Chapter 19: Castle

  When the golden gas dissipated, the world changed the stage.

  There was no longer a fractal city, no ruins, no impossible craters. Instead, they all found themselves standing before the entrance of a castle so ridiculously massive it was almost offensive.

  A monstrosity of the highest engineering.

  The walls rose until they vanished into a golden haze. Every block gleamed as if it had been hand-polished by some bored god: pure gold, inlaid with materials no human record recognized. They didn’t look like stone or metal; they were something in-between—something their conceptual sensors tagged as “indestructible” and, at the same time, “excessive.”

  The main doors were dozens of meters tall. They bore bas-reliefs of battles that never happened, statues of Dinamo from top to bottom, and at the center, the symbol everyone knew: a four-toothed gear, with four alternating teeth stretched into elongated hooks, like scythes.

  Dinamo’s mark.

  The silence lasted only an instant.

  A huge screen appeared in the air, in front of the gate. It didn’t materialize—it simply was there. It showed up like a late memory, as if the universe suddenly remembered there was supposed to be a screen.

  On it, Dinamo watched them from a throne.

  It wasn’t his usual long coat, nor his ever-present gaudy gold. Now he was dressed like a Roman emperor who had started taking himself far too seriously: an immaculate white tunic, a purple cloak trimmed in gold—only a crown was missing to adorn his blond hair. The throne looked carved from a single block of solidified light, flanked by impossible marble columns. Everything was golden.

  He sat with one leg draped over an armrest, cheek resting on his hand, wearing the expression of satisfied boredom. A goblet in hand.

  —Welcome to the second act, —he greeted with a calm smile—. I’m glad you enjoyed the little prologue… even if some of you had a bit of a rough time, huh?

  He winked toward Dimitri, who answered by clenching his jaw.

  The robot commentator popped into a corner of the broadcast, framed by needlessly flashy graphics.

  —AND SO, DEAR VIEWERS FROM ALL EXISTENTIAL PLANES! —its voice boomed—. OUR BELOVED DIRECTOR, PRODUCER, SCREENWRITER, PROTAGONIST AND ANTAGONIST PRESENTS STAGE TWO! PLEASE HOLD YOUR APPLAUSE SO YOU DON’T BREAK MORE DIMENSIONS THAN NECESSARY!

  Dinamo ignored the comment.

  —This, —he said, spreading his arms— is my castle. I prepared it especially for you. Well… for me. But you’ll be visiting for a while, so I guess that counts as hospitality.

  The camera pulled back slightly within the same image, briefly showing a slice of the interior: endless corridors, staircases crossing at absurd angles, doors suspended in midair, and balconies with no floor beneath them.

  —The rules are simple, —he continued—: you have to reach the throne room, where I am right now. That’s it. Walk, climb, survive. Easy. Even a child could understand it.

  He settled deeper into the throne, like he was preparing a speech he’d already rehearsed.

  —Of course, it wouldn’t be very fun if it were just a tourist stroll. So… you’ll have some obstacles. Labyrinths. Traps. Loose concepts. A thing or two I left lying around because I couldn’t be bothered to clean up.

  The commentator vibrated with excitement.

  —YOU HEARD IT, BELOVED AUDIENCE! LABYRINTHS, TRAPS, SURPRISES, AND FORGOTTEN CONCEPTUAL TRASH LEFT BEHIND BY A CARELESS GOD! A COMBO NO LIFE INSURANCE POLICY COVERS!

  —Ah, I almost forgot, —Dinamo added, snapping his fingers—. There will be guards all over the castle.

  Behind him, brief golden shadows took form and dissolved again into the background of the throne.

  —Versions of me, —he clarified casually—. Cheap copies, so to speak. Relatively useless right now, but it would be a mistake to underestimate them. It would be an insult to my good taste.

  His smile sharpened—colder.

  —Their power will increase with every minute that passes. The longer you take to get here, the closer they’ll get to something that can break your spirit in… interesting ways. So you’d better hurry.

  Every Rank 10 felt the emphasis in that sentence. It wasn’t hyperbole: the conceptual growth of those copies was real.

  —Oh, and one last thing, —he added, raising a hand—. I truly recommend you advance on your own. You don’t want to make me come looking for you.

  He said it with that genuine calm that made his threats so much worse.

  The screen trembled for a second. The commentator leaned in.

  —WHAT MAGNANIMITY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! A GOD WHO DEIGNS TO SEND RECYCLABLE CLONES INSTEAD OF RIPPING YOUR HEADS OFF PERSONALLY FROM MINUTE ONE! NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL PREMIUM CUSTOMER SERVICE!

  Dinamo glanced sideways at it.

  —Have fun, —he concluded—. And please, don’t disappoint the audience.

  The transmission cut.

  The enormous screen broke apart into a rain of golden pixels that vanished before touