The war room was quiet but tense. The long wooden table was covered in scattered papers, aged city records, and freshly inked notes. Qlaark stood at the head of it, his hands resting on the edge as he surveyed the gathered faces.

  Krungus, hunched over with an amused smirk, adjusted his red-lensed glasses, his white robes billowing slightly even in the still air. Beside him, Utopianna sat with her hands folded, her floral-print robes pooling around her as she studied the documents with an eerie calm, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders. Her bright eyes flickered with the depth of centuries of thought, weighing the gravity of what was about to be said.

  Brenna, the paladin captain, leaned against the back of her chair, arms crossed, her short auburn hair barely shifting as she kept a steady, scrutinizing gaze on Qlaark. Next to her, Rent, still adjusting to his newfound strength as a paladin, looked eager but nervous, his fingers drumming against his armored knee. Griddle, ever the rigid enforcer, sat stiff-backed, his expression skeptical, his thick arms folded over his broad chest like a judge awaiting testimony.

  Eugene slumped lazily in his chair, boots kicked up on an empty section of the table, arms crossed as he watched Qlaark with a raised brow, his perpetual cowlick only adding to his air of casual detachment. But his eyes were sharp—listening, calculating.

  B’doom sat near the edge of the table, his massive loxodon frame making the chair beneath him groan, his trunk idly tapping against the wood as he mulled over Qlaark’s words. Bahumbus, in contrast, was perched on the arm of a chair, fidgeting with a small mechanical contraption, his eyes darting between the device and the conversation, a smirk never far from his face. They had all gathered here because they knew something was wrong. They just hadn’t expected Qlaark to confirm their worst suspicions.

  "We've all heard the stories," Qlaark began, his voice steady but firm. "The Thirteen Obelisks. The shadow council that has ruled this city from behind the curtain. The true power, hidden beyond reach. But until now, it's always been rumor. Conspiracy. Something whispered in dark corners."

  He exhaled, then slid a series of aged documents forward, the yellowed parchment etched with careful, deliberate handwriting. "I found proof."

  That got their attention.

  Brenna, arms crossed, leaned forward. "Real proof?" The Paladins exchanged glances, skeptical but intrigued.

  "Yes," Qlaark confirmed. "Every policy shift, every collapse of a guild, every convenient disaster—traced back to them. Their influence is woven into the city's history like an unbroken thread. Whenever a leader rose, they either bowed to the Obelisks or they fell. Whenever a trade route flourished, it was because they allowed it. Every rebellion that sputtered out before it could burn? Snuffed by hands no one ever saw."

  He exhaled, eyes scanning the room, letting the weight of his words settle. "For centuries, the City has lived under their rule without ever seeing their faces. They exist in whispers, in ledgers, in decrees signed by hands that were never theirs. They are ghosts, yet their will has shaped every law, every fortune, every famine."

  He ruffled his feathers in thought, his voice quieter now. "But something didn't add up. The records I found don’t just prove they exist. They prove something much worse."

  He hesitated, fingers tapping against the table. The second revelation was harder to say, because it upended everything even he had believed.

  "The Obelisks aren’t real."

  A murmur of confusion swept through the room.

  "What do you mean?" Eugene asked, frowning. "You just said—"

  "They’re not real in the way we thought," Qlaark clarified. "There’s no council of thirteen. That’s the lie. The distraction. The truth is—there’s only one. One person has orchestrated every shift in this city’s history. One mind, shaping the laws, the trade routes, the rulers. The Obelisks were a mask. The real power has always been singular."

  Silence.

  Then, before anyone else could react, Utopianna inhaled sharply. Her face went pale, her fingers pressing against the table. Krungus, across from her, exhaled a short, knowing laugh.

  "Well, well," Krungus muttered. "The old bastard."

  Brenna’s brows furrowed. "You know who it is?"

  Krungus turned his red-lensed gaze toward her, the grin fading into something sharper. "Oh, we know. We just didn’t think he was still playing."

  Utopianna’s voice was quiet but unwavering. "It’s Sharrzaman."

  That sent the room into an uproar.

  "That’s impossible," Griddle spat. "Sharrzaman disappeared ages ago!"

  Krungus let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Oh, listen to this one," he said, waving a hand toward Griddle. "A kid who thinks he knows how time works. How old are you, boy? A few decades? Do you really think you'd be the first to make that assumption?" He leaned forward, his red-lensed glasses catching the candlelight. "Sharrzaman doesn’t disappear. He steps sideways. And if you think he’s gone, it’s because he wants you to think that."

