Eugene stepped cautiously out of the lantern's warm, protective glow. The air beyond felt colder than he remembered, sharp with the scent of iron and something deeper, more ancient. Syzzyzzy loomed around him, a place built of impossible darkness and shifting stone, its walls rippling subtly as if breathing in a slow, patient rhythm.

  The legs he had seen earlier were gone. When he had first spotted them, they had been lying on the ground, severed cleanly at the hips, as if the rest of the body had simply never existed. Now even they had vanished without a trace. No blood stained the ground. Only the dark, polished floor, smooth as glass, stretched out beneath him. Eugene crouched, grimacing, and ran a hand near the spot where they had been. No warmth. No lingering magic he could feel. Whatever had claimed the legs had done so quickly and silently.

  Far off, the faint clatter of hooves echoed again, a sound half muffled by the vastness of the corridors. It was impossible to tell how close it was. It might have been just around the next bend, or a mile away.

  "Should we pursue it?" came Cozimia's voice, soft and warm as a hearth fire. Her glow shimmered beside him, casting long shadows that stretched and swayed across the floor.

  "Or perhaps," said Potential, who's name was Enalia, her voice a thousand shifting notes of color, "we could wait. See what comes to find us."

  Eugene frowned. He glanced back toward the piles of treasure he had glimpsed earlier, glittering faintly in the distance. Coins, jewels, strange artifacts that shimmered with unspent spells.

  It was tempting.

  He shook his head. "No. Not now."

  Cozimia hummed approvingly. "A wise choice, sugar. Greed is a heavy chain to carry, especially here."

  Potential drifted closer, her glassy form splintering into a hundred hues before coalescing again. "Every choice narrows a path. And every path defines the traveler."

  He stood, dusting his palms off against his jeans. The sound of the hooves came again, more distinct this time. A slow, deliberate clop against stone.

  "Alright," Eugene muttered. "Let's go find out what the hell is making that noise."

  The corridor stretched out before him, long and dimly lit by the shifting ambient light of Syzzyzzy itself. Sometimes the walls looked like stone, ancient and cracked. Other times they shimmered like water or seemed to pulse with a heartbeat too deep to hear.

  As they walked, the Jennies hovered close, each occasionally offering murmured advice.

  "Stay near the edges," Cozimia suggested. "Predators love open ground."

  "Trust the ground," Potential countered, "but not too much. Here, things sometimes look sturdier than they are."

  Eugene tried to keep to a middle path, following both of their wisdoms as best he could. The floor under his sneakers sometimes felt solid, sometimes strangely soft, like treading on thick moss.

  Minutes passed. Maybe hours. It was impossible to tell.

  The first cat appeared without warning.

  It slinked out of the shadows ahead, low to the ground, its fur matted and bristling. Then another joined it. Then three more. Then six more. Soon, Eugene found himself surrounded by a small, swirling army of half-starved cats, each with sharp eyes that gleamed hungrily in the dim light.

  "Oh come on," Eugene muttered, adjusting his grip on the dagger. "Cats? Really?"

  "Not all creatures are what they seem," Cozimia warned, her glow dimming slightly as if she disapproved.

  "Nor all battles," Potential added, her colors shifting to a deep crimson, "Some foes test more than your strength."

  The cats edged closer, their bodies low and tense, teeth bared and tails whipping the air.

  "Maybe I can just scare them off," Eugene said, brandishing the dagger weakly. "Shoo! Go on, beat it!"

  One of the cats responded by lunging straight for his calf. Eugene yelped as claws raked across his leg, tearing through the fabric and leaving a burning scratch behind. Before he could react, another cat launched itself at his face, smacking him across the cheek with an outstretched paw.

  "Hey!" Eugene shouted, stumbling back. "No fair! I wasn't ready!"

  The cats took that as an invitation. They swarmed him with a chorus of yowls that sounded less like meows and more like demonic laughter.

  One tangled itself around his ankle, trying to trip him. Another clung to his backpack, batting at his head with relentless ferocity. Eugene spun in a clumsy circle, trying to shake them off, looking more like a man in a slapstick comedy than a warrior.

  "This is ridiculous," he gasped. "I'm getting mugged by cats."

  "Focus, sugar," Cozimia called encouragingly. "You gotta stand your ground."

  "Pain is a great motivator," Potential added lightly. "Perhaps embrace it."

  "Easy for you to say," Eugene muttered, swiping at the nearest cat with his dagger. He nicked one across the side. It yowled dramatically and burst into a puff of shimmering smoke.

  For a heartbeat, Eugene froze, blinking.

  "They are not alive," Potential said calmly, her voice slicing through the chaos. "They are ideas given shape."

  "Which means," Cozimia said, with a warm little chuckle, "you can defend yourself without guilt, honey."

  "Oh thank God," Eugene muttered darkly. "Because I am about to lose my damn mind."

  The swarm closed in again, and this time Eugene met them with grim determination. He swung the dagger in frantic arcs, batting them away. When they grew too thick, he tapped into his Jennie magic, feeling a hot surge of power build in his chest. Without overthinking it, he unleashed a wild burst of chaotic energy.

