Recovery was boring. That was the logical truth.
For fourteen days, Lack Flameheart had stared at the cracked ceiling of the dorm room, counting the water stains. His leg was knitting itself back together thanks to the AI/AGI Interface rerouting nutrients to his bone marrow, but without high-grade medical pods, the process was agonisingly slow.
He spent the time reading. Not holographic scrolls, but books. Real, paper books scavenged from the University archives by Torin. The pages radiated a dense, physical aura of vanilla and decaying glue—the absolute scent of forgotten data.
"Old Earth History," Lack whispered, turning a fragile yellow page. "The Age of Silicon. The Great Climate Wars."
"Boring," the Light Devil yawned, a physical monkey swinging from the neurons of Lack's mind. Read the part where they invent nuclear weapons again. I like the explosions.
"I'm looking for patterns," Lack murmured. "If the Architects built this world 12.3 trillion years ago—our time—why hasn't the environment changed?"
A grainy photo embedded in the fragile page displayed a group of scientists in white coats standing before a massive particle collider. Arrogant pride radiated from their rigid posture.
"Delicious," the Devil noted. "Full of hope. Hope is spun cotton candy. Too bad they were stepping into a farm."
The door creaked open. Torin walked in, carrying a tray of suspiciously grey cafeteria sludge. Absolute exhaustion dragged Torin's posture down; his wind-blown hair sat flatter than usual.
"How's the leg?" Torin asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"85%," Lack flexed his knee. The hydraulic servo in his brace whirred softly. "I can walk without limping if I don't run. What's the news?"
"Gorm is pushing us," Torin sighed. "He has us moving crates for the Beastman Exchange Programme. Heavy lifting. No combat training. He says since we 'survived' the Rot, we are qualified for heavy labour."
Lack closed the book with a sharp snap. "He's trying to break us. Or make us quit."
"It's working," Torin admitted. "Mina is crying so much she's dehydrated. Kip is just... echoing the sound of boxes hitting the floor."
Lack sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The Illogical Club needed a base. They couldn't train in the dorms—too small. They couldn't use the training grounds—too public.
"We need a room," Lack said, his eyes scanning the dusty book cover. "A sanctuary. Somewhere Gorm can't touch us."
"We tried applying for a training hall," Torin shook his head. "Denied. 'Elite Priority Only'. Unless you're an official University Club, you don't get space."
A sharp, dangerous grin cut across Lack's face. Torin physically recoiled, his knuckles turning white around his bow.
"Then we start a club."
? ? ?
Location: Student Council Administration Office (The Crystal Tower) Objective: Asset Acquisition
The Student Council President was a High Elf named Elander. He sat behind a desk of floating crystal shards, broadcasting undisguised disdain toward Lack and Torin.
"A Combat Club?" Elander sighed, tossing Lack's application onto a digital stack. "Denied. We have twelve Combat Clubs. The 'Fire Fist', the 'Iron Vanguard'... we don't need the 'Auxiliary... Misfits'?"
"It's a working title," Lack said, standing firm despite the ache in his femur.
"You need a faculty sponsor," Elander droned, checking his manicured nails. "You need a budget proposal. You need a minimum of ten members with a GPA above 3.0. You have..." he glanced at his screen, "...seven members with a collective GPA of 'barely passing'."
"We don't need funding," Lack countered. "We just need a room."
"Space is a premium," Elander waved his hand. "Go away, Hybrid. Unless you want to start a club for 'Janitorial Arts', there are no slots."
The list of active clubs scrolled continuously in glowing neon across the holographic wall behind Elander.
- Advanced Mana Theory
- Dragon Riding (Saurians Only)
- Gemology
- Old Earth History (Defunct - Pending Deletion)
"Wait," Lack pointed. "That one. 'Old Earth History'. It says 'Pending Deletion'. Why?"
"Because the last member died of old age three years ago," Elander sneered. "No one cares about your dead world. It's a dusty room in the West Wing basement. We're turning it into a storage closet next month."
"We'll take it," Lack said instantly.
Elander blinked. "What?"
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"We want to revive the Old Earth History Club," Lack lied smoothly. "As humans, it is our duty to preserve our heritage. We don't need a new room. We'll take the old one. We don't need a budget. We'll use the existing archives."
Elander paused. Technically, reviving a defunct club didn't require a new faculty sponsor if the original charter was still active. It was a loophole. A logic error in the bureaucracy.
"It's a dump," Elander warned. "It's infested with Mana-Roaches."
"We like roaches," Lack said deadpan. "They taste like chicken."
Pure disgust radiated from Elander's posture. "Fine. Whatever. Just don't ask me for credits."
He stamped the digital form.
[Club Reactivated: Old Earth History] [President: Lack Flameheart]
? ? ?
[System Record: Asset Condition Assessment] Location: West Wing Basement, Room 404 Condition: Hazardous / Biological Infestation
"You said it was a sanctuary," Mina whimpered, her hands failing to block the dense, physical wall of decaying foot odour.
The room was massive, filled with rows of rotting bookshelves and rusted data-terminals. A carpet of writhing, chittering shadows completely obscured the floor.
Mana-Roaches. Bugs the size of cats that fed on residual magic. There were hundreds of them.
"It's perfect," Lack said, stepping inside. Crunch. He stepped on a roach. It hissed and dissolved into grey smoke.
"Perfect?" Olan yawned, leaning against the doorframe. "It's a nest. We can't train here."
"We can," Lack said. "This is the training."
He turned to the Seven Survivors.
"Listen up. We aren't calling an exterminator. We are going to clean this room using Illogical Logic."
He pointed at Borg (Gluttony).
"Borg. Mana-Roaches are pure condensed mana. They aren't bugs. They are... protein bars."
