The portal deposited them onto a hillside.

  Cade stumbled as his feet found uneven ground, the transition from flat stone floor to grassy slope catching him off guard. He caught himself, tensed, and looked around.

  And froze.

  The dome was different this time. Larger, maybe—the painted walls seemed farther away, the faux sun higher overhead. The terrain was still compressed, still obviously artificial, but the scale was greater. More room to maneuver.

  More room for the two armies facing each other across the valley below.

  Cade's breath caught in his throat.

  Soldiers.

  Real soldiers, or close enough. Hundreds of them on each side, arranged in formation across the muddy ground. They wore armor—not carapace, not leather, but actual military gear. Kevlar vests. Helmets. Tactical webbing. The kind of equipment he'd seen in movies about Iraq or Afghanistan, scaled down for bodies maybe seventeen inches tall.

  And they were armed.

  Assault rifles. Actual assault rifles, held in disciplined grips, barrels pointed at the sky but ready to lower at a moment's notice. Behind the infantry lines, artillery pieces—maybe a dozen on each side—sat on wheeled carriages, their stubby barrels angled toward the opposing force. Further back, in triangular pools of water that pressed against the far sides of the dome's painted walls, battleships floated. Small battleships, maybe six feet long, but bristling with what looked very much like missile launchers.

  The two armies faced each other across perhaps two hundred yards of open ground. The grass in the center was still green, but the areas beneath each force had been churned to mud—evidence of a long standoff, of feet and wheels and equipment grinding the earth while they waited.

  Waited for what, Cade couldn't say. But he was starting to get an idea.

  In the exact center of the valley, between the two forces, a small cluster of figures sat around what looked like folding tables. A delegation from each side, meeting under some kind of temporary truce.

  Negotiations.

  "Well," Rhys said from somewhere near his ankle, her voice carrying the studied calm of someone trying very hard not to seem impressed. "This is different, but also surprisingly familiar. The walls have almost the same art style. Rare to have similarities two rooms in a row."

  Cade looked down at his companions. They'd emerged from the portal behind him, still holding his tail, and were now surveying the scene with expressions of professional interest.

  "You don't seem surprised," he said.

  "The labyrinth generates many scenarios." Zyrian released Cade's finger, stepping forward to get a better view. "As you just saw, military conflicts are not uncommon. This is more elaborate than most, but the basic structure is familiar."

  "The weapons, though." Cade gestured at the nearest infantry line, at the rifles and gear that looked like they'd been lifted straight from a twenty-first century arsenal. "Do you know what those are? What they can do?"

  Rhys shrugged. "Projectile weapons of some kind. The labyrinth provides appropriate equipment for each scenario. I've seen stranger."

  She didn't know. Neither of them did.

  They were looking at assault rifles capable of firing hundreds of rounds per minute, at artillery that could level buildings, at missiles that could strike targets miles away—and they saw it as just another form of combat. More elaborate than swords and spears, maybe, but fundamentally the same.

  Cade imagined a seventeen-inch rifle bullet hitting him. His tier-two body was resilient, yes. He'd survived beetle pincers and sustained flamethrowers.

  But a bullet was a different kind of threat. Piercing damage, concentrated into a tiny point, moving faster than he could react. And if those missiles were anything like their Earth counterparts...

  Fire. Of course. Explosions meant fire.

  Piercing and fire. Again. With some shockwaves thrown in this time.

  "We should pick a side," Rhys said, already scanning the two armies with tactical assessment. "Join the battle, earn kills, maximize anima gains. The numbers here are substantial—we could advance significantly if we choose correctly."

  "No."

  The word came out more forcefully than Cade intended. Both Kindred looked up at him.

  "No," he repeated, moderating his tone. "Look at this. The labyrinth didn't set up a negotiation table in the middle of a battlefield just to have us pick a side and start killing. There's something else going on here."

  "Scenarios don't always have peaceful solutions," Zyrian pointed out. "Sometimes the negotiation is just flavor. Background for the real conflict. The goal is to get as much strength out of each room as possible, not play around and chance an encounter with a truly dangerous room for the same gains."

  "Maybe. But I want to find out before we commit to anything."

  Cade started down the hillside, his long stride carrying him toward the valley floor. Behind him, he heard Rhys and Zyrian following, their smaller bodies scrambling to keep pace.

  The armies noticed him immediately.

  How could they not? He was six and a half feet tall in a world where everyone else was seventeen inches. As he descended the slope, hundreds of identical faces turned toward him; the soldiers all shared the same teal skin color, the same features, the same blank-but-alert expressions. Only their positions and equipment distinguished them from one another.

