The sky had gone dark by the time the Solomon Bodyguard group finished building their shelter.

  After Jenjo had come back from his earlier patrol, progress had accelerated considerably.

  The former guard could fell trees with a single slash of his cutlass, something he did many times as he worked with greater zeal than anyone else in the group. It was clear to everyone that after his encounter with Siempre, Jenjo’s cool pragmatism had been tainted with an undercurrent of anxiety.

  A sense of urgency was apparent in everything Jenjo did, and that attitude was infectious. None of them knew much about Siempre, but common sense said that if someone as strong as Jenjo feared the guy, weaklings like them should do the same. For his part, Midday was not overly concerned. Siempre was after the frog, not him: if it came down to it, he’d gladly give up the mission.

  Finally, the last mud brick, dried hastily by Braulia’s pyromancy, was set in place. The shelter was complete: a squat, windowless dome of hardened earth barely tall enough for Jenjo to stand upright in, even when hunched. It wasn’t pretty, smelling strongly of damp soil and cooked mud, but the rough, uneven roof promised dryness, a luxury none of them had known since the Undead Rain began.

  They gathered inside, collapsing onto the slightly less muddy floor within.

  The air was thick and still, a stark contrast to the wind and rain outside.

  Braulia, despite her exhaustion, coaxed a small, flickering flame to life in a fireplace at the center of the hut, igniting dry twigs Jenjo had managed to procure. As the wood began to crackle, orange light cast long, dancing shadows on their weary faces, illuminating the grime and fatigue etched onto each one.

  “Alright,” Jenjo’s voice was tight, betraying the tension Midday had observed earlier. He paced the small confines of the shelter, his movements jerky. “Before rest, we eat.”

  He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a slimy clump of Blue Valley Algae.

  It had a filmy quality to it, but the truly notable thing about the stuff was the subtle blue glow it gave off.

  Bell had finished building the Algae Well hours ago, but Jenjo had made the group hold off on eating until now. Although everyone was hungry enough not to care, eating raw food was mighty unwise, especially in their current circumstances. Now that they could cook, Jenjo deemed it safe to eat.

  Jenjo set the algae clump, which he’d squeezed into a small ball, on a hot stone atop the fire.

  He took out a few more clumps, made a few more algae balls, and set those out to cook also.

  The algae sizzled softly on the hot stone, its blue glow intensifying momentarily before fading to a duller, cooked grayish blue. A faint, earthy scent, not entirely unpleasant, began to fill the shelter, mingling with the smell of woodsmoke and damp earth. It smelled like a fruitier version of cooked spinach.

  Midday watched the cooking process with great anticipation.

  He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small, hard beads of Devil Peppercorn.

  This was it.

  There was no better food to pair with Devil Peppercorn. The algae, said to be impossibly nutrient-dense, would turn into a panacea of sorts when combined with the nutrient-optimizing power of the peppercorn. Additionally, with his tasteless tongue, he could consume as much as needed.

  This meal, he told himself, would be the true beginning of his physical recovery, the foundation upon which he could build strength and, eventually, gain more levels. Finally, it was all coming together.

  Jenjo used a stick to flip the algae balls, ensuring they cooked evenly. They firmed up quickly, losing their slimy texture and taking on the appearance of misshapen patties on the verge of falling apart.

  After a few minutes, he deemed them ready.

  “Food’s up,” Jenjo announced, nudging the cooked algae balls off the stone onto a relatively clean patch of the mud floor near the fire. “One each for now. A single ball probably contains more energy than an entire day’s worth of the rations you lot have been eating. Eat too much, and you could go into shock.”

  They gathered around the meager offering.

  Midday reached for an algae patty and, without hesitation, took out a single Devil Peppercorn bead from his pocket. He tore it up as best he could with a nail and dropped it onto the patty.

  The peppercorn vanished instantly, absorbed into the cooked algae.

  He took a bite.

  As expected, there was no taste. Only texture.

  The patty was dense, almost rubbery, but yielded easily enough to his teeth. It was strangely filling, even after just one bite. He focused on the sensation, the way it felt against his enhanced tongue, discerning the fibrous structure within the meal. It wasn’t enjoyable, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was simply fuel.

  He ate quickly, finishing his patty before most of the others had taken more than a tentative bite.

