The scythe lowered in my grip.

  I didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

  Behind me, Miyako finally spoke.

  “That feeling,” she said. “That pull behind your chest. That shift in your stance.”

  I nodded once. “Yeah. What was that?”

  She stepped closer, but didn’t look at me.

  “That’s the Plateau recognizing you.”

  The silence thickened.

  “It doesn’t hand out power. It doesn’t bless. It doesn’t care if you’re ready. It waits.”

  “For what?”

  “For proof.”

  I turned slightly, watching her.

  “You moved,” she said simply. “Not just physically. You decided. No fear. No begging. No pretending you didn’t care.”

  I tightened my grip on the scythe.

  Miyako finally looked at me.

  “That’s the cost. The Plateau only answers to truth. Pain, pressure, and choice.”

  I stared at the crack in the floor, the echo of the strike still sitting in my bones.

  The scythe felt different now. Not lighter. Not heavier. Just… real.

  “Does it have a name?” I asked.

  Miyako looked at me, then at the scythe.

  “That power,” I clarified. “Whatever just happened—what is it?”

  She didn’t hesitate.

  “The verse.”

  I frowned. “The what?”

  “It’s what the Plateau calls it when a skill lands. When it sticks.”

  She tilted her head. “Not a level. Not a stat. A line. In your story.”

  I let that sit for a second.

  “The Verse,” I repeated.

  Miyako nodded. “Your first one.”

  I didn’t answer. Just let my grip settle—

  like the blade had always been waiting for me to stop hesitating.

  The Plateau didn’t give.

  It challenged.

  It whispered in steel and silence:

  prove it.

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  So I would.

  With every cut, every step, every drop of blood.

  If that’s the price—

  then let it take its due.

  Miyako turned without a word.

  I followed.

  We moved through the ruined village. Past the weapons. Past hushed doors that hadn’t opened in years.

  The air changed. Denser. Still. Like even the wind didn’t want to follow.

  She stopped at the edge of a worn courtyard—just flat stone and silence.

  Then she raised her hand.

  No flourish. No chant. Just a breath.

  And the ground remembered.

  Stone shifted beneath our feet—not smoothly, but like it resented waking up. Dust curled into spirals. The air cracked deep, like the world grinding its teeth.

  Then it split.

  Right there—hovering above the altar—reality tore.

  Vertical. Uneven. A jagged seam carved into the world, like someone took a blade to the air and didn’t care how clean the cut was.

  And inside?

  Not black.

  Not empty.

  It burned.

  Vermillion orange, streaked with black—like fire holding its breath. Like my own eyes, staring back through a wound that shouldn’t exist.

  It didn’t glow.

  It seethed.

  “This,” Miyako said, quiet and steady, “is your first descent.”

  I stared into it. The churn. The heat. The impossible color.

  “…What should I expect?”

  She didn’t blink.

  “Pain. Screaming. Limbs in the wrong places. Yours, probably.”

  I blinked. “That’s vivid.”

  She kept going. “Some floors like to flay first, ask questions never. Oh—and don’t step on anything that looks like it’s breathing.”

  I exhaled. “So, a scenic stroll through a meat grinder.”

  “You’re spiraling again.”

  “I’m preparing mentally.”

  “You’re writing your own eulogy.”

  “I’m—coping.”

  Whack.

  A sharp smack to the back of my head.

  “OW—what the hell?”

  “Course correction.”

  I rubbed my skull. “You hit like you’re trying to rattle loose trauma.”

  “Exactly. Maybe I’ll find your backbone while I’m at it.”

  I muttered something I hoped she didn’t hear.

  Then I looked back at the rift—at the raw edge of something ancient and hungry.

  “…Alright,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Behind me, Miyako called out:

  “Try to keep your insides inside. They look better that way.”

  And with that inspiring send-off…

  I walked into the gash.

  Whatever I was pretending to be—calm, ready, invincible—it didn’t cross with me.

  The first Floor looked empty.

  Too empty.

  An open plain stretched in every direction—dry earth cracked into hexes, dust barely hanging in the still air. No wind. No cover. No sky above, just that red light bleeding from nowhere.

  It should’ve felt safe.

  It didn’t.

  I stepped forward. The ground gave slightly—like skin stretched thin over something breathing underneath.

  Then I heard it.

  Not footsteps. Not growls.

  Impact.

  Light, fast, rhythmic. Like claws hitting stone.

  Another. Closer. Faster.

  Then more.

  I froze.

  They weren’t dragging themselves.

  They were running.

  Low to the ground. Too fast to track. Dozens—maybe more—circling from just beyond the red haze. I couldn’t see them yet. But I felt them. The ground flexed under each hit like the whole floor had a pulse.

  They weren’t hunting.

  They were closing in.

  I spun, scanning the horizon.

  Still empty.

  But the dust had started to shift—pulling in the wrong direction, like something massive was displacing air without sound.

  Then, just for a second—

  movement.

  Fast. Sleek. Low. Four-limbed. Blacker than shadow. It vanished before I could place it.

  Then another. Left flank. Closer.

  I reached for the scythe. Grip tight. Shoulders loose.

  The Plateau didn’t ease you in.

  It let the beasts run.

  I stood my ground.

  The wind didn’t pick up.

  But the air changed.

  And somewhere beyond the dust—

  they howled.