  Rifles tracked his movement. Not aiming, not yet, but following. Ready.

  Cade kept walking.

  The delegations in the center had stopped their discussion. Four figures on each side, seated in folding chairs around a pair of card tables pushed together. They watched his approach with expressions that ranged from confusion to calculation.

  He stopped about ten yards away, not wanting to loom over them too dramatically. Then, slowly, deliberately, he folded himself down into a cross-legged sitting position on the grass.

  The gesture seemed to relax something in the assembled delegates. A giant sitting down was less threatening than a giant standing. Still massive, still impossible to ignore, but at least not towering overhead like a monument to violence.

  "Hello," Cade said, using his soul voice, pitching it for conversation rather than projection. "I'm Cade. I'm new here. What's going on?"

  The delegates exchanged glances. The two groups were identical in appearance—same teal skin, same faces, same military uniforms with slightly different insignia—but their body language marked them as distinct. The group on Cade's left sat rigid, tension evident in every line of their posture. The group on his right seemed more relaxed, but with an undertone of frustration that suggested exhausted patience.

  "You're a delver," one of the left-side delegates said. Not a question. "Come to resolve our conflict."

  "Possibly. I'd like to understand it first."

  "There's nothing to understand." This from a different delegate on the left, older-looking despite the identical face—something in the lines around the eyes, the set of the jaw. "The Heurits hired the Kross Collective to deploy their orbital weapon platform against us. That is an act of war. We are responding accordingly."

  "That is not what happened." The speaker from the right side—the Heurits, apparently—leaned forward, her voice tight with controlled anger. "For the hundredth time, we contracted with Kross for a monitoring satellite. Observation only. No weapons capability whatsoever."

  Rhys and Zyrian shuffle uncomfortably next to Cade, obviously already lost on what this conversation was about.

  "Lies."

  "Evidence. We have the contract. We've offered to show you the contract."

  "Contracts can be forged. Your relationship with Kross is well documented. You've been planning this for years."

  "Planning what? To watch weather patterns? To track agricultural yields?" The Heurits delegate's frustration was palpable. "The satellite has no offensive systems. It can't even deorbit on its own—it would need a separate launch vehicle to bring it down, and we didn't contract for that."

  "Convenient. A weapon you can deny is a weapon."

  "It's not a weapon!"

  "Then why won't you allow us to inspect it?"

  Silence fell over the table. The Heurits delegates exchanged glances.

  "Because," the lead delegate said slowly, "the satellite contains proprietary observation technology. Trade secrets. Information that would compromise our agricultural advantages if it fell into your hands."

  "Agricultural advantages." The Republic delegate's tone dripped with contempt. "You expect us to believe you hired a foreign power to launch a satellite—in direct violation of the Bilateral Aerospace Treaty—just to watch your crops grow?"

  "The treaty restricts military aerospace operations. This is civilian infrastructure."

  "The Kross Collective doesn't do civilian contracts."

  "They do now. We negotiated extensively to—"

  "You negotiated a weapons platform. One that can strike any target within our territory with zero warning time." The Republic delegate stood, chair scraping against the ground. "This conversation is over. We've heard your lies. Now we respond with force."

  "Wait."

  Cade's voice cut through the rising tension. Both delegations turned to look at him.

  "I'm trying to understand," he said carefully. "The Pleubwyn Republic believes the Heurits hired a foreign power to put a weapon in orbit. The Heurit claims it's just an observation satellite. Is that the core of the dispute?"

  "That is the core," the Pleubwyn Republic delegate confirmed. "The Heurits have allied with an outside power to threaten our existence. We will not wait for them to use their new weapon. We strike first, while we still can."

  "And if it turns out the satellite isn't a weapon? If the Heurits are telling the truth?"

  The delegate's expression didn't change. "They're not."

  "But if they were."

  A long pause. "Then we would have made an error. But we cannot afford to assume good faith from an adversary who has shown us none."

  Cade turned to the Heurits side. "And you. You say the satellite is purely observational. Can you prove it?"

  "We've offered to share the contract specifications. They refuse to accept them as genuine."

  "What about the satellite itself? Could you let them inspect it?"

  The lead delegate hesitated. "As I said, it contains proprietary—"

  "I'm not asking about trade secrets. I'm asking if there's any way to demonstrate, conclusively, that the satellite isn't a weapon. That it can't strike ground targets. That their fear is unfounded."

  More hesitation. The Heurits delegates conferred in hushed whispers.

