For a moment, neither of us said anything.
Her words just hung there—sharp, still, suspended in the kind of silence that doesn't wait to be broken. It just lingers. Like smoke. Like heat from something that already burned.
I didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Because I didn't know what to say that wouldn't make it worse.
The Plateau.
These watchers.
'Hm nice ring to it.'
And how could we forget about her.
None of it made sense. But it didn't have to. It felt real. Real enough to bruise.
I ran a hand down my face, still damp from the creek, and let out a breath I didn't remember holding.
"So," I said finally, voice flat, "what's she trying to write?"
Miyako didn't answer right away.
Her gaze went back to the stars, like she could read something in the spaces between them.
Then, without looking at me—
"Something she thinks she controls."
She didn't pause for long.
"But stories aren't obedient. Not even here."
I didn't look at her.
Just let the silence sit for a few more seconds.
Then I spoke—low, dry.
"…Is she going to keep making it worse?"
The question didn't come out afraid. Just tired.
Miyako didn't hesitate.
"No," she said. "She got what she wanted. Now she'll just watch."
A beat.
"Laughing at the mess she made. Calling it a story."
She spat on the last word like it tasted rotten.
"Of course she is."
I looked down at my hands.
"Why ruin the show when it's just starting to fall apart?"
Without missing a beat.
A sharp smack hit the back of my head.
"Ow—seriously?" I winced, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?"
Miyako didn't flinch. "You were spiraling. Dramatically."
I blinked. "Was I?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You monologued about psychological collapse. That's at least a medium spiral."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. "…Fair."
She crossed her arms. "And we're not doing that right now. This isn't the end—it's the start. You're alive. Mostly. So act like it."
"I was being realistic."
"You were being pathetic," she said, arms crossed. "Big difference."
I stared at her. "Do all guides resort to blunt force therapy, or am I just lucky?"
She shrugged. "You're lucky I didn't use a rock."
The wind suddenly shifted.
Not strong—just enough to stir the dust around our feet and ripple the surface of the creek beside us. The air felt heavier. Like it had been holding something back and finally decided to exhale.
Miyako looked toward the village, toward the far edge where the sky met the earth like a line drawn in ink.
"It's time," she said quietly. "We need to start moving."
I straightened. "To where?"
She didn't smile. Didn't blink.
"Through the fabled floors."
The name sounded like something from folklore. Too elegant. Too wrong.
"Sounds dramatic," I muttered.
"It is," she said. "Each floor is its own
world—self-contained, vicious, and built for one thing: survival through
violence. Monsters. Beasts. Demons. Things with too many teeth and names no one remembers."
She kept her eyes forward.
"Some floors send waves of creatures until you break. Some throw you into myths that want to eat you alive. And the humans?"
An unsettling pause.
"They're not allies. Not even people, really. They're just as deadly as the beasts."
A breath.
"Every floor's a death trap. Some just take longer to kill you."
"Cool. Fantasy worlds built to break me. Love that for me."
She kept talking like I hadn't spoken.
"You'll descend one at a time. No shortcuts. No way to skip ahead. And every floor will test you—break you, if it can."
She didn't say it like a warning.
More like a fact. Something that already belonged to me.
I blinked.
Once.
"…Wait. How many floors are we talking?"
She didn't rush to answer.
I narrowed my eyes. "Ten? Twenty?"
Silence.
"Fifty?"
Still nothing.
My stare pleaded. "Please don't make this worse."
She looked at me, calm as ever.
"Five hundred."
I stood there.
"Right," I said flatly. "So dying was the easy part."
That was apparently worthy of a reaction.
Without a word, Miyako spun on one heel and drop-kicked me in the face.
Full extension. Both feet. No hesitation.
The hit landed with enough force to lift me off the ground.
I crashed through the nearest wall like a thrown corpse in a stunt reel—splinters, dust, and dignity all flying in separate directions.
Wood cracked. Something old groaned. I landed on my
back inside what used to be someone's quiet little cottage.
For a second, I just laid there, blinking up at the ceiling.
"…I deserved that," I muttered.
From outside, her voice—cold, clear, and entirely unrepentant:
"Spiraling again. Slaps weren't working. We're in kick territory now."
I groaned from the rubble.
"Got it. Floor one: Miyako."
She awarded me with silence.
'At least she didn't hit me that time.'
Then she turned and started walking—back toward the heart of the village, but not directly. Her path curved. Measured. Like she was scanning the ground for something only she could see.
I followed, slower.
"…What are you doing?"
She offered no reply.
