A paw in the face woke Reralt up — before Narro, for once.

  He jumped to his feet like a startled squirrel, saw a door, and kicked it.

  It didn’t budge.

  Didn’t even pretend to budge.

  He glanced around. One chamber, one unconscious Narro slumped against the wall, one stubborn door… and one massive window.

  Two big strides took him in front of it.

  Outside, he saw four other windows. Each showed three figures — a warrior, a mage, and a rogue. Classic adventuring lineup. Except something was… off.

  He squinted.

  The group to his left were all hairy — thick beards, broad foreheads, and one collective unibrow.

  The next trio were a head taller, bald, and wearing identical monk robes.

  The next… were floating. No legs. Just smug, hovering torsos.

  And to the right — oh gods — the warrior wore glasses and looked ready to soil himself, the mage’s hat was bigger than her confidence, and the rogue was built like a blacksmith with a sword compensating for stealth.

  Reralt did the only sensible thing.

  He waved.

  All four groups stared back.

  So, naturally, he pretended there was a basement in his room and mimed walking down the stairs.

  The hairy group on the left burst out laughing.

  ***

  Narro woke up and stood beside Reralt — who was now pretending to swim.

  The hairy group on the left found this hilarious. The rest just frowned.

  One of them even made a familiar hand gesture: finger, temple, head.

  Clearly, the universal sign for idiot transcended dimensions.

  “So those are the real Maze Runners,” Narro muttered, mostly to himself.

  Reralt was now pretending to be an elevator.

  “In the middle lies the prize,” Narro said, pointing toward a staircase leading up. “Progression.”

  “Where’s the blue gem?” Reralt asked, peering upward through the window.

  Above them, a projection flickered to life:

  MAZE RUN LEVEL 2: RUN #70843 COMMENCING IN 5 MINUTES

  Some triumphant fanfare started playing — cheap horns, off-beat drums, and what might’ve been a kazoo solo.

  “So it’s still here,” Narro said, “just… not visible.”

  He opened his menu to check. Still accessible.

  At least something in this nightmare obeyed the rules.

  ***

  “So,” Reralt said, heavy with summary. “Go into the maze, kill them all, progress until we find the Hat?”

  He added an extra warming-up kick for emphasis and flexed a finger toward the bald trio, as if to clarify exactly what they could do with that finger.

  “Well—no.” Narro leafed through the menu like a man reading a shopping list of doom. “We do not have to win.” He made a face at Reralt — the kind of face that warns you your mouth is about to start a problem.

  “As it reads here,” Narro nodded toward the manual, “if we don’t win but aren’t killed, we resurface in this room and try again.” Reralt nodded, not looking at the tiny print. “Also — we don’t need to progress.”

  Reralt wore his Not-Agree face. “We need to find the Hat. I suppose we’ll seek out treasure rooms.” He brightened. “And kill everyone we think will kill us.” The smirk was wide; he jabbed a thumb at the bald group. “I’m convinced they’re up to no good.” He rubbed his head conspiratorially.

  A projection blinked across the wall in bold letters:

  MAZE RUN LEVEL 2: RUN 70843 COMMENCING IN 1 MINUTE

  “Not priority,” Narro corrected, tugging one of Reralt’s giant arms and forcing the giant man to attention. “Priority is: get Hat, get out, save Syril and Mary.” He gave Reralt a pointed look. “Agreed?”

  Reralt was pulled out of his hero-tickles and, for the space of a heartbeat, looked stern. “Agreed,” he said.

  “And we’ll kill them if we have to,” Narro added, tossing Reralt a grim little encouragement.

  Reralt took his knuckles and, with the solemnity of a man performing an ancient ritual, rubbed them against Narro’s forehead. “For good luck,” he declared.

  The door thudded open.

  They ran.

  ***

  The Void sprinted ahead.

  At first, Narro had no idea why.

  They entered a narrow corridor. The Void stopped dead, tail twitching, eyes darting.

  “Go, kitty,” Reralt said, giving her a gentle push.

  “Reralt, wait—” Narro grabbed his arm. “Look!”

  Across the corridor, another group was charging straight toward them — the floating ones.

  Their eyes were blank white, with tiny black pupils swirling like smoke. They seemed to argue for a moment, then the woman among them lifted her hands.

  A wind erupted — sharp, violent, and smelling unmistakably of magic.

  Narro and the Void clung to Reralt’s legs.

  Reralt didn’t move. Not even a step.

  His hair whipped around him like a flag, and he began to laugh.

  He struck a heroic pose — imaginary cape flapping, eyes squinting — while Narro and the Void clung to him like decorative accessories.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The wind stopped. The mage slumped, realizing the futility of fighting physics with melodrama.

  Without warning, their warrior charged — sword raised, shouting something in a language that was probably meant to sound cool.

  Reralt grinned and stepped forward — until a small paw shot out and clawed his ankle.

  Click.

  The warrior froze mid-stride, eyes wide.

  Then — thunk, thunk, thunk — a dozen arrows impaled him from the walls.

  “Kitty senses traps?” Narro asked, blinking.

  Reralt raised an eyebrow. “Apparently.”

  He gave the Void a proud scratch behind the ears. “Extra fishy snacks for you, little one.”

  A deep, satisfied purr answered.

  Then came the smell — sulfur. The rogue hurled several small, sizzling balls at them. They ignited mid-air.

  “Great,” Narro muttered, ducking as one whizzed past.

  Reralt grabbed one of the arrow shafts lodged in the wall, flexed his enormous arms, and bent the entire trap mechanism toward the other end of the hall.