  "The satellite has no weapons systems," the lead delegate finally said. "But proving a negative is difficult. We could show them the design specifications, but they'd claim those were falsified. We could offer to let them board the satellite, but they'd claim we removed the weapons before inspection. There is nothing we can do that they won't dismiss as deception."

  "Because you are deceiving us," the Pleubwyn delegate snapped.

  "We are not—"

  "Enough."

  Cade held up a hand. The gesture was absurdly large compared to the tiny delegates, but it had the desired effect—both sides fell silent.

  "Let me make sure I understand the situation," he said. "The Pleubwyn Republic believes they're facing an existential threat. A weapon that could destroy them with no warning. Their response is to strike first, eliminate the threat before it can be used. Is that right?"

  Grudging nods from the Pleubwyn side.

  "And the Heurits are frustrated because they know there is no threat. They launched a satellite for legitimate purposes, and now they're facing war over something that doesn't exist. They've tried to explain, tried to offer proof, but nothing they say is believed. Is that right?"

  Nods from the Heurits side.

  "So the core problem isn't the satellite. It's trust."

  "The core problem," the Pleubwyn delegate said coldly, "is that they put a weapon in orbit over our homeland."

  "You don't know that."

  "We know they hired the Kross Collective. We know Kross specializes in weapons systems. We know the satellite was launched in secret, without notification, in violation of treaty. What else should we conclude?"

  "That your ally made a mistake in judgment," Cade said. "Not a hostile act. A failure to anticipate how their actions would be perceived."

  He turned to the Heurits delegates. "Why did you use Kross? If you knew the Republic would see it as threatening, why not use a different contractor? One without weapons associations?"

  The lead delegate's expression tightened. " Kross offered the best price. The most capable technology. We didn't think—"

  "You didn't think about how it would look."

  "We didn't think they would assume the worst… if they even found out."

  "They always assume the worst." Cade gestured at the Pleubwyn delegates, at the armies waiting behind them. "Look at them. They've been standing in that mud for... how long?"

  "Three weeks," a Pleubwyn delegate muttered.

  "Three weeks. Waiting. Watching. Convinced that at any moment, fire might rain down from the sky and destroy everything they love." He let that sit for a moment. "That's what fear looks like. That's what you did to them by not considering how your actions would be perceived."

  The Heurits delegates shifted uncomfortably.

  "And you," Cade continued, turning back to the Pleubwyn. "You've spent three weeks convinced you're about to die. Three weeks of mobilization, of preparation, of working yourself into a state where war feels inevitable. But you haven't actually been attacked, have you?"

  "Not yet."

  "Not ever. Because there's no weapon. The satellite has been up there for—how long?"

  "Six weeks," someone supplied.

  "Six weeks. If it was a weapon, if the Heurits wanted to destroy you, why haven't they used it? What are they waiting for?"

  "The optimal moment. The…"

  "There is no optimal moment better than three weeks ago, when you were unprepared. If they had a weapon and wanted to use it, you'd be dead already. The fact that you're still here, still arguing, still able to threaten them with war—that's your proof."

  The Pleubwyn delegate opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

  "That's... not conclusive."

  "No. But it's logical." Cade leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "You're scared. I understand that. Someone put something in the sky above your home, and you don't know what it is, and that's terrifying. But you're about to start a war based on that fear. A war that will kill thousands of your people and thousands of theirs. And if you're wrong—if the satellite really is just watching crops grow—then all those deaths are for nothing."

  Silence stretched across the negotiation table.

  "What would it take?" Cade asked. "What proof would actually convince you that the threat isn't real?"

  The Pleubwyn delegates conferred in whispers. Finally, the lead delegate spoke.

  "We would need to see inside the satellite. Not specifications, not contracts—the actual hardware. Verify with our own eyes that there are no weapons systems."

  "That's—" the Heurits delegate started.

  "Can you do it?" Cade cut in. "Not share your trade secrets. Just let them look. Confirm that the thing they're afraid of doesn't exist."

  "They'd have to send an inspector into orbit. We don't have the launch capability to—"

  " Kross does."

  Everyone went still.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "You hired Kross to launch the satellite," Cade said. "They have the technology to send people into orbit. Hire them again. Pay for a Pleubwyn Republic inspector to visit the satellite. Let them see for themselves that there's nothing to fear."

  "The cost would be—"

  "Less than a war."

  The Heurits delegates looked at each other. Something passed between them—reluctance, calculation, grudging acceptance.

  "We... could make inquiries. Kross might be willing to negotiate a secondary contract."

  "We would require multiple inspectors," the Pleubwyn delegate said, his voice cautious now rather than hostile. "Independent verification. Unfettered access to all systems."