  “Huh, not at all what I expected,” said Ablute after giving it a try. “I’ve never had something this sweet! Heck, I don’t even think just straight up eating a bunch of refined sugar would be anything like this.”

  Jenjo downed his meal in a single gulp. “It’s far too sweet to be pleasant on its own, but I imagine it would work well in a stir fry, with other ingredients present to dilute its intense sweetness. In any case, this is most likely all we’re eating for the next month. Meat is off the menu for now, seeing as we don’t yet know if it’ll come back to life while inside us. As for other plants, we don’t know for sure if they’re safe.”

  “Solomon may be willing to share his knowledge with us,” Bell said, chewing thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps,” said Jenjo. “Keep in mind, however, that he’s a frog—he predominantly eats insects.”

  Midday, already feeling sleepy, nodded. “If that’s the case and he hasn’t exploded yet, can’t we take that to mean that the Undead Rain has no effect on creatures inside the stomach of another? If that weren’t so, the flies Solomon ate today would have died several times inside of him before evolving the means to break out.” He reached up to Mister Potatoes. The beetle was perched on his shoulder, occasionally snapping up a stray insect drawn by the firelight. “Mister Potatoes here provides even more evidence.”

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  The Carpentry sister who did all the talking for her siblings spoke. “That’s plausible. A stomach is certainly different from the outside. Acidic, lacking direct contact with the rain or fog… It might disrupt the reanimation process. We should investigate whether the rain or the fog causes reanimation—or if it’s just moisture in general. The more information we have, the better our decisions will be.”

  “We’ll conduct more research, but no eating meat until we have absolute proof it is safe,” Jenjo cut in sharply. His eyes flickered towards the crude entrance of the shelter, the anxiety still evident despite his commanding tone. “I’m not risking one of you eating meat, having it revive inside you, and watching it claw its way out. Not until we have absolute proof. Algae is safe. Algae is what we eat.”

  No one argued.

  “Alright,” Jenjo continued, “We need rest, but we also need security. We’ll break up watch into four shifts of two. First shift goes to Braulia and Camellia. Second will be Midday and I. Third is Bell and Iris. Fourth is Ablute and Azalea. That way, each watch has someone over level 10 on it. That said, I don’t expect you to fight. If anything comes up—anything at all—wake me up, and I’ll handle it. Any questions?”

  Silence met his question. The exhaustion was profound, settling deep into their bones.

  “Good. Braulia, Camellia, you’re up. Everyone else, get some sleep.”

  The group dispersed, finding spots on the packed earth floor.

  Midday curled up near the wall. Mister Potatoes made a little nest in his hair.

  The mud beneath him was still damp, but the relative dryness compared to the outside world was a much-needed comfort. He closed his eyes, listened to the crackling of the fire and the muffled drumming of the rain against the dome, and in mere seconds, he fell into a deep slumber.

  ?

  Siempre Elvanera perched atop a colossal mangrove branch, the omnipresent drizzle bending around him thanks to his Umbrella Ring. The night was absolute, the only illumination coming from the faint, pulsating blue of the Valley Algae coating the swamp water far below and the intermittent flashes of fireflies flitting through the dense foliage.

  He allowed himself a moment of stillness, processing the encounter with Jenjo.

  The former guard’s refusal did not surprise him.

  Jenjo possessed a stubborn streak and a pragmatic distrust born from years navigating treacherous waters, both literal and political. Like Siempre, the man was a war criminal wanted dead in many nations. Such a person would not—could not—trust others so easily. Like Siempre, he’d come to Elvanera Group seeking amnesty. Like Siempre, he’d never once doubted that he’d be betrayed.

  Not that the refusal mattered. Their conversation had gone exactly as Siempre wished: Jenjo was probably more anxious now. Spurred on by the revelation that he was being hunted, the man would move brashly. He would work harder in the short term to prepare, shirking rest to do more.

  That would be fine for a few days, but it was only a matter of time before the signs of exhaustion began to show. At that time, Coffee would have the advantage. When Coffee made his move, Siempre planned to use the resulting chaos to secure Solomon. Of course, even in a one-on-one battle, he would need to be careful and come into the encounter having made extensive preparations. That frog was not weak.

  He had a few trump cards in mind: try playing Muscle Roulette in hopes of getting a good roll, wait for the zombies to get strong enough to bring down Jugrim, or attempt to gain the favor of an Eden.

