The ruin didn’t give him a warning this ti. The insects broke their lazy circles in midair and scattered as if a hand had brushed them away.
The sound they made was thin but sharp, a pitch that cut through the damp quiet of the courtyard. His boots felt it before his ears did.
A faint tremor ran through the stone, not enough to throw him, but enough to whisper a ssage into the bones of his heels.
He turned his head, eyes flicking left, then up, and he caught it—the courtyard wall bulging outward, swelling like a throat taking breath.
The stone split, sounding like teeth grinding. Moss tore free in green strips, falling like wet cloth.
From a crack that had not existed a heartbeat ago, an armored shape began to uncoil. Snake, but not the small kind you kill with a hoe and a mont of luck.
This was the old kind, the story kind. A body layered in plates that had grown thick where a blade was expected to be thin.
A head too heavy for a natural coil, jaw set like a hinge made for crushing doors. Its eyes were pale coins pressed into a skull that didn’t need them; it could sll him well enough.
It slid out of the wall with patience, then surrendered to gravity. The body dropped with a thud that made the dust leap into the air, and the insects answered by drawing an annoyed ring around its head.
The plates along their length bore hairline fractures, which were old repairs, and scars from previous tests.
This wasn’t its first call. It lived here the way a bell lives in a tower, hung silently until needed, and rang loudly when summoned.
"Alright," he said, jaw loose, breath even. "Hello."
The head whipped toward him, fast as a striking whip. He moved, not with panic, but with precision.
The first strike tore moss from the wall and took a slice of stone where his chest had been a mont earlier.
He let his breath go the way a string leaves a bow—no rush, no waste, only motion. He didn’t try to circle it yet. Tails ruin plans. Always test the tail.
The tail followed the head, heavy and deliberate, swinging like a door closing. It clipped the edge of the sunken stair, chipping stone.
The chip spun away like a bright little bird. He tracked it without looking straight at it. The panel behind his thoughts blinked twice in the steady pattern he knew: count, place, breathe.
He did all three. Then he cut.
The knife struck the plate and skated. He expected that. He didn’t curse. He shifted his grip, adjusted his stance.
The belly showed a seam when the body shifted from twist to thrust—thin enough to tempt him, thick enough to punish laziness.
He crouched, slid, and let the ground argue beneath him. The moss gave, then caught him. He didn’t fight it; he used it.
He set the blade where the seam would be and let the snake decide.
It t him, but not foolishly. The last inch twisted, plates flexing in a way the sim’s designer must have been proud of.
Detail like that isn’t wasted; they teach. His blade bit, then skittered off, taking only a strip instead of depth.
The snake hissed. Not pain, not yet. It was the hiss of a body realizing hands were studying it.
"Fine," he muttered, slipping out of the half-coil that tried to pen him in. He gave it space to write its second loop.
Honest weight. Honest danger. His shoulder didn’t like it—still owed him pain from that earlier hit—but nas kept his grip steady. Hand. Knife. Feet.
The head struck again, not straight, but with a sway first, a feint ant to drag overcommitnt.
He didn’t bite. He let it miss. He braced one palm on cold stone, grounding himself. His weight belonged to the floor, not to the idea of where he should be.
The tail swept, wide and brutal. He jumped—not high, never high, just enough. The tip grazed the sole of his boot. If he had tried to be pretty, it would have sent him spinning.
The insects circled again. Their faint glow picked out a crack near the base of the skull—not just surface damage. He filed it away, a rumor waiting for proof.
The snake coiled tighter. Beneath the courtyard, the pump shifted rhythm, and the thrum changed from steady to ready.
If the sim chose to flood, this bowl would fill fast, and he’d be swimming with boots on. He didn’t plan for a flood, not yet. Ten heartbeats ahead. That was his horizon.
He stepped left, offering it a target just a fraction closer than he was. A smudge of sound, a shift of heat. The head lunged for the bait.
Missed. He cut for the seam again. The knife shaved, not sunk. He grunted, drove his shoulder into it, an ugly push any good teacher would nod at. He wanted depth.
He got a line. The snake twisted, half-circling him, trying to trap him. He tasted tal in the air. The pump was telling the system to add water.
He breathed out. Nad exits. Mapped space. And then—
"Hey," said his system, bright as a coin dropped into a quiet room. "Rember all those coins you’ve been stockpiling? Or were you planning to hoard them like a dragon until graduation?"
He almost laughed, almost tripped, and did neither. His head lunged harder for his distraction.
He dodged and let his annoyance stay smaller than his feet. "Now," he hissed, "you pick now."
"You went all silent monk on ," the system said, cheerful, sharp. "Figured I’d tap the glass before you started counting bugs into constellations.
Also, pro tip: your romantic stamina and your combat stamina are tracked on different spreadsheets. Want to cross-train them?"
He deflected the strike and put his free hand against the wall for balance. "Romantic what?" he said flatly, while the tail scissored the air where his knee had been. "You’ve been quiet for weeks."
"It’s called letting you grow a personality," the system chirped. "Also, you get cranky if I narrate every breath. Anyway—coins. The shop’s open. You got options."
"During a fight." His blade scraped across another seam, sparks flying, sweat sliding down his temple.
"Best ti!" the system said, chipper as ever. "High stakes, adrenaline high, wallet open. Look, you’re not getting another clean crack at that plate without help.
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