  "Limited access only. With appropriate safeguards for proprietary information."

  "And if we find weapons?"

  "You won't." The Heurits delegate's voice held absolute certainty. "Because there are none."

  The Pleubwyn delegate studied his counterpart for a long moment. The tension hadn't disappeared—years of suspicion couldn't evaporate in a single conversation—but something had shifted. The immediate pressure, the sense of inevitable violence, had eased.

  "We will need to consult with our government," the Pleubwyn

  delegate finally said. "This proposal represents a significant departure from our current position."

  "As will we," the Heurits delegate agreed. "But... we are willing to explore this option. If it prevents unnecessary bloodshed."

  "A ceasefire, then. While negotiations continue."

  "Agreed."

  The two lead delegates stood. They didn't shake hands—whatever relationship existed between these nations, it wasn't friendly enough for that—but they nodded at each other. Acknowledgment. Grudging respect.

  Then they turned to Cade.

  "You've given us an alternative," the Pleubwyn delegate said. "A way forward that doesn't require war. We... appreciate that."

  "I just asked questions," Cade said. "You found the answers yourselves."

  "Nevertheless." The delegate glanced at his counterpart, then back at Cade. "Thank you, delver."

  The delegations gathered their materials and began walking back toward their respective armies. Behind them, the tension in the air was different—still present, but no longer crackling with imminent violence.

  Cade watched them go, then checked his peripheral vision.

  The gauge had filled completely.

  The scenario became a simple landscape with poorly painted walls again. The armies simply... faded while in the act of disarming and separating. The soldiers first, their forms growing transparent, then the equipment and vehicles.

  Within minutes, Cade was sitting in an empty landscape again, but one with no hint of privacy, if he could think of a worthwhile use for it again.

  And in the center of the space, a single fruit.

  It grew from a simple stalk, like the essence fruits from the previous scenario, but the coloration was different. Gray and green and yellow, swirling together in patterns that reminded him vaguely of camouflage. The surface was studded with spines—not sharp enough to be dangerous, but pronounced, like an apple-sized pineapple that had decided to relax a bit and droop. Between the spines, the flesh looked smooth and moist, almost inviting.

  One fruit. No second reward.

  "You are the strangest fresh soul I have ever encountered," Rhys said.

  Cade looked down at her. "What do you mean?"

  "Satellites. Orbits. Weapons platforms. Inspection contracts." Rhys's expression was unreadable. "I have lived one hundred and seventy-five years across hundreds of lives, and I have never heard those words before. Never encountered those concepts. And yet you—a soul with barely a month of experience—spoke of them as if they were obvious. As if everyone should know what a 'satellite' is."

  Cade's stomach tightened.

  "What happened," Rhys continued, "while Zyrian and I were advancing and catching up to you? What did you learn in your short time in the outer rings that gave you knowledge of things that don't exist?"

  He hesitated.

  The truth was impossible. I'm from another world. I have twenty-six years of memories from a planet called Earth where satellites and missiles and orbital weapons are real things. They'd think he was insane. Or worse, they'd think he was some kind of threat—an infiltrator from somewhere outside the normal cycle of death and rebirth.

  "The scenario felt familiar to me," he said slowly, choosing his words with care. "The setting. The conflict. Like I'd seen something similar before, even though I know I haven't." He paused, letting an idea form. "You said labyrinth creatures get rewards for good performance, right? What if... what if I was a labyrinth creature in a past existence? One from a scenario like this one? And my reward was rebirth outside the labyrinth, but with some of those memories lingering?"

  Rhys studied him for a long moment. Her expression gave nothing away.

  "That would be unprecedented," she finally said. "Labyrinth creatures don't become Kindred. They have incompatible souls."

  "But you said they get rewarded. What's the ultimate reward for a construct that serves the labyrinth well for centuries?"

  No answer. Rhys's gaze remained fixed on him, weighing, assessing.

  "It's possible," she allowed. "I've never heard of it happening. But I've also never heard of someone spawning at the wrong size, or advancing without growing, or any of the other impossible things you've done." A pause. "I'll accept your explanation, or allow you to keep your secrets, more likely. I’ll be patient. For now."

  The for now hung in the air between them.

  "One fruit," Zyrian said, breaking the tension. His voice carried an edge of frustration as he stared at the solitary reward. "One fruit, and no anima from kills. All those soldiers, all that potential..." He gestured at the empty space where the armies had stood. "Gone."

  He looked back at the faded landscape with something like longing. The fast advancer in him, Cade realized. Zyrian had used Cade as an excuse to progress quickly, and now his tier-three memories were bringing back the ambitions that had driven him to tier-eight in his previous life.

  "I should use it," Cade said. "The fruit. To catch up to you two in tier."

  Cade was thinking of the beetles. How easily their pincers had torn through his skin once they'd gotten hold of him. How his tier-one body had blistered and charred under the fire people's assault. If he was going to keep facing scenarios like these, he needed every advantage he could get.

  "Agreed," Rhys said. "You're the priority here. Zyrian and I can wait for the next room's rewards."

  "On one condition."

  Zyrian stepped forward, his rust-red form tense with something between frustration and determination.

  "We train. Here. Now." His eyes fixed on Cade. “This is the moment."

  Cade blinked. It took him a second to recall the conversation—sitting against the wall outside the fire city, his face torn open, Rhys offering to teach him.

  "I remember."

  "Good." Zyrian's expression didn't soften. "Because what I just watched was not fighting. Talking. Negotiating. Sitting down in front of armed armies instead of using your strength." He shook his head. "You got lucky this time. The scenario accepted your peaceful resolution. But not every conflict can be talked away, and you need to be ready for when words fail."

  "That was the right call for this scenario—"

  "Yes. It was." Zyrian cut him off, surprising Cade with the admission. "But you made that call because you don't know how to do anything else. You chose negotiation because fighting terrifies you, not because you weighed both options and selected the better one." He stepped closer. "A warrior who chooses peace is wise. A coward who has no other choice is just lucky."

  The words landed harder than Cade expected. He wanted to argue—he had weighed his options, he had made a strategic decision—but there was truth buried in Zyrian's criticism. When he'd sat down in front of that army, part of him had been relieved that he didn't have to fight.

  "Your oath—reduce suffering or whatever—it does not apply to labyrinth creatures," Zyrian continued, his tone easing slightly. "They do not suffer. They live for battle and probably left disappointed in that outcome. So there is no ethical weight to learning how to kill them efficiently."

  Cade considered this. The criticism stung, but there was something to Zyrian's point. He'd nearly died against the beetles. He'd been completely helpless against the fire people's flames. His fighting technique amounted to "grab things and squeeze until they stop moving."

  That might not always be enough.

  "Fine," he said. "We train. But I'm still using the fruit first."

  Zyrian nodded, some of the tension leaving his posture. "Acceptable."

  Cade approached the fruit. He held his palm above it, feeling his anima reach out, seeing the white sparkles flow between his hand and the swirling gray-green-yellow surface.

  Strong. Not as strong as the Oath essence—that connection had been overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. But this was close. An adjacent affinity, maybe.

  He decided not to absorb the essence type. One was enough for now, especially one as unusual as the Oath. Better to convert this to pure anima.

  Cade touched the fruit with intent to absorb.

  The effect was immediate. Energy poured into him, and the fruit's colors drained away, replaced by pure white. It shrank as he absorbed it—from the size of an apple to the size of a plum to the size of a grape—while his body expanded to accommodate the influx.

  When the flow finally stopped, Cade was nearly seven feet tall again. The fruit had shrunk to a tiny white sphere, barely visible on its stalk.

  "There's some left," he said, stepping back. "If either of you want it."

  Zyrian moved forward without hesitation. He touched the diminished fruit, and what remained flowed into him. His body grew—a few inches, barely noticeable compared to Cade's dramatic expansion.

  "Better than nothing," Zyrian muttered.

  Cade found a clear spot on the stone floor and sat down cross-legged. "Give me a few minutes. I'm going to advance."

  "We'll wait," Rhys said, settling into her own meditative posture nearby.

  Cade closed his eyes.

  He was grateful, deeply grateful, to not be injured this time. The last advancement had been agony—trying to focus on anima manipulation while his body was charred and ruined, every shift of internal energy scraping against raw nerves. This was peaceful by comparison. Almost pleasant.

  He found the warm pressure in his chest, the accumulated anima waiting to be compressed into the pattern. He coaxed it toward his shoulder, down his arm, into his palm. The pathways were familiar now, easier to trace. The energy responded to his will with minimal resistance.

  Compress it into the pattern for advancement, and something gave way.

  The world went gray.

  The mindscape was the same as before. Gray ground, white sky, infinite emptiness in all directions. The white line crossing the floor between him and his opponent.

  But the shadow had changed.

  It was still him—his height, his proportions, his stance. But the lower body was wrong. Where legs should have been, a segmented form extended backward, like the body of a centipede. Dozens of small legs rippled beneath it, supporting a tail that stretched maybe ten feet behind the shadow's torso.