Her gaze swept the buildings—past the stable, past the dry fountain, back toward the crooked workshop near the bridge. Each step she took was deliberate. Calculated.
"Miyako," I tried again, "you gonna tell me why we're walking in circles or am I just here for moral support?"
Silence: her latest weapon of choice.
She paused near the old well, glanced at the sky, then shifted direction—again. Her feet whispered against the dust. Not urgent. Just… focused.
Eventually, she stopped in a narrow square between three old buildings—stone on one side, timber on another, and a crumbling archway overhead.
She tilted her head. Then nodded—barely.
"This'll do."
"…For what, exactly?"
She stepped to the center of the space, raised one hand—and exhaled.
The air didn't shift.
It compressed.
The dust lifted in a slow spiral, like it had been called upward by something older than gravity. The stones beneath her feet pulsed—just once—and lines etched themselves into the ground in a widening circle.
I stepped back instinctively.
"What the hell are you—?"
She was too focused to reply.
Didn't even blink.
She moved her fingers—subtle motions, like folding threads of air—and the ground answered. The lines deepened. Shapes formed. Stone rising where there'd been none. Timber curling from earth like it remembered being trees.
Walls took shape.
Racks. Cabinets. A table in the center, wide and clean.
And then—blades.
Dozens. Maybe more. Lining the walls like a shrine. Swords, daggers, spears, bows. Some looked ancient.
I could only stare.
Miyako lowered her hand.
The light dimmed.
And in the silence that followed, she finally looked at me.
"Every story needs a beginning," she said. "This is where yours gets armed."
I let out a low whistle.
Not at Miyako. Not even at the words.
Just… everything.
The weapons room stretched wide in every direction—walls lined with blades, spears, bows, and a few things I didn't have names for. All of it sharp. All of it waiting.
I stepped forward slowly, the sound of my boots against stone almost too loud in the quiet.
"Hell of a starter pack," I muttered, dragging my fingers along the hilt of something that looked halfway between a machete and a meat hook. It vibrated faintly under my touch.
"Don't touch what you can't carry," Miyako warned from behind.
I didn't look back.
"I wasn't gonna take it. Just saying hello."
I moved further into the room, whistling again—softer this time. The kind of sound people make when they're trying to convince themselves they're calm.
Or that the weapons aren't watching.
Miyako didn't follow right away. She stood near the door, arms crossed, eyes tracking me like she was waiting for something to snap.
I picked up a blade—a curved short sword with a dark, oil-slick sheen. It felt heavier than it looked. Balanced wrong, like it wasn't meant for just anyone. I set it back down.
"That one bites back," Miyako said flatly.
I smirked. "Noted."
She finally stepped inside, feet whispering over the stone. Her tone changed—cool, clipped, but laced with something heavier.
"You need to understand something before we go any further."
I turned toward her.
She didn't flinch.
"Each Fabled Floor gets worse. More hostile. More vicious. Like it's trying to outdo the last."
I raised an eyebrow. "So a difficulty curve. That's normal, right?"
"It was," she said. "Until she got involved."
The air shifted. The temperature didn't drop, but it felt colder.
"She tampered with the Plateau. Bent the layers. Tainted the balance."
Miyako took a step closer, voice low.
"She didn't just twist the rules. She broke the dial."
My expression flattened. "And set the difficulty to what? Fuck you?"
Miyako didn't smile.
"Exactly."
'Oh that crazy bitch.'
I paused for a moment, something cold curled in my chest.
"…The ones watching us. The ones that never move. They're just letting this happen?"
Her eyes flicked to me.
"You mean the Watchers?"
'Fucking knew it. Name something "Watcher" and surprise—it watches. Who could've seen that coming?'
A brief moment later.
"Yeah," I said. "Them."
She looked away, jaw tight.
"They won't intervene," she said. "If they stepped in, they'd be doing exactly what she did."
A pause.
"They watch because that's what they were meant to do. If they stepped in… they'd stop being what they are."
I looked at her, unsure if I was supposed to feel better or worse.
She met my eyes, steady.
"Their eyes haven't left you. Not since the moment you moved."
My gaze met hers.
"They don't cheer. They don't speak. But…"
She exhaled—slow, steady.
"…they're rooting for you. In the only way they can."
Her voice dropped.
"You matter to them. Even if you don't know why yet."
Something in me loosened. Just a little.
Not safety. Not peace.
But something close to hope.
A long tired sigh left my lungs.
"Then I guess I'll give them something to watch."
Miyako blinked. Just once.
Then, without warning, she reached out and ruffled my hair.
"Try not to die dramatically."
I stared at her.