  Siempre himself had once had a prayer answered by Varla Netari, the Eden of Mysteries, so he knew it was possible: in his younger years, the Eden of Mysteries had blessed him with a deep understanding of genetics. Taking this event to mean that she already seemed to favor him, he hoped that she would give him the chance to enter into a deal of some sort—one in which she helped him escape the island.

  There was also a good chance that the Devil, Jinthraa—the Eden of Severance—would respond to his prayers, but it was probably better to kill himself here and now than to go down such a terrible path.

  He decided to try his hand at making an appeal to the Eden of Mysteries.

  Siempre looked up at the night sky and spoke.

  “Varla Netari, eternal seeker of everything there is to know, governor of all magic, hear me.”

  Upon completing the incantation, Siempre experienced the sensation of being watched.

  A demand manifested within his mind, not as words, but as an undeniable imperative.

  The toll for an audience. A secret. Something novel.

  Siempre scanned the archives of his mind. What could he offer that would satisfy such a being? Knowledge of Weathermaker? He nearly chuckled at the thought that an Eden would care about an entity so insignificant as Weathermaker. Personal secrets? Varla probably didn’t give a damn.

  He settled on something specific, something derived from the painful crucible of his own self-experimentation: a niche interaction he’d discovered between dormant retroviral sequences and artificially induced telomere regeneration under extreme psionic pressure—a biological paradox that defied conventional understanding, yielding peculiar, temporary cellular immortality at the cost of genomic stability. It was obscure, perhaps useless in the grand scheme, but fundamentally new.

  This, Siempre projected, centering his thoughts on the knowledge he was offering.

  The mental pressure intensified, became invasive. It felt like a cold, precise scalpel dissecting his memories. There was a sharp, tearing sensation, not physical, but psychic. Then, a void. The intricate knowledge of the cellular interaction vanished, leaving behind only the ghost of a memory that he once knew something significant related to cellular aging and psionics.

  Accepted. State your petition.

  “I require escape from this island,” Siempre projected back, keeping his mental voice steady, betraying none of the urgency or fear churning beneath his forced composure. “Or, failing direct intervention, knowledge pertinent to achieving said escape. Specifically, information regarding weaknesses in the island’s containment, the current Opus employed by Weathermaker, or the intentions of the Chairwoman regarding my fate.”

  You’ve done a number of interesting things in your short life thus far, Pipkin Barleycorn.

  Siempre blanched. He hadn’t used his birth name in decades. It wasn’t surprising that a being on the level of Varla would know it though—she easily could have pulled it straight from his mind, after all.

  I gave you a small degree of knowledge regarding genetics some twenty-seven years ago. You have built upon that foundation to an extent, and I have observed all those additions. Your achievements are minor, but they are sufficient to earn you some knowledge free of charge: Everitime Elvanera does not actively seek your death, but she would not be displeased should you happen to perish this month.

  Siempre wasn’t surprised. That more-or-less matched his expectations, but it was nice to know for sure.

  As for the other information you seek, you neither have the knowledge nor the capacity for action to trade for it, and I’m uninterested in giving it to you for free. Perhaps if you hadn’t been complacent with your research for the last seventeen years, allowing yourself to be restrained, I would be more interested in helping you. Regardless, I’d like to see you survive this. If you do, I suggest emigrating to a distant city called Crux Megapolis and seeking employment at a company called Crux Pharma.

  The sense of being observed lingered for a moment after Varla Netari’s presence withdrew, leaving Siempre feeling hollowed out, the intricate knowledge he’d offered now just a phantom in his mental landscape. Crux Megapolis. Crux Pharma. Names filed away, possibilities noted, but irrelevant for now.

  He had to focus on escaping.

  Varla’s confirmation of Everitime’s indifference solidified his resolve. He wasn’t being actively hunted by the Chairwoman, merely permitted to perish. It was a subtle distinction, but a crucial one: it meant Everitime likely wouldn’t interfere directly unless his escape attempt became too blatant or threatened core Elvanera Group interests. Weathermaker remained the primary, unpredictable threat.

  He glanced back towards the direction Jenjo was in.

  For now, letting Jenjo stew in his paranoia while Coffee planned his clumsy assassination attempt seemed the most prudent course—not that the outcome was of any major significance to him.

  With another leap, Siempre propelled himself onto a higher branch, vanishing into the night.