  But the shadow didn't move. It stood there—or stood-and-crawled there, given its hybrid form—waiting for him to act. Patient. Passive.

  Just like before.

  Cade charged, noticing this time that the shadow didn’t make a move until he crossed that line in the ground halfway between them that stretched to each horizon.

  The centipede body actually made things easier. The shadow tried to turn, tried to bring its many legs around to face him, but the long tail was unwieldy. It couldn't pivot quickly. By the time it registered his approach, Cade was already behind it.

  He grabbed the shadow around the neck, avoiding the flailing extra arms, and pulled.

  The thing was weak. Pathetically weak, just like the tier-two version. It thrashed and writhed, its centipede legs scrabbling uselessly against the gray ground, but it couldn't break his grip. Couldn't match his strength. Couldn't do anything except struggle as he tightened his hold and twisted.

  The head came free.

  The shadow dissolved.

  The mindscape collapsed.

  And Cade felt his body compress, shrinking down from nearly seven feet to his natural five-foot-seven, every cell rebuilt, every fiber optimized.

  Tier-three.

  He opened his eyes to find Zyrian standing over him, arms crossed.

  "How did you defeat your shadow?"

  Cade blinked, orienting himself. He was lying on the stone floor of the cleared scenario room, his companions watching him with expressions of curiosity.

  He was completely erect.

  Out of nowhere. No trigger, no thought, no stimulus, just sudden, demanding hardness that bordered on painful, and the other type of swelling as well. And it was worse than before, only now realizing that such a thing was possible.

  The intensity of the urge clawing at him felt increasingly foreign. Unnatural. Like something had reached into his body and cranked a dial far past where it should ever go. His skin felt too hot. His pulse pounded in places it shouldn't. Every nerve ending seemed to be screaming for something he couldn't provide himself.

  Is advancement making it worse?

  The thought chilled him even as his body burned. Each tier-up had compressed and rebuilt him from the cellular level. What if whatever this world had done to his biology was being... reinforced? Amplified? What if every advancement made this worse?

  Why does advancement have to come with its own personal suffering?

  Wait. He'd been asked a question.

  "Uh... same as before," he said, sitting up quickly. He bent his legs in front of him and wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to create some kind of barrier between his obvious condition and his companions' line of sight. "Got behind it. Grabbed it around the neck. Pulled until its head came off."

  Zyrian winced.

  "That will never work on a strong opponent."

  "It worked twice." Cade kept his eyes fixed firmly on Zyrian's face, fighting the urge to glance at Rhys. Her curves were right there in his peripheral vision—that feminine silhouette that his traitorous brain kept wanting to catalog in detail—and looking would only make things worse.

  Not that anything could make this worse.

  Focus on the conversation. Focus on anything else.

  "Against shadows calibrated for tier-two and tier-three advancement. Easy trials. Designed to be beaten." Zyrian began pacing, his frustration evident in every step. "You need to use your trials as practice. Actually try to improve each time. Develop techniques that will work when your shadow is as strong as you, or stronger."

  "Stronger?"

  "The higher tiers pit you against enhanced versions of your past self. Shadows with abilities. With the attributes of labyrinth creatures. With the essence types you've absorbed." Zyrian stopped pacing, turning to face Cade directly. "If your only technique is 'grab and squeeze,' what happens when your shadow has fire essence? When getting close means getting burned? When it's better at generating heat than you are at taking it?"

  Cade hadn't thought about that.

  "The shadow gains my essence abilities?"

  "At the minimum, plus whatever from the labyrinth it decides to mix in." Zyrian's expression was grim. "If you keep winning through brute force, you'll never develop the skills you need for the higher tiers. And then you'll die. Starting all over, only to keep failing the same trial as soon as it passes you in strength, until you either learn or give up. You need to learn how to advance your skills and continue to use that knowledge to do so each tier."

  He turned away, moving to an open area of the floor, and began demonstrating.

  The movements were fluid. Practiced. Kicks that flowed into punches that flowed into defensive postures, each motion blending seamlessly into the next. Martial arts—real martial arts, not the clumsy brawling Cade had occasionally seen in bars or parking lots back on Earth.

  "I learned this across several lives," Zyrian said between movements. "Bored at lower tiers, looking for ways to make progression faster. Combat techniques that work regardless of size or strength. Principles that scale."

  He finished with a spinning kick that would have been impressive even on a full-sized human. On a foot-and-a-half-tall Kindred, it was almost absurd—except for the obvious skill behind it.

