Interlude

  The maze was starting to piss Derek off.

  "Left here," Marcus said, his plate armor clanking as he moved. "I think we came from the right."

  "You think?"

  "It all looks the same, Derek. Yellow walls, weird carvings, torches. I'm doing my best."

  Derek bit back a sharper response. This wasn't Marcus's fault. They'd been wandering for what felt like an hour, taking turns seemingly at random, hoping to stumble across either the criminals or the rest of their group. Neither had appeared.

  Should've stayed with the others, a quiet voice whispered in Derek's mind. He ignored it. Luna had been too cautious, too hesitant. In a place like this, hesitation got you killed.

  At least, that's what he'd told himself when he'd convinced Marcus to split off.

  "Hey." Marcus's voice dropped. "You hear that?"

  Derek stopped. Listened.

  Voices. Distant, echoing through the corridors, but definitely human. Multiple speakers, their words indistinct but their tone unmistakable—casual, relaxed, unworried.

  The criminals.

  Derek's grip tightened on his battleaxe. "Finally. Let's go."

  "Wait." Marcus caught his arm. "We should be careful. They've had time to prepare traps—"

  "They're just normal humans, Marcus. No shields, no magic, no Classes. We walk in there, we clean house, we're done before the others even catch up." Derek shrugged off his friend's hand. "Trust me."

  Marcus hesitated. Derek could see the conflict in his expression—the part of him that knew this was reckless warring with the part that didn't want to abandon his childhood friend.

  He's always been like this, Derek thought. Too careful. Too worried about what might go wrong.

  They'd grown up on the same street, back when Derek's family still had money and Marcus's dad still had a job. Different worlds now—Derek had clawed his way up from nothing after his parents' divorce, reaching a corporate middle-management position, while Marcus had become a simple maintenance guy working at a hotel. They hadn't spoken in years before running into each other at the hotel.

  But some bonds didn't break easily. And right now, that bond was the only thing keeping Marcus from walking away.

  "Fine," Marcus said finally. "But we go slow. We check corners. We don't just charge in."

  "Sure, sure." Derek was already moving toward the voices. "Slow and careful. Got it."

  The corridor opened into a vast chamber—some kind of ancient throne room, with crumbling pillars and a raised dais at the far end. Derek's enhanced vision swept the space, cataloging details: high ceiling, debris scattered across the floor, torches providing flickering illumination.

  And there, near the dais—a cluster of figures in orange jumpsuits. Maybe a dozen of them, gathered around something Derek couldn't quite see. Their weapons were visible even at this distance: rifles, handguns, what looked like a crate of grenades.

  Perfect.

  "There they are," Derek whispered. "You take left, I take right. We hit them from both sides before they know what's happening."

  "Derek, wait—"

  But Derek was already moving.

  The distance across the chamber was maybe a hundred feet. Derek covered it in seconds, his enhanced speed eating up the ground. His battleaxe felt light in his hands, eager for use. The criminals hadn't even noticed him yet—they were too focused on whatever they were doing near the dais.

  This is going to be easy, Derek thought. One swing each, maybe two. Their shields can't handle—

  The floor disappeared.

  One moment Derek was running on solid stone. The next, he was falling—the surface beneath him giving way like wet paper, revealing empty air and darkness below.

  He hit the bottom hard.

  The impact drove the breath from his lungs. His Aether Shield absorbed most of the damage, but the landing still jarred every bone in his body. Derek lay there for a moment, stunned, staring up at the hole he'd fallen through.

  A pit trap. A goddamn pit trap.

  The false floor—some kind of cloth stretched over a framework, covered with dust to match the surrounding stone—had been invisible until he was already on top of it. The pit itself was maybe twenty feet deep, its walls smooth sandstone that offered no easy handholds.

  "DEREK!" Marcus's voice echoed from above. A moment later, his armored form appeared at the pit's edge—then vanished as another section of false floor gave way.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Marcus crashed down beside him, plate armor ringing against stone.

  "Shit." Derek pushed himself up, ignoring the ache in his ribs. "You okay?"

  "I'll live." Marcus was already on his feet, shield raised, scanning the pit's walls. "Can you climb out?"

  Derek looked up. Twenty feet of smooth stone. His enhanced strength was impressive, but he couldn't climb a sheer wall without handholds.

  The axe, he realized. I can use it to carve gaps.

  He was reaching for his weapon when laughter echoed from above.

  "Look at them!" A heavyset man with a shaved head appeared at the pit's edge, grinning down at them. "The System said they'd be superhuman. Said their shields could tank bullets. Didn't say anything about gravity!"

  More criminals gathered at the edge, their faces twisted with cruel amusement. Derek counted quickly—eleven, maybe twelve. All armed. All staring down at him like he was an animal in a cage.

  "How deep is that?" one of them asked.

  "Deep enough. Rico, get the Molotovs ready. We'll smoke 'em out."

  Molotovs. Fire, in an enclosed space with no escape route. Derek's stomach tightened.

