After the auction ends, the artifacts are taken to the respective owners by the auction house.

  Tejran pays for Tara—Tara can sense the transaction happening, gold changing hands—and then picks him up. Tejran's hands are cold, and Tara can feel dark energy radiating from them, his fingers twitching slightly as they grip the pyramid.

  Tara feels Tejran's magical energy probing him, testing him, analyzing him. It's different from Master Thorne's examination—darker, more invasive, more... hungry. Like being stared at by something that wants to eat you, but can't decide whether to start with your head or your feet.

  "OK! I won't be stuck on a shelf anymore," Tara thinks, trying to find a silver lining. "But now I belong to Mad Twitch. That's... that's probably worse. Why couldn't I have been bought by someone like the elegant and beautiful Archmage? Someone who doesn't radiate 'I'm going to use you for evil' vibes?"

  Tejran holds Tara close, his grip firm.

  "Interesting," Tejran murmurs, his voice low. "You're generating energy even now. Constantly. Perpetually."

  "You'll be perfect for what I need," Tejran says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perfect indeed."

  Tara's storage counter continues climbing: 265,000 units. 270,000 units. Still locked inside, still accumulating, still useless.

  "Great," Tara thinks. "I'm being carried by a crazy guy who's muttering about how perfect I am for something. That's never a good sign. In fact, that's usually the sign right before the 'villain gets stronger' part of the story."

  Tejran carries Tara through the city, moving quickly, purposefully. The bag is dark, but Tara can still sense things through it—the sounds of the city fading, the air changing, becoming colder, darker.

  Finally, they stop. Tara can hear a door opening, the sound of locks being turned, magical wards being deactivated. They enter, and the door closes behind them.

  The bag is opened, and Tara finds himself in a room that makes him wish he was still in the bag.

  It is a laboratory. Or a torture chamber. Or both. The walls are lined with shelves, and on those shelves are... things. Skulls, human and otherwise, arranged in patterns. Jars filled with liquids that glow with an unnatural light. Artifacts that radiate dark energy, worse than the black sword, worse than anything Tara has ever sensed.

  In the corners of the room, there are cages. And in those cages are creatures—some Tara recognizes, some he doesn't. They are thin, their eyes hollow. They don't move, don't make sounds. They just... exist, trapped, waiting.

  Tejran sets Tara down on a table in the center of the room. The table is covered in runes, carved into the surface, glowing with dark energy. Around Tara are other artifacts—crystals, bones, strange materials that pulse with power.

  "Perfect!" Tejran exclaims, his voice cold and satisfied. "Everything is in place. With this artifact, I can finally complete the ritual! Jahahahaha!"

  Tara feels a surge of panic. Ritual? What ritual? What is Mad Twitch planning to do with him?

  Tejran moves around the room, checking things, adjusting artifacts, muttering to himself. Tara can hear him speaking, but the words are in a language he doesn't understand—dark, guttural, wrong.

  Then Tejran turns back to Tara, picking him up, examining him again, his fingers twitching slightly.

  "At last!" Tejran says, his voice filled with triumph. "The heart of Xyl'tharoth! The Eternal Hunger will finally have its permanent form! Jahahahaha!"

  Tara feels cold. Xyl'tharoth, the Eternal Hunger. That doesn't sound good.

  "All these days of searching," Tejran continues, "and finally, an artifact that generates energy constantly! That stores it! The demon needs a heart—a source that will sustain it permanently. And you, you are that heart!"

  Tejran holds Tara up, turning him this way and that, his twitching fingers making the grip feel unstable.

  Tara feels terror, real terror, for the first time since becoming a pyramid. Mad Twitch is going to use him to summon a demon.

  "That's... that's horrible," Tara thinks. "He's going to use me to summon some eternally malnourished demon. That's worse than powering a dungeon dragon. Way worse."

  Tejran sets Tara down on the rune-covered table, positioning him carefully in the center of a complex pattern.

  "Now," Tejran says, "I must create the channels—the pathways for the energy to flow."

  Tejran picks up a tool—something sharp, glowing with dark magic—and begins carving runes, symbols, marks near Tara.