  The explosion of force scattered the cats like leaves in a storm. Those it touched dissolved instantly into wisps of mist, their cries fading into nothingness.

  Breathing hard, Eugene wiped the blood and sweat from his face. His arms ached. His calf burned. His dignity was somewhere back there, buried under a pile of imaginary cats.

  "You did well," Cozimia said, hovering near his shoulder.

  "You adapted," Potential agreed. "Growth is the first step to mastery."

  Hazel Fortuna, drifting lazily just above Eugene's head, gave a crooked smile. "And you got lucky, kid. But sometimes luck is just another kind of skill."

  "You adapted," Potential agreed. "Growth is the first step to mastery."

  Eugene allowed himself a shaky smile. "Yeah. Sure feels like growing."

  He took a moment to lean against the cool stone wall, gingerly pulling up the fabric of his jeans to inspect his calf. The scratch was deep enough to sting fiercely but not deep enough to bleed freely. Still, the skin around it was already inflamed and red. He grimaced, running a cautious finger near the wound.

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  "Think this is going to get infected?" he muttered.

  "Not if you keep it clean," Cozimia said, floating closer. Her light cast a soft glow over the scratch. "You got lucky, sugar."

  "A scratch earned in good cause rarely festers," Potential added, her voice shifting to a reassuring blue.

  Hazel Fortuna drifted lazily above him, grinning. "Or maybe you'll get a magical cat disease and sprout whiskers. Odds are better than you think."

  Eugene snorted and shook his head, letting the fabric fall back over the wound. "Great. Just what I need. Cat plague."

  The corridor stretched on ahead, curving slightly downward. Far in the distance, he could just make out a massive door, dark and heavy, its surface cracked open just enough to beckon him onward.

  He approached cautiously, every sense straining. The hooves sounded again, louder, nearer.

  The door loomed over him, a monolith of obsidian etched with faint symbols that shifted when he tried to focus on them. He slipped through the narrow gap, heart hammering.

  On the other side, the environment changed.

  The air grew thicker, heavier. The walls opened into a vast open plain shrouded in a thick mist. Strange shapes loomed in the distance: twisted trees, broken statues, rivers of glassy water that did not flow.

  The hoofbeats sounded again, sharper and nearer, and before Eugene could react, they surrounded him.

  Centaurs.

  But these were no ordinary centaurs. Instead of a seamless fusion of human torso and horse body, their forms were modular. Their human halves hovered a few feet above their horse bodies, connected by shimmering tendrils of magic that pulsed and flexed with every movement. The tendrils twisted and shifted, sometimes pulling the human half closer to the horse body, sometimes allowing it to drift lazily apart.

  Some of them reconfigured mid-movement, two human torsos sharing a single horse body, communicating with each other through quick, sharp gestures. Others merged horse halves together under a single human torso, creating bizarre, unsettling shapes that shifted with fluid ease.

  As Eugene would later learn, they were built, not born. Their bodies were modular constructs assembled from Syzzyzzy's magical resources, and it showed: their skin was flawless but too smooth, their horse halves etched with strange patterns that glowed faintly under the misty light.

  One of them—a towering figure with a long braided beard and arms crossed over his chest—floated forward, the tendrils between his halves glowing brighter.

  He raised a spear of bone and starmetal and pointed it at Eugene.

  "Aw you fwom the Above?" he asked, his voice softer than Eugene expected, almost musical despite the way the words twisted oddly in his mouth, like he could not quite form his 'r's.

  "Do you mean from not here? Inside Krungus' prison?" Eugene asked.

  The centaur leader’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Fwom the pwison, yeh. You awe... diffewent.”

  “I guess you could say that,” Eugene said carefully. “I am twying to get back to the city.”

  The centaur shifted, his human torso hovering closer on a glowing tendril. “The City... it stiww stands?”

  “As far as I know,” Eugene said. “It’s, uh, not in great shape though.”

  Soft murmurs rippled through the other centaurs. One with two torsos sharing a horse body tilted his head. “You awe not like the othews fwom Above. You awe smaww... soft.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Eugene muttered.

  “Softness is not weakness,” another said, his voice like a slow drumbeat. “It is... bendabwe.”

  “What awe you seeking hewe?” asked the leader.

  “A way back,” Eugene said. “And maybe some answers.”

  “There awe answews in Syzzyzzy,” the leader said, his voice growing softer still. “But they bite.”

  “I am noticing that,” Eugene said, rubbing his scratched leg.

  The centaur closest to him leaned in, his tendril shimmering brighter. “You fought the shades.”

  “The cats?” Eugene asked.

  A ripple of mirth passed through them. “We caww them sha'weaves,” said the leader. “The fiwst twaps. You suwvived.”

  “Barely,” Eugene muttered.

  “That is enough,” the leader said. “In Syzzyzzy, suwvivaw is pwogwess.”

  Eugene hesitated, then asked, “So, can you show me the way back?”

  The centaurs exchanged looks, tendrils weaving a brief web between them before pulling apart.

  “Pewhaps,” the leader said. “But you must weawn ow you wiww pewish.”

