than the cacophony it replaced.

  Starling pulsed weakly in his white-knuckled grip, the fractured river-stone core casting an unsteady blue light that illuminated glistening, acidic droplets falling from the crystal-encrusted ceiling. Each drop hissed as it struck the corroded floor, joining the spreading pools of black, oily sludge that forced him onto precarious, crumbling platforms.

  "Marco?" Eli whispered, his voice tight with apprehension. The silence stretched, broken only by the drip… hiss… drip… hiss of the acid.

  ?Alert,? Marco's voice resonated in his mind, a sharp counterpoint to the oppressive quiet. The L.I.S.T. interface flickered to life, casting harsh blue light on Eli's strained face. ?Phase-shift signatures detected. Multiple hostiles. Obsidian-class scouts. Probability of conventional engagement: 12.3%. Advise immediate evasive maneuvers.?

  They emerged from the shadows like fragments of shattered night – obsidian drones, their edges shimmering with an unsettling distortion, as if reality itself struggled to contain them. Their movements were an impossible dance, defying the very laws of physics.

  One moment solid, the next a translucent blur, then gone, only to reappear at angles that made Eli's head spin.

  The binding spell tightened around Eli's throat, a constricting warning that mirrored the catch in his breath. Corrupted threads, woven into the spell, pulsed with a sickly black light. "Marco," he whispered, "how do I fight something that bends space itself?"

  Before Marco could answer, a scout phased through a massive crystal pillar, its form solidifying inches from Eli's face, the air thick with the stench of ozone. Instinct, honed by countless drills, took over.

  He invoked Comet's Trail, feeling the familiar burn of power surge through his legs as he threw himself sideways. A jet of corrosive acid sizzled through the air where his head had been a heartbeat before, splattering against the far wall.

  ?Pattern Alpha-2 identified,? Marco announced, his voice crisp and precise. Tactical overlays, shimmering blue lines and trajectory calculations, materialized in Eli's vision. ?Northeast scout: 2.3-second rematerialization window. Strike vector optimized. Execute.?

  Eli pivoted, trusting Marco's calculations implicitly. He drove Starling's Ironbark shaft forward, aiming not at the scout's current position, but at the space it would occupy in 2.3 seconds.

  The impact jarred him to the bone, but the sharp crack of the drone's obsidian core was a sound of pure triumph. The binding spell constricted painfully around his wrists, golden threads digging into his flesh. Sync at 38%. Too high, too fast.

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  He had no time to dwell on the pain. The remaining scouts were adapting, their phase-shifts becoming erratic, unpredictable. They feinted, their forms flickering in and out of existence, trying to bait him into a premature strike.

  A razor-sharp edge sliced through his tunic, leaving a burning trail of acid-seared flesh across his ribs.

  "Pattern accuracy degraded to 47%," Marco reported, a subtle shift in his synthesized tone betraying concern. "Recommend immediate disengagement."

  "Disengage," Marco repeated, his voice sharper this time, cutting through the chaos of battle. "Workshop energy signature is attracting additional hostiles. Tactical repositioning is imperative."

  Eli retreated, backpedaling across the treacherous floor, Starling's cracked river-stone sputtering faint sparks of blue. Three scouts materialized in a tight triangular formation, their obsidian edges rippling with distorted light, cutting off his retreat.

  Behind them, the refinery walls pulsed with a sickening, organic rhythm, black, corrupted veins spreading like grasping claws.

  "They're herding us," Eli gasped, feeling the trap closing in, "back towards the—"

  "Negative," Marco interrupted. "Analysis indicates a deliberate vector towards the southeast corridor. Their objective: Map workshop location. Optimal strategy: Execute misleading pursuit vector."

  Understanding dawned, cold and sharp. The dungeon was learning, adapting, probing for their weaknesses. Every step closer to the workshop revealed more of their sanctuary, their only refuge.

  He tightened his grip on Starling, the rough Ironbark a comfort against his palm. They had to run, but not blindly. They had to mislead.

  The binding spell throbbed against his skin, a burning reminder of the power coursing through him. Sync was at 61%, dangerously high. The black corruption, no longer just threads, had spread, tracing intricate, poisonous patterns up his forearms.

  He could feel it whispering to him, promising power at a terrible price. They needed one last surge, one final gamble.

  "Remember that maneuver we practiced?" Eli asked, shifting his weight, favoring his less-injured leg. "Delta-7?"

  A microsecond of silence, then, "Probability of success: 31%. Risk of further core damage to Starling: Significant. However..." The L.I.S.T. interface flickered, displaying a complex series of calculations. "…under current circumstances, statistical improbability may offer a tactical advantage."

  A grim smile touched Eli's lips. "Is that… a joke, Marco?"

  "Humor assessment protocols are currently irrelevant," Marco replied, his tone flat. "Prepare to execute Maneuver Delta-7. Countdown initiated: 3… 2…"

  "One," Eli breathed, the word a prayer against the encroaching darkness.

  ?Alert: Hostile convergence pattern confirmed,? Marco's voice, tight with urgency, echoed in his mind. ?Two.?

  The binding spell constricted, a searing band of gold around his wrists, the sync climbing to 63%. The corruption responded, pulsing with a dark, hungry light within his veins.

  "Three!"

  Eli channeled the last of his safe reserves through Starling, not into a direct attack, but into the already weakened, acid-corroded floor beneath them. The fractured river-stone core flared with blinding, almost painful intensity, and the ground exploded in a geyser of caustic debris and shattered crystal.

  He threw himself sideways, a desperate, rolling dive, trusting the scouts' momentum to carry them through the space he'd just vacated.

  ?Misdirection engaged,? Marco announced, his voice a calm counterpoint to the chaos. ?Southeast vector locked. Deploying false energy signatures.?