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  And as the marks are carved, Tara realizes something. These marks look familiar—similar to the ones on the pedestal in the dungeon that channeled his energy to the dragon.

  "These are the same kind of channels," Tara thinks, horror dawning. "He's creating pathways for my energy to flow out. Just like in the dungeon."

  Tejran continues carving, creating a network of channels on the table around Tara, connecting to the runes. Each mark glows with dark energy, pulsing, waiting.

  "Perfect," Tejran says, stepping back. "The channels are complete. Now, the energy should flow! Indeed, it should flow! Jahahahaha!"

  Tara feels something shift. The channels are activating, opening. And his stored energy begins to flow out—he can feel the stream of power leaving him, flowing through the channels, into the ritual circle.

  But then, something happens. Tara focuses, tries to stop it, tries to close the channels, tries to pull the energy back. It works. The flow stops. The energy stays inside him.

  "What?" Tejran says, his voice sharp. "The energy stopped flowing. Why did it stop?"

  Tejran examines Tara, his hands probing, testing, fingers twitching. Tara can feel Tejran's confusion, his frustration.

  "Broken?" Tejran mutters. "Is it broken? No, it can't be broken. The energy is still there. I can sense it. But it's not flowing. The channels are there! The pathways are open! Why isn't the energy flowing?!"

  Tara feels a surge of hope. He's stopped it. He's closed the channels, prevented the energy from flowing. Maybe he can stop this. Maybe he can prevent the ritual.

  But then Tejran picks up something—a vial, filled with dark liquid. He uncorks it, and Tara can sense the power within it, dark and potent.

  "More channels," Tejran says. "Deeper. Stronger. I'll force it to work! Indeed!"

  Tejran begins carving again, creating more marks, deeper marks on the table. And then he pours the dark liquid onto the channels around Tara, and Tara feels it—a burning, a searing sensation as the liquid etches deeper into the runes, widening the channels, strengthening them.

  The channels flare, and this time, Tara can't stop it. The energy flows out, faster, stronger, unstoppable. The channels are too wide, too deep, too powerful. He can't close them, can't prevent the flow.

  "Jahahahaha!" Tejran laughs. "There! It's working now! The energy flows! Perfect!"

  Tejran moves away, and Tara is left alone on the table, surrounded by skulls and artifacts and caged creatures. His energy is flowing out through the channels, feeding the ritual circle.

  Tejran begins chanting, his voice rising and falling in a dark rhythm. The runes on the table glow brighter, pulsing with dark energy. Tara can feel the magic building, the power gathering, the ritual taking shape.

  The chanting grows louder, more intense. The runes flare, and Tara feels his stored energy streaming out of him, flowing into the ritual circle, powering the summoning.

  Tejran cries out, "Xyl'tharoth, come forth!"

  The room begins to shake. The air grows thick, heavy, wrong. Tara can sense something forming in the center of the ritual circle—something massive, something terrible, something that shouldn't exist.

  The caged creatures begin to stir, to whimper, to try to escape. But they can't. They are trapped, just like Tara.

  "Jahahahaha!" Tejran laughs, his voice filled with triumph. "It's working! Xyl'tharoth is coming!"

  The storage counter drops rapidly as energy flows out: 280,000 units. 250,000 units. 200,000 units. 150,000 units. The ritual is consuming his stored energy, using it to power the summoning.

  And then, it appears.

  A form begins to take shape in the center of the circle—massive, dark, wrong. Xyl'tharoth, the Eternal Hunger. The demon is being pulled into this world, given form and substance.

  The demon's form solidifies, and Tara can sense it—a presence that radiates endless hunger. The demon turns, and Tara can feel its attention focusing on him.

  Tara feels the demon's presence, feels the connection between them. The demon is drawing energy from him constantly. His energy generation is feeding the demon, keeping it in this world, making it permanent. He's a pacemaker for the apocalypse.

  The storage counter: 100,000 units. But now the energy is flowing out as fast as it is coming in, feeding the demon.

  The caged creatures freeze in place. Amidst Tejran's triumphant laughter, the demon stands—massive and imposing.

  Xyl'tharoth is here.