  “I am open to leawning,” Eugene said quickly, not meaning to mimic the centaur's speech impediment.

  The leader’s chest swelled with a slow breath. “Then come, smaww wawwock. Twavew with us. We wiww show you what can be weawned... if you awe bwave enough."

  Cozimia's lantern-light brightened slightly, her voice low but firm. "Sugar, we should be cautious. These folk are strange, even for something Krungus is responsible for."

  Potential shimmered beside her, her tones sharper now. "Their magic is modular. That suggests adaptability, yes—but also unpredictability."

  Hazel Fortuna twirled lazily overhead, grinning. "Or maybe they just like to share. Odds are, they are as lost in this place as we are."

  The centaur leader noticed the Jennies at Eugene's side and tilted his head. "You twavel with shining spiwits?"

  "Something like that," Eugene said carefully.

  One of the other centaurs—a smaller one, his human torso delicate and wiry—nodded eagerly. "Ouw peopwe once twied to bind the wight. It made them... unwhowe."

  "We know bettew now," another said. "The wight chooses."

  Cozimia hummed softly in Eugene's ear. "At least they are respectful."

  "Skepticism is still wise," Potential murmured.

  The centaur leader smiled—a soft, odd expression on his smooth, too-perfect face. "I am Wobewt. You awe safe... if you stay twue."

  Eugene took a breath, nodded once. "Alright, Wobewt. Let's see what you have to teach."

  The centaurs formed a loose ring around Eugene and began to move, their modular bodies shifting and reconfiguring with casual grace as they led him deeper into Syzzyzzy. The corridors twisted and stretched into impossible angles, the walls breathing faintly as if the entire structure were alive.

  Eugene kept pace, wary but curious, the Jennies drifting around him like cautious stars.

  They passed archways framed by twisted iron and glass, long halls tiled with cracked, mirror-like stone that reflected broken images of the travelers. The hoofbeats of the centaurs echoed strangely, sometimes ahead of them, sometimes behind, despite their steady pace.

  After what felt like hours, they came to a massive set of double doors made of some dark, smooth material. Without a word, Wobewt pushed them open, and they stepped into a vast chamber.

  It was a trophy room. Eugene could tell at once.

  Portraits lined the walls, each painted in masterful detail. They depicted a younger Krungus, vibrant and proud, standing with a group of other figures—The Number. Some portraits showed them laughing, others standing solemnly in formal robes, some mid-battle, their faces caught in fierce determination.

  Beneath the portraits rested artifacts: a cracked staff humming with old magic, a battered shield etched with hundreds of tiny runes, rings that still flickered faintly with spells, and strange devices whose purposes Eugene could only guess at.

  Cozimia hovered closer to a portrait where Krungus had an arm slung casually around a broad-shouldered minotaur. "He looks so young here, sugar."

  Potential's light dimmed slightly, her voice thoughtful. "Before the fall. Before he was caged."

  Hazel Fortuna tilted her head, eyeing a golden amulet suspended above a plinth. "Lot of fate tangled up in this room. Lot of unfinished stories."

  Eugene stepped forward, feeling the weight of history pressing in from all sides. His gaze caught on one portrait in particular—Krungus and Utopianna standing side by side. They both looked so young, so full of life, their faces lit with genuine happiness. It must have been painted over nine thousand years ago, before everything fell apart.

  Eugene lingered, staring at their smiling faces. He wondered where Krungus might be now, and whether that kind of happiness still lived somewhere deep inside him, buried under all the scars of time and betrayal.

  The centaurs barely glanced at the portraits, their eyes passing over the relics with the familiarity of those who had seen them many times before. Instead, they all moved toward a large circle of runes inscribed into the ground near the far wall.

  Wobewt turned and motioned for Eugene to join them. "This is the way to the safe pwace," he said.

  Eugene hesitated, glancing back at the relics—the tangible fragments of a history he barely understood—then hurried after them.

  Standing together within the rune circle, the centaurs waited as Wobewt lifted his spear and began to chant. His voice fell into a rhythmic, sing-song cadence, and it was clear, even through the softened "w" sounds, that the rhyme had been crafted by Krungus himself.

  "Wound and weave, Fold and feew, Open the doow To what is weaw."

  The runes flared to life beneath them, casting pale light up their bodies. The air thickened, crackling with energy. The ground seemed to fall away, and in an instant, they were no longer standing in the trophy room at all.

  They found themselves in a massive cavern, so large that the ceiling was lost in shadow. At the center of the cavern stood an enormous pillar of stone, its surface jagged and ancient, rising high into the darkness. From where they stood, a bridge of woven stone and light extended toward the top of the pillar, inviting them forward.

  Below the pillar, spread out on all sides, was a sprawling camp. Tents stitched from strange fabrics, cooking fires that burned with blue flames, and modular shelters pieced together from scavenged stone and bone created a bustling, chaotic community. Centaurs—in dozens of shifting, reconfigurable forms—moved through the camp, some tending to glowing fields, others sparring or trading goods.

  Wobewt gestured toward the bridge. "Come. Aww of this is the safe pwace. But above is whewe the heawt dwums stwongest."