  "I'm sure I know more," Zyrian added, frustration coloring his voice. "Better techniques. Advanced forms. But those memories are locked in the higher tier lives that I haven’t earned back yet. All I have access to are the basics."

  "I appreciate the demonstration," Cade said carefully. "But I don't think striking is my style. It's never felt right to me. Even in dreams, when I tried to throw punches, my fists would slow down before impact. Some kind of mental block."

  "Then you need to overcome it."

  "I'd rather focus on grappling. That's what works for me. Couldn’t I aim for some kind of defensive essence type to make it work?"

  Zyrian made a sound of pure exasperation.

  "Even with a defensive focused essence type, grappling doesn't scale to numbers," he said flatly. "It's fine one-on-one, if your opponent doesn't have abilities or weapons that make close contact dangerous. But what happens when you're fighting two enemies? Three? Ten?"

  Cade didn't have an answer.

  "Someone comes up behind you while you're wrestling with an opponent. Stabs you in the back of the head. That's it. You're dead." Zyrian mimed the motion—a quick thrust to the base of the skull. "The key to combat is doing damage fast and getting out. Or doing damage from as far away as possible. Flexibility. Options. Not committing to a single approach that leaves you vulnerable."

  "What about essence types? Couldn't I get abilities that work at range?"

  "You could. Ranged has its drawbacks, especially outside the labyrinth, which is why I’m not particularly happy with my projection affinity. But, if you had them, your shadow would have them too. And at higher tiers, your shadow's abilities are stronger than yours—empowered by the labyrinth, enhanced by creature attributes." Zyrian shook his head. "You can't rely on essence types to cover your weaknesses. You need actual combat skills and to always be continuing to adapt such that you can counter yourself. If your shadow can cast, you need to cast farther, faster, with better control, or get better at dodging at least, between advancements."

  "So maybe I should take weaker essence types? Focus on advancement over abilities?"

  Zyrian winced again. "That's its own problem. Weaker essence types mean you're weaker than others at your tier. Which can be catastrophic when you're facing real opponents, not just shadows."

  "Seems like everything is a problem."

  "Everything is a tradeoff." Zyrian's voice softened slightly. "But stronger always better in any other situation than advancement. The strongest Kindred are often those with many lives of experience. Each tier you unlock more memories of your lives and failures at that tier, memories and training that your prior self that you face lacks."

  He looked at Cade with something approaching sympathy.

  "You're new. Barely a month old. You shouldn't have to worry about this yet. But you're also advancing faster than anyone I've ever seen for a fresh soul, which means the higher-tier problems are coming for you faster too."

  Cade stood up, testing his newly compressed body. Everything felt right. Optimized. Stronger than before, denser, more capable.

  "Teach me what you can," he said. "I'll practice."

  The next few hours were exhausting.

  Zyrian couldn't realistically spar with Cade—the size difference made it impossible—but he could demonstrate forms and critique Cade's attempts to replicate them. Punches that felt awkward and wrong. Kicks that Cade could perform but that never seemed to have the snap Zyrian's did. Blocks and parries that his arms didn't want to execute properly.

  Through it all, Rhys sat at the edge of the training area, watching with patient disinterest.

  "Your hips are wrong," Zyrian called out. "Rotate into the punch. The power comes from the core, not the arm."

  Cade tried again. It felt marginally better. Still wrong.

  "Again. And keep your guard up. You're leaving your face exposed every time you throw."

  Again. And again. And again.

  After maybe an hour of striking practice, Zyrian paused, circling Cade with a critical eye.

  "There's something else," he said. "Something you're neglecting entirely."

  "What?"

  "Your tail."

  Cade blinked. He'd almost forgotten about it—the appendage that had been part of his new body since arrival, retractable along his spine, rarely used except for the occasional climbing assist or exercise routine during his travels.

  "What about it?"

  "You never use it in combat. Never even think about it." Zyrian's tone carried genuine frustration. "You have a fifth limb—a strong, flexible appendage that can whip, grab, and provide leverage—and you treat it like it doesn't exist."

  "I... haven't really trained with it."

  "Obviously." Zyrian gestured impatiently. "Extend it all the way. Let me see what we're working with."

  Cade let the tail unfurl from its retracted position along his spine. It extended behind him, maybe five feet long, muscular and surprisingly dexterous when he focused on it.

  "Good length," Zyrian observed. "Good thickness. You could use that to trip opponents, grab limbs, wrap around necks." He moved closer, examining the appendage critically. "Try to whip it. Like you're cracking a towel."