Borg’s eyes widened. "Protein... bars?"
"Eat them," Lack ordered. "Catch them and eat them. It will boost your Mana Capacity."
Borg's target locked onto a hissing roach. He licked his lips. "Okay." He lunged.
"Serra!" Lack barked. "The roaches are fast. Make the floor slippery. If they can't run, Borg can catch them."
Serra adjusted her glasses. "Friction Reduction: 20%."
The floor turned into ice. The roaches skittered helplessly, legs spinning in place like cartoons.
Borg slid past like a seal, scooping them up by the handful. Crunch. Crunch.
"Kip! Roaches hate high-frequency noise. Use your echo. Find the squeakiest hinge in this room and loop it."
Kip found a rusted cabinet door. Squeak. "Squeak... squeak... SQUEAK... SQUEAK..."
The sound amplified, bouncing off the walls. The roaches went into a frenzy, fleeing the corners and running straight into Borg’s waiting mouth.
"Mina! We need to wash the filth. Don't just cry. Spray. Aim for the walls!"
Mina sobbed, and a jet of high-pressure tears blasted the grime off the ancient bookshelves.
"Torin," Lack handed him a rag. "Use your wind to dry the books. Gently. If you tear a page, I break your bow."
"Yes, sir!" Torin saluted, creating a gentle vortex of warm air.
Lack stood in the centre, supervising the chaos. It was disgusting. It was loud. It was chaotic.
But it was working.
Not bad, the Light Devil chuckled. You turned a chore into a dungeon raid. And look at Borg... he's glowing.
Lack checked Borg’s stats. [Borg - Mana: 120% (Overcharged)]
"Stop eating, Borg!" Lack yelled. "You're going to explode! Burn it off! Do jumping jacks!"
? ? ?
[System Record: Territorial Dispute] Time: 03:00 AM (The Witching Hour) Status: Clean(ish)
The room was transformed. The floor was scrubbed stone. The books were dry and stacked. The roaches were extinct (or digested). In the centre of the room, they had laid down some old gym mats stolen from the trash.
"It's... actually nice," Serra admitted, wiping sweat from her forehead.
"It's ours," Lack corrected.
He walked over to the main desk at the back of the room. It was piled high with leather-bound journals. He picked one up. The cover was stamped with a faded symbol: A globe held by two hands.
He opened it.
Entry: Year 5, Day 20. Author: Dr. Aris Thorne. "We have confirmed the existence of the Barrier. The Moons are transmitting a signal. It's not a navigation beacon. It's a containment field. We are not colonists. We are prisoners."
Lack’s heart skipped a beat.
"Hey, Lack," Torin called out. "Someone's at the door."
Lack slammed the book shut and shoved it into his bag. He turned around.
Standing in the doorway was Jareth (Water God Vessel) and his two lackeys. He held a datapad, projecting absolute, aristocratic smugness.
"Well, well," Jareth sneered, his gaze sweeping the clean room. "The janitors did a good job. Now get out."
"Excuse me?" Lack limped forward.
"The Student Council just approved a reallocation," Jareth grinned. "My Hydro-Club needs more storage space. President Elander said there was a useless room down here. We're taking it."
"It's occupied," Lack said, pointing to the sign they had just taped up. [OLD EARTH HISTORY CLUB].
"History?" Jareth laughed. "Who cares about dead monkeys? We need this room for our equipment." He stepped inside. "Boys, throw their trash out."
His lackeys moved toward the bookshelves.
"Don't touch that," Lack warned. His voice dropped.
"Or what?" Jareth challenged. "You'll shine a light on me? You're barely standing, Flameheart. You're a cripple."
Jareth raised his hand. Water gathered in his palm, forming a whip. "Leave. Or I'll wash you out."
The Seven Survivors tensed. Their focus snapped to Lack. Exhaustion and weakness anchored their bones to the floor.
[Illogical Logic Idea: Environment Manipulation] Premise: You cannot fight a Water User in a clean room. But...
"Serra," Lack whispered. "The floor is still wet from Mina's cleaning, right?"
"Yes," Serra nodded.
"Jareth," Lack said loudly. "You're right. We should leave. But be careful. Ancient history is... slippery."
He snapped his fingers. Snap. Vibration.
He didn't aim at Jareth. He aimed at the water pipes running along the ceiling—pipes that hadn't been maintained in 50 years. The vibration travelled up the wall. The rusted bolts rattled.
CLANG.
A main pipe burst directly above Jareth.
It wasn't clean water. It was the Sewage Line from the upper dorms.
SPLOOSH.
A torrent of grey, foul-smelling sludge dumped onto Jareth and his goons.
"ARGH!" Jareth screamed, sputtering. "It's... in my mouth!"
"Serra! Now!"
[Friction Reduction: 50%]
Jareth tried to run, but the sludge-covered floor was frictionless. He slipped, face-planting into the muck. His lackeys fell on top of him, a pile of flailing, sewage-covered elites.
"Oh no," Lack said, his voice flat. "A plumbing accident. The infrastructure in this room is really terrible. You probably shouldn't store your equipment here, Jareth. It might get... stained."
Jareth retched, crawling toward the door on his belly. "You... you'll pay for this!"
"Get out," Lack said coldly.
They scrambled out of the room, leaving a trail of slime. The Seven Survivors stood in silence. Then, Borg burped.
"Smelly smelly," Borg noted.
Torin turned to Lack. "We just declared war on a Noble."
"We declared war the moment we survived," Lack said. He walked over and locked the door.
"Now," Lack turned to his team. "Let's train."
? ? ?
[System Record: Character Progression] New Asset Acquired: Club Room 404 (The Sanctuary). New Item: Dr. Thorne’s Journal (Key Item).