  The two remaining djinn glanced at each other, then up at the ceiling — as if asking permission from the dungeon itself.

  Reralt stomped the mechanism.

  “Yeah,” said the dungeon, voice echoing dryly from nowhere, “apparently they can do that.”

  A rain of arrows tore through the floating pair. They hit the floor like sacks of disappointed smoke.

  ***

  Narro looked around in every direction, then crouched slightly — speaking in the careful tone one uses with small children or small gods.

  “So, kitty… where should we go now?”

  The Void blinked at him, meowed once, and padded confidently down the corridor.

  The two followed.

  “Wait!” Reralt yelled, doubling back to the fallen warrior. He knelt, rummaged for loot—

  The body dissolved into smoke.

  Reralt held up twelve coins. “Got money!”

  “Sharp,” Narro said, puzzled. Then laughed. “You wanted his sword, didn’t you?”

  Reralt nodded, mourning the vanished weapon.

  With a sigh, Narro opened the dungeon shop. “Fine.”

  He scrolled, selected the cheapest option, and hit Buy.

  A plain sword materialized in Reralt’s hands — price tag: ten coins.

  “Can I have one with a lion on the pommel?” Reralt asked, pointing eagerly at a picture.

  “That’s hundred coins, and it doesn’t do anything,” Narro said, closing the menu. “Besides, we only have six coins left — just enough for a health potion.”

  Reralt reluctantly took the bland sword, gave it a few test swings, and frowned.

  “This is crap,” he said — but sheathed it anyway.

  The Void meowed again. Clearly, the real leader had spoken.

  ***

  The corridor opened into a wide hall.

  Two trees stood in the center — one lush and green, the other dead and gray.

  A closed door waited on the far end.

  Narro tried the handle. “Locked,” he said, then glanced back at the trees. “Some kind of puzzle.”

  Reralt sat down cross-legged. “Call me when you’ve figured it out.”

  He began twirling his new sword like a child showing off a stick.

  Then, on a whim, he muttered, “Help?”

  A shimmering panel appeared in front of him.

  Both trees need to be equally green.

  “Great,” Narro said, reading over his shoulder. “At least we know what the goal is.”

  He circled the trees twice. Looked up. Looked down. No clues.

  After a few minutes, he joined Reralt on the floor.

  “No clue?” Reralt asked.

  “It’ll come to me,” Narro said through gritted teeth.

  ***

  Narro studied the trees again, shook his head, and sighed. “Perhaps find another p—”

  He never finished. A blur filled his vision — a flat hand coming straight at his face.

  “Reralt!” he managed, before the slap hit like a catapult. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  Reralt straightened, smiling. Before him stood the three bald personifications — the monkish trio — all in synchronized fighting stances.

  “Finally,” he said, cracking his neck.

  He swung his sword at the warrior. The man slipped aside effortlessly and kicked Reralt square in the knee.

  Reralt didn’t flinch. It hurt, yes, but his pain settings were apparently off. At least, for now.

  The woman spread her arms, chanting. White light gathered between her palms, flowing into her two companions.

  “Ladies first!” Reralt shouted — and threw his sword straight between her eyes.

  The light vanished instantly. She dropped without a sound.

  The warrior struck again — same knee. Reralt fell, his knee simply stopped working. He heard a sound behind him.

  The Void was mid-leap — a black streak — landing on the rogue’s back. Her claws found the throat. A short, sharp sound followed.

  The warrior turned, distracted. Reralt lunged, grabbed his ear, and tore it clean off. The man staggered.

  One more second of hesitation was all it took. Reralt grabbed his leg, swung his head forward, and cracked it with a headbutt.

  The warrior fell. His neck was perfectly positioned. Reralt didn’t waste the opportunity.

  When it was done, the rogue lay twitching, a red smile across his throat.

  The Void sat calmly beside the body, licking her paw, looking innocent as ever.

  Behind them, Narro groaned and sat up.

  ***

  “You got that healing potion?” Reralt asked, handing Narro three small pouches jingling with coins.

  Narro opened the shop menu and bought another potion. They both drank in silence.

  “This is going to be tougher than we thought,” Narro admitted.

  Reralt just nodded, flexing his knee. It worked again — mostly.

  “Ehh…” a voice called from the other side of the hall.

  Narro froze.

  “Don’t—he’ll tear you in half, Leo!” a woman hissed.

  “Statistically,” the same shrill voice continued, “they do not belong here, so killing us is unlikely.”

  Narro, Reralt, and the Void turned in unison.

  There, at the far end of the room, stood the trio: the wrong trio.

  The dumb mage, the smart warrior, and the strong rogue — all glaring back at them.

  The air filled with mutual confusion and a faint sound of the Void’s purring judgment.

  Deep beneath the stone, the Maze sighed.

  It had seen this pattern for as long as it had existed — which, to its irritation, was approximately forever.

  Heroes entered.

  They ran, screamed, looted, died.

  Some prayed. Some reasoned. A few even read the instructions.

  But this group… this group was different.

  Not because of the hero. There were always heroes: loud, shiny, easily distracted.

  Not because of the thinker either — the Maze had filed thousands of those under “Overestimated Assets.”

  No, what unsettled it was the small, purring anomaly that ignored every rule.

  The one who triggered traps out of spite, not design.

  The one the manuals didn’t mention.

  The Maze reviewed its own architecture, mildly concerned.

  It had handled gods, liches, and accountants.

  But a cat?

  That was new.

  And statistically speaking, cats were never in the manual.