Far beyond the Ridge Outcropping, past ruins devoured by ivy and time, a cavern pulsed with unnatural warmth.
Torches, fed by crystal oil, burned green along the jagged walls. The cavern narrowed to a hall of stone teeth, and at its heart sat a figure cross-legged upon a webwork of silk and chain.
His name was Mirek Hollowthorn, though few knew it. Fewer still survived knowing it.
A man of slight build, he wore no armor—only a robe of black and silver, stitched with runes that whispered when no one listened. Pale hands moved like dancers over a chessboard of obsidian tiles and ivory pieces—none of them shaped like knights or kings, but like the people Khal had begun to meet: Lira, Brovik, Mistress Vana... even the fox.
He smiled as he moved a miniature piece shaped like Khal.
"You’re waking up faster than I anticipated," he murmured. "Messy, but interesting."
At his side stood a woman in crimson—Velka Redlace, known as the Threadreader. Her hair was bound in golden cords, her eyes covered by a veil that shimmered with shifting text—system code deciphered and rewritten by will alone.
"The anomaly stabilized," she said. "Heart of Becoming. It’s growing in fragments... random, but resonant."
"Nothing is random," Mirek replied. "Not in the web I weave."
He stood, motion smooth and deliberate. Every step he took echoed twice: once in the world, once in the System.
Elsewhere.
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Two mercenaries crossed a rocky bluff—Branrik and Desso, veteran hunters of relic-blooded. Both had failed missions involving Khal. Both bore scars for their trouble.
Now they watched from afar, scoping the caravan Khal returned to.
"He's changing," Branrik muttered, adjusting his monocle, which scanned system signatures. "He’s adapting too fast."
Desso spat. "That brat? He tripped on a beetle and nearly died last time."
"That beetle was a mimic wyrmling."
"Still."
Behind them, a flicker of code etched into the air. A parchment unfolded from a dimensional slit, baring Mirek's latest directive:
"Do not kill. Pressure the edges. Collapse the supports. We will not crack the vessel—we will turn it inside out."
They exchanged glances.
This wasn't war. It was disassembly.
In the cavern again.
Mirek approached a massive crystal cocoon pulsating with echo light.
"You can’t brute-force evolution," he told it. "But you can stimulate it... with adversity. Misdirection. Despair."
He placed a hand on the cocoon.
Inside it, something stirred—screaming without sound.
Velka spoke behind him.
"The fox is of interest. Too old. Too aware."
"I know," Mirek said.
He turned a piece on his board that glowed violet. A shadow shaped like the fox flickered and vanished.
"I’ve already invited an old friend to fetch it."
Then he leaned over the board, whispering:
"Khal Dreikov. I’ll unmake you by making you strong enough to ruin yourself."
Later that night.
Mirek sat alone before a library formed from inked bones. Scrolls wept knowledge from forbidden branches, and data coiled through the air like incense smoke.
Velka returned with a file of intercepted system events. She laid it out before him.
"He's begun recursive leveling trials," she said. "Unaware that the more he grows, the less stable his trait becomes."
Mirek didn’t even blink. He was already drawing maps—not of terrain, but of people.
"There are four anchors in his path. Each can break or bind him. We will test each—then make them fear they were ever close to him."
He turned to a mirror and tapped the surface. It rippled, revealing another caravan, another mirror. This one had already been seeded with false quests, rigged system options, and a corrupted companion encounter.
Velka shivered slightly.
"You’re feeding him traps built from his own potential."
"The cruelest web is spun from threads the prey spun itself," Mirek replied. "He will choose every wrong door on his own."
His eyes gleamed.