  Cade paused, surprised Zyrian knew what a towel was for a moment, then he tried. The motion was awkward—the tail moved, but without the snap Zyrian seemed to be looking for.

  "You're thinking about it too much. It should be an extension of your spine, your core. The power comes from your hips and back, not from the tail itself."

  Another attempt. Better, but still clumsy.

  "Now try grabbing." Zyrian held up a rock about the size of his fist. "Wrap your tail around this and squeeze."

  Cade extended the tail, curled it around the stone, and tightened. The grip was surprisingly strong—he could feel the rock compressing slightly under the pressure.

  "Good. Now imagine that's an opponent's ankle. Or their throat." Zyrian retrieved the rock. "In close combat, you could use it to unbalance someone, yank them off their feet, create openings for your hands to exploit."

  "Or throw them," Cade said, the tactical possibilities starting to click into place.

  "Exactly. Wrap the tail around an opponent, use your forward momentum combined with theirs, and you can flip someone much larger than yourself." Zyrian demonstrated the concept with hand gestures, tracing the arc of a hypothetical throw. "Your tail becomes the fulcrum. Their own weight works against them."

  They practiced the motions—Cade whipping the tail at imaginary targets, wrapping it around rocks and tree-trunk-sized pieces of debris, learning to coordinate the appendage with his other movements. It felt strange at first, like trying to write with his non-dominant hand, but gradually the tail began to respond more naturally.

  "Better," Zyrian said after another hour. "Still clumsy, but you're starting to integrate it. In an actual fight, you'll need to use it instinctively—no time to think about positioning or grip strength."

  "How long until it becomes instinctive?"

  "You are the worst at it I’ve ever seen, honestly, so hard to say.”

  “Great.”

  The endless energy of his new body kept him going long past when exhaustion should have set in. Zyrian seemed to have similar reserves, demonstrating techniques dozens of times without visible fatigue.

  Finally, Rhys spoke up.

  "This is probably not worth the time right now."

  Both Cade and Zyrian turned to look at her.

  "The training," she clarified. "It will be much more fruitful once we're closer in size. Once Zyrian and I have more memories to draw from." She stood, brushing off her legs. "For now, Cade has us as support. He doesn't need to be a master combatant immediately."

  Zyrian looked like he wanted to argue. But some of the frustration had drained out of him over the hours of instruction—working it through his muscles, if not his mind.

  "Fine," he said. "But we continue this later. When circumstances allow."

  "Agreed," Cade said, relieved. He let the tail retract back along his spine, the appendage settling into its resting position.

  As if responding to their decision, the ground around them began to bubble.

  Cade stepped back, alarmed, but Rhys didn't react. Green shapes pushed up through the stone—simple spheres, about the size of golf balls, growing on short stalks.

  Fruits. Plain green fruits, identical to the ones he'd been eating since he arrived in this world.

  "The labyrinth provides," Rhys said, plucking one and taking a bite. "Cleared rooms remain accessible as long as delvers wish to stay. Sustenance is available. Bland, but sufficient."

  Cade picked one of the fruits and ate it. She was right—bland. Nothing like the sweet complexity of the jungle fruits he'd grown accustomed to. But filling.

  He thought about the implications.

  In the month since he'd arrived, he hadn't used the bathroom once. Not for anything. His body processed food completely, apparently, leaving no waste to expel. And now he learned that the labyrinth would feed him indefinitely, as long as he stayed in cleared rooms.

  If things go badly, he thought. If word spreads about my weirdness, if powerful beings come looking, if I need to hide...

  The labyrinth could be a refuge. Not comfortable, but safe. He could hole up in cleared rooms, wait for trouble to pass, let the outside world forget about him.

  Worst case scenario. Good to know it existed.

  "I want to proceed," he said, finishing his fruit. "One more room, then we exit."

  Zyrian's expression sharpened. Something had changed in him since the tier-three advancement—an eagerness that bordered on impatience. Whatever memories he'd recovered, they'd brought ambitions with them.

  Rhys remained her usual placid self, already moving toward the far end of the room.

  The pedestal stood between the two triangular corner pools where the battleships had floated. The dull portal beside it, waiting.

  Cade touched the pedestal, formed the intention for another room, and extended his hands behind him.

  Small fingers closed around tail as he extended it—Rhys on the left halfway out, Zyrian on the right, at the tip. Their tier-three bodies were still small relative to his compressed form, but the contact was easier.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  "Ready," Rhys confirmed.

  "Let's go," Zyrian said, and there was hunger in his voice.

  Cade stepped through the portal, his companions in tow, into whatever the labyrinth had prepared for them next.