Musa saunters ahead like he’s never once been intimidated by a warehouse-sized vault full of weapons. He casts a grin over his shoulder at Aster and flaps his hand dismissively, like he’s talking someone off a building ledge.

  “Relax,” he says. “Everyone’s first time in the vault feels weird. Most people find a rhythm through tools they used in the Material Realm. You ever do sports? Maybe some cricket, javelin, shot put? You’d be shocked how many people start with something ridiculous. I saw a guy with a croquet mallet once. No shame.”

  Aster shakes his head, already feeling judged by some imaginary committee of weapon spirits. “No sports,” he mutters. “I mean, unless… shoplifting counts as track and field.”

  Musa blinks, then continues, completely undeterred. “Cooking? You strike me as someone who’s been cornered by a pan or two. Those things make phenomenal close-quarters weapons. And if you pair it with basic alchemy? Instant frying pan flamethrower.”

  Aster searches the attic of his brain for anything useful. He finds nothing but dust, abandonment issues, and a memory of being beaten by a mop-broom hybrid in grade school.

  “I got nothing,” he admits with a shrug.

  Musa sighs in a theatrical swoop, like Aster has failed an exam no one warned him about. “Alright. We’ll go for a classic then. Let’s see who talks to you.”

  “You mean that literally?” Aster asks as they slip past another looming rack of weaponry—blades, staves, spears, and occasional nonsense like a sledgehammer made from frozen lightning.

  “Not these,” Musa says. “Nothing in this vault is ranked high enough to really talk back. Think of this as a very violent library. Everything’s on loan. Nothing bonded. No cosmic blood pacts yet. These are training tools. You borrow them, you break them, you move on.”

  They weave through corridors of blades and hafts and dust-choked ambition. Shelf after shelf. Row after row. The stale hush of dead legacies settles over Aster’s shoulders.

  None of these things want me, he thinks, tugging down the edge of his jacket like it could protect him from the quiet.

  Nothing calls.

  Until something does.

  Aster stops dead in front of a shelf.

  A staff—dull ironwood, simple and unornamented—leans like a soldier at ease. A coil of chain rests on the shelf below it, thick links interlocked like they’d been built to hold back a rabid dog or rip someone’s arm clean off.

  His breath snags.

  Something clicks as he remembers his panicked escape to 7 Heart Lane. He’s used these before. Touched them. Fought with them. Relied on them through sweat and blood and terror on the Cradle.

  That hadn’t been dream logic or metaphor. Those weapons had been real.

  The desperate improvisation in his hands—a staff for distance, a chain for brutality—and the sickening relief of motion that felt more like instinct than thought.

  His eyes flick from the staff… to the chain..

  It hadn’t been the first time he’d relied on a staff and chain combo either.

  Just him, an alley, and four older boys who didn’t like the idea of him keeping stolen food to himself.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Fourteen. Hungry. Cornered behind the orphanage. Every muscle shaking with equal parts fear and fury.

  They’d demanded his stash. He’d declined with a stick.

  It had gone surprisingly well, at first—until they realized they outnumbered him and had no sense of honor whatsoever. One-on-one, maybe he could’ve scraped through. But all four at once?

  He’d been a punching bag with a stick.

  Until he spotted the chain.

  Rusty, half-buried in the weeds. The kind of chain used to lock gates. Or tie down pitbuls.

  He grabbed it without thinking, swung wide, and felt it catch—not just physically, but metaphysically. Like the world noticed. The links wrapped around one kid’s leg, sent him sprawling. The others paused just long enough for Aster to turn into a blur of wild arcs and pure, animal panic.

  He remembers the staff keeping them distant, giving him control.

  He remembers the chain changing the fight.

  Together, they’d been salvation.

  Now he has to choose one or the other.

  His fingers twitch.

  A bell in his chest rings.

  Musa notices the stillness. “Anything stir?”

  Aster nods slowly. “Yeah. I… I mean, not these ones specifically. More like the type of weapons. I’ve used these before—the real versions. On the Cradle, and years before, as a kid defending myself on the Material Plane.”

  Musa stills. Something lights behind his eyes. Not interest—recognition.

  “That’s not strange,” he says. “That’s meaningful.”

  “How so?” Aster asks.

  Musa sweeps an arm outward like he’s lecturing a toddler. “Recurring weapon types across years? That’s not coincidence. That’s soul resonance. Your spirit likes what it likes. Makes you reach for things that feel like extensions of who you are.”

  Aster blinks. “You’re saying my soul has a preferred loadout?”

  “Exactly,” Musa says, a grin slowly blooming. “And the fact that you used a staff and chain before—even before the Cradle—means you’re predisposed. Meant for it. Do you still have them?”

  “They disappeared,” Aster cuts in.

  Musa’s easy smile falters for the first time since entering the vault.

  “When exactly did they disappear?”

  The memory of crossing the threshold into 7 Heart Lane sits like an ugly stone in his ribs. “The second I crossed through the barrier around the house.”

  “What type of barrier?” Musa asks, suddenly excited. “Golden glow, filled with weird symbols?”

  Aster nods.

  “Oh damn,” Musa clicks his tongue. “Why didn’t anyone mention that sooner?”

  Before Aster can answer, Musa’s gaze drops to his torso—specifically his lower abdomen. “If you crossed with them and they disappeared, they didn’t go anywhere. They probably just got pulled inward.”

  “Inward where?”

  “Into your Dantean.”

  Aster pauses. “The brand of yogurt?”

  Musa pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Fucking hell. Starting from scratch.”

  “You’ve got three Danteans,” Musa says, switching into teacher-who’s-given-up-on-normalcy voice. “We call them Palaces. Little pocket dimensions inside you, part of your Astral Vessel. Each one handles a different aspect of cultivation. The Stomach Palace? Storage. Like a metaphysical glove compartment. Weapons, artifacts, books, snacks—whatever you want to carry without carrying.”

  Aster stares. “You’re telling me I have an invisible stomach pocket, and no one thought to mention this earlier?”

  “You don’t really need to remind someone they have a butthole; it just doesn’t come up in polite conversation.”

  “Touché.”

  Musa grins. “Next is the Core Palace—that’s where your Elemental Aether gathers. It’s the engine room. Then there’s the Mind Palace—your spellbook, memory palace, dream forge, whatever metaphor you want. But right now, we care about your guts. If the weapons you picked up vanished as you entered a Runic Barrier, they were most likely transported to your Dantean.”

  Aster places a hand over his abdomen, as if a zipper might reveal itself. “So I’ve just… been walking around with a staff and chain inside me?”

  “Exactly,” Musa answers. “Waiting until you call them back.”

  Aster lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Spiritual pocket lint. Great.”

  Musa’s nod is small, pleased, already plotting the next lesson. “Which means we don’t have to hunt the vault for replacements anymore. We’ll teach you how to pull them out.”

  “So how do I find it?”

  “Will,” Musa says. “Close your eyes. Don’t think—feel. Focus inward, toward your diaphragm. You’re looking for a boundary, like a hollow curve just behind your stomach. Don’t try to see it. Sense it.”

  Aster shuts his eyes.

  He expects resistance. Static. A barrier. Instead, there’s… nothing.

  A stillness. Vast. Hollow. A silent corridor carved out of potential. Not part of his body, yet undeniably bound to it.

  This is his Stomach Palace.

  And inside it—he feels them.