  "Cover me," he said to Marcus. "I'm getting us out of here."

  He raised his battleaxe and swung at the wall.

  The Mana-enhanced blade bit deep into the sandstone, carving a chunk free and leaving a gap large enough for a handhold. Derek didn't wait—he swung again, higher this time, creating a second gap. A third. A fourth.

  The laughter above died.

  "Holy shit," someone said. "Did you see that? He's cutting through stone."

  "Shoot him! Shoot him now!"

  The gunfire started—but not the concentrated barrage that could overwhelm an Aether Shield. The criminals were too far from the pit's edge to aim properly, too scared of Derek's display of strength to approach. Bullets sparked against his barrier, but without coordination, without concentration, they couldn't break through.

  "I'm almost—" Derek reached for the next handhold.

  "GRENADES!" Marcus shouted. "GET DOWN!"

  The first explosion rocked the pit. Derek lost his grip, falling back to the floor as debris rained around him. His shield flickered from the concussive force—not penetrated, but stressed.

  "Again! Keep throwing them!"

  Another grenade. Another explosion. Derek felt his shield weakening, the barrier struggling to regenerate between impacts. Concentrated attacks in quick succession—that was the key to breaking through. The criminals had figured it out.

  Marcus positioned himself over Derek, his own shield raised to absorb the blasts. "Stay down! I've got you!"

  "Marcus, your shield—"

  "Is fine! Just stay down!"

  But it wasn't fine. Derek could see the strain on Marcus's face, could hear the way his breathing grew more ragged with each explosion. The grenades kept coming, one after another, faster than his shield could recover.

  This is my fault, Derek realized with sudden, horrible clarity. I charged in without thinking. I got us trapped. And now Marcus is—

  A rock lay near his hand—debris from his axe strikes against the wall. It was the size of a grapefruit, heavy and rough-edged.

  Derek grabbed it.

  The next time a criminal leaned over the pit's edge to throw a grenade, Derek hurled the rock with every ounce of enhanced strength he possessed.

  The impact was sickening. The criminal's head snapped back, blood spraying, and he tumbled into the pit—landing in a broken heap ten feet from where Derek crouched.

  For a moment, the grenades stopped.

  "Tommy's down! That fucker killed Tommy!"

  "Get back from the edge! Back!"

  The criminals retreated—but only for a moment. Derek heard shouted orders, the clink of metal, the hiss of something being lit.

  Molotovs.

  "We need to move," Marcus gasped. His face was pale, sweat streaming down his forehead. "If they start throwing fire—"

  "I know." Derek grabbed his axe. "Cover me one more time. I'll get us out."

  Marcus nodded. He raised his shield, positioning himself between Derek and the pit's opening.

  Derek started climbing.

  The handholds he'd carved earlier were still there—damaged by explosions but usable. He moved fast, driven by desperation, reaching for the next gap before he'd fully secured his grip on the current one.

  Ten feet. Fifteen. Almost there—

  The Molotov sailed over the pit's edge, trailing fire and smoke.

  Marcus intercepted it with his shield.

  The glass shattered against the metal surface, spraying burning liquid across the shield's face—and across Marcus's arms, his chest, his helmet. The flames caught immediately, igniting the cloth beneath his armor, spreading with horrifying speed.

  And in that moment of distraction, half a dozen criminals rushed to the pit's edge and fired down at once.

  Marcus's Aether Shield—already weakened by grenades, already stressed beyond its limits—collapsed.

  The bullets found every gap in his armor. Shoulders. Throat. The visor of his helmet. Marcus jerked once, twice, three times as rounds punched through flesh and bone.

  He fell.

  "MARCUS!" Derek dropped from the wall, landing beside his friend's crumpled form. The fire was still burning—on Marcus's armor, on his clothes, on his skin—but the bullets had already done their work. Blood pooled beneath the gleaming plate, spreading across ancient stone.

  "No, no, no—" Derek grabbed Marcus's shoulders, rolled him over. The visor was shattered, revealing the face beneath—pale, slack, eyes already going vacant. "C'mon, man! Don't do this! Don't you dare—"

  Marcus's lips moved. A whisper, barely audible.

  "...sorry..."

  "Sorry? You're sorry?" Derek's voice cracked. "I'm the one who should—I got us into this, I made you come with me, I—" He choked on the words. "Remember sixth grade? The Nintendo? It was me, not Chris! I broke it and blamed him because I was scared of your mom! I've been meaning to tell you for years but I never—I'm sorry, okay? I'll pay you back, I'll buy you a hundred Nintendos, just don't—"

  Marcus's eyes went still.

  Derek stared at the body of his childhood friend. The boy he'd grown up with. The man who'd followed him into a trap because old loyalty meant more than common sense.

  Dead. Because of me.

  The rage hit him like a physical force.

  Derek stood slowly, battleaxe in hand, and looked up at the criminals peering over the pit's edge. Some of them were laughing again. Others looked uncertain, maybe even afraid.

  Good, Derek thought. They should be afraid.

  He was going to kill every last one of them.