  "Disappeared," Krungus echoed mockingly. "No, no, he didn’t disappear. He just got smarter about hiding his hand."

  Bahumbus, who had been quiet until now, let out a short laugh. "Oh, he’s back, alright." He leaned forward, setting aside the small mechanical contraption he’d been fiddling with. "I noticed some odd disruptions in the Weave defenses of the City. Nothing obvious, but the kind of thing that makes your skin crawl if you know what to look for. And it had his stink all over it."

  Krungus narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Disruptions? Be specific, Bahumbus. What exactly did you see when you were working on the City's defenses?"

  Bahumbus exhaled, shaking his head. "It started when I activated some pylons. The ley lines reacted like they should—power surged, the map of the city lit up, everything was normal. Then, for just a moment, the entire thing blacked out. The lights dimmed, and I felt it—a pulse, like something deep underground had just exhaled."

  He glanced around the table. "Then came the noise—metal shrieking, like gears grinding against time itself. The ley lines buckled, collapsed, then snapped back into place—but something was left behind. A glyph. A twisted, fractal thing, burning red in the heart of the pylon’s projection."

  He drummed his fingers on the table. "Reg-E scanned it—said it was chronomantic, but corrupted, inconsistent with standard time magic. It kept shifting, rewriting itself, like it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Reg-E tried to decrypt it. I stopped him."

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  Krungus frowned. "Why?"

  "Because some things rot your core," Bahumbus said flatly. "The way it folded over itself—I've seen things like it before, but never this bad. Even Reg-E hesitated. I wiped it from the system before it could infect anything else."

  He leaned back, pulling out his pocket watch, its backward ticking filling the quiet. "Someone was inside the system before I ever touched it. Sharrzaman didn’t just leave a mark—he’s watching. And now he knows someone’s looking back."

  Eugene groaned, rubbing his temples. "So let me get this straight. The same guy who locked Krungus in a box for nine thousand years has also been running the entire city in secret?"

  "Not running it," Utopianna corrected. "Shaping it. Every major shift, every dynasty, every economy shift—it was him."

  Qlaark still looked shaken. "But how? He’s not a god. He’s just a wizard."

  "Exactly," Krungus said. "And he’s not omniscient. He doesn’t see all of time, no. But he knows how to use time. He rewinds when things go wrong. He loops conversations until he gets what he wants. He doesn’t predict the future—he edits the past."

  Eugene’s eyes widened slightly. "So if he doesn’t like how things are going, he just... rewinds?"

  Krungus nodded. "Think of it like a chess match where he can take back moves, but only his own."

  Brenna’s jaw tightened. "That means every attempt to unseat him, every rebellion, every failed resistance—"

  "—was likely undone before it even began," Utopianna finished.

  A heavy silence settled over the room. It was one thing to fight corruption. It was another to fight a man who could erase your victories.

  "So how do we beat someone like that?" Qlaark asked finally.

  Krungus glanced at Utopianna, and for the first time in the meeting, a slow, wicked grin crept across his face.

  "We break the rules."

  Eugene frowned. "You’re talking about non-Weave magic, aren’t you?"

  "Bingo, kid," Krungus said. "Sharrzaman relies on the Weave. But you? He can’t see you coming. You exist outside his game."

  The others turned to Eugene. He groaned. "Why is it always me?" Then, after a pause, he frowned. "Wait—why wouldn’t Sharrzaman know about the Jennies? If he’s been manipulating the City for centuries, wouldn’t he have encountered them before? Wouldn’t he have taken precautions against their influence?"

  "Because you," Krungus said, "are the first thing in centuries that he hasn’t already accounted for." He leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. "You asked why he wouldn’t know about the Jennies? Because he’s blind to them. Sharrzaman built his empire through the Weave, bending time and law through magic that follows predictable patterns. The Jennies don’t. They exist outside of it, like ink on a page he can’t read. He doesn’t control them because he never could."

  Qlaark exhaled, steadying himself. "Then we move before he realizes we know. We start pulling at the seams, looking for weaknesses."

  He hesitated for a moment, then glanced around the table. "But tell me this—do we really believe Null had nothing to do with Sharrzaman? If he’s in control of so much, if he’s been manipulating everything for centuries, how could Null have attacked the City without him noticing? Did he allow it? Or did he set it into motion?"

  Krungus snorted, adjusting his glasses. "Now that's the right question. Sharrzaman isn’t omnipotent, but he’s not careless either. If Null disrupted things, it wasn’t because he overlooked them—it’s because he saw some use in letting it happen. Maybe he wanted the city weakened. Maybe he saw a bigger opportunity in the aftermath. Or maybe, just maybe, Null wasn’t entirely acting alone." He leaned forward, fingers steepling. "Wouldn’t be the first time Sharrzaman's moved pieces around just to see how they fall."