"…Was that encouragement?"
She shrugged. "Don't get used to it."
For a second, neither of us said anything.
Not because there was nothing left to say—just nothing that wouldn't make it heavier.
She stepped back.
She looked around the room—at the walls of steel and shadowed wood.
"These weapons. They're not here to give you an edge. They're here because you'll need every scrap of power just to survive what's coming."
The pause felt sharp.
"Each floor is still a story. But now, it's one written with a knife in its hand."
I muttered. "Guess it's not a story if no one bleeds."
Regret. '…Ah, crap.'
Thwack.
something flat and metal clipped me on the side of the head.
Most likely a shield.
I hit the ground with a dull thud, eyes blinking stars.
"What the fu—"
She didn't falter. "Guess the kick didn't work."
I groaned, dragging myself up. "So now we're escalating to objects?"
"For now," she said. "Next step's structural damage. Keep talking."
I rubbed the side of my head as I stood, wincing. "Pretty sure I just forgot eighth grade math."
Miyako didn't even twitch.
I dusted myself off, muttering under my breath—and that's when I saw it.
It sat in the far corner—leaning against a rack like it didn't want to be noticed.
A scythe.
Not oversized. Not cartoonish. Just… precise.
Its handle was dark, smooth metal, slightly curved. The blade hooked forward like it meant business—etched with faint marks that shimmered if you looked too long. Clean lines. No rust. No theatrics.
It didn't look like a weapon for show.
It looked like it meant something.
I stepped toward it without thinking.
Behind me, I heard Miyako shift.
"What?" I asked, not turning around.
She didn't answer right away.
Then—quietly, but with weight—"That's what caught your eye?"
I glanced back at her, then at the scythe. "Why? You hiding a warning label somewhere on it?"
Her expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed just slightly.
"It's not exactly beginner-friendly."
"Neither is getting stabbed in the chest by a barefoot psychopath," I muttered, reaching out.
She stepped closer, voice flatter now. "It's not just a weapon, Averic. That thing has history."
I paused, hand just above the grip.
"…who's?"
"I don't know," she said. "But the Plateau doesn't leave things lying around for no reason."
I glanced at the scythe, then back at her.
Of course it didn't. Nothing here was casual.
"Right," I muttered.
"So if everything's a setup… why five hundred floors?"
She wasn't eager to answer.
"Why that many? Why not fifty? Why not one big horrifying trauma arena with a finale?"
The silence held.
I raised an eyebrow. "Did someone just pick a number?"
She looked at me then—flat, steady.
"She did."
'I had to ask.'
I frowned.
"…What was the original number?"
Miyako hesitated—just for a second.
"Seven."
That landed heavier than I expected.
Seven.
Seven floors. Seven stories. Seven journies to prove something.
Now there were five hundred.
"She didn't just raise the stakes," I said quietly. "She buried them."
Miyako didn't say anything.
She just glared at me—slow, steady, like she was giving me one chance to walk it back before something flew at my head again.
I held her stare for a beat.
Then looked away.
"…Right. Not helpful. Got it."
She didn't respond. Just kept watching me.
Waiting.
The silence stretched—not heavy, just sharp enough to stick.
That's when it hit me.
I could die again.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.
Actually.
And as if she knew what I was thinking already.
Behind me, Miyako spoke—quiet, but clear.
"If you don't go… you'll die anyway."
I didn't turn around.
She kept going.
"The floors won't just wait—they'll rupture. And when they do, whatever's inside won't stay locked. It'll come here. Into the Plateau."
She paused.
"By then, it's not a challenge. It's fallout. And you won't walk away from it."
I didn't speak right away.
Just exhaled.
"Well. I did say I'd give them something to watch."
I looked at the scythe.
Still. Silent. Like it had been waiting—not for permission, but for a decision.
I stepped forward.
No delay.
I grabbed the handle.
The weight slammed down my arm like a pulse—not resistance, recognition.
The air thinned.
My stance shifted without thinking.
Feet grounded. Shoulders loose. Like my body had been here before.
Then the edge moved.
The scythe swept out low and wide, slicing air that bent to meet it.
Too far. Too smooth. Too fast for anything but instinct.
The floor cracked in a perfect arc.
And something in my chest locked into place.
{Verse 1 - Grave Reach…
Extend beyond your body. Distance is no longer safety. range and lethality shall guide your blade and greet your foes.}
I stood still, breath steady, scythe low at my side.
Behind me, Miyako didn't move.
She watched in silence, eyes unreadable.
Then—barely audible, meant for no one but herself:
"…Finally chose to fight like it's his story."