  As the group prepared to disperse, Eugene leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the table. "We should start holding these meetings in the Hearth," he suggested. "Sharrzaman shouldn't be able to trace anything that happens there. If he relies on the Weave to spy on us, the Hearth might disrupt or deter some of his more subtle magics."

  Krungus nodded, considering the idea. "That could work. It’s a place outside normal magical influences. That alone gives us an edge."

  Brenna exhaled, glancing at the others. "Then it’s settled. Our next move happens from a place he can’t reach."

  Bahumbus, who had been quietly tinkering with his device, finally spoke up. "Hold on a second. If we’re all inside the Hearth, what’s stopping someone from attacking the lantern while we’re not guarding it? We could be walking right into a trap."

  Utopianna smiled, serene and assured. "That won’t be a problem," she said, lifting a hand and conjuring a gentle, shimmering light above her palm. "I can weave protective wards around it—deep illusions, layered enchantments. To any outside eyes, it will be nothing more than a forgotten relic, buried beneath the city’s dust and decay. No one will find it unless I allow them to."

  Krungus nodded approvingly. "That settles it, then. The Hearth will be our stronghold."

  B’doom, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat, his deep voice rumbling through the chamber. "Before we move on, there's something else I need to bring up. The Shroom Zoo."

  Krungus tilted his head. "What about it?"

  B’doom folded his massive arms over his chest. "I don’t think it’s a threat, but something is happening there. The fungal networks are… changing. Becoming aware. I’ve seen Myconids develop intelligence before, but this is different. It’s not just a single entity—it’s the whole network. It’s learning."

  Utopianna’s eyes sharpened with interest. "You think it’s sentient? Truly sentient?"

  B’doom nodded. "Not just a little. If I’m right, it’s something new—something we’ve never seen before. And I don’t think we should ignore it. If it’s growing, thinking, becoming something else, then it needs to be monitored. More than that—it needs to be guided."

  Bahumbus chuckled, shaking his head. "You want to teach the mushrooms? Make yourself king of the fungi?"

  B’doom ignored the jab. "I want to see what it can become. If this intelligence keeps evolving, we could be witnessing the birth of an entirely new race of Myconids. Or something even stranger. The research implications alone are worth it."

  Krungus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So you’re saying, while the rest of us deal with a time-warping bastard ruling the city, you’re going to go teach philosophy to the mushrooms?"

  B’doom met his gaze evenly. "I’m saying that if this is a new lifeform, it deserves to be understood. Not feared. Not destroyed. If it can think, it can choose. And if it can choose, it can be an ally."

  A moment of silence passed before Utopianna nodded. "Then it’s decided. You will observe, study, and guide it as best you can. But if anything about it turns dangerous… you tell us immediately."

  B’doom gave a slow nod. "Agreed."

  Krungus sighed, rubbing his temples. "Great. We’re toppling a shadow empire, fighting an immortal wizard, and now we’ve got a mushroom uprising in the works. It’s going to be a hell of a week."

  B’doom exhaled, his trunk curling slightly in thought. "If I had the choice, I’d ask the Lord of Decay about this. If anyone would know what’s happening to the fungal network, it’d be him. But, of course, that’s not possible—seeing as Krungus banished him from his own plane, and no one's seen him since."

  Krungus snorted, clearly unbothered. "Oh yes, let’s go asking eldritch entities their opinions. That’s always worked out well."

  "Hypothetically," B’doom continued, ignoring him, "these mushrooms exist outside his domain. I planted the original spores myself. This intelligence—whatever it is—it’s not part of the natural order of decay. It’s something else. Something new."

  Utopianna’s expression turned thoughtful. "Then it truly is a blank slate. Untouched by old influences, free to evolve as it wills."

  B’doom nodded. "Which is why I should be studying it. Teaching it. Guiding it. If this is the start of something greater—if these fungal networks are truly becoming something beyond what we've ever seen—it’s my responsibility to ensure they become something worthwhile. We may be watching the birth of a new race, and I don’t intend to let that slip through our fingers."

  Krungus sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine. Go talk to your mushrooms. Just try not to let them form a death cult while you're at it."

  B’doom gave a small smile. "That’s the idea."

  The discussion continued, the weight of new possibilities settling over the room. The fight against Sharrzaman was only one battle in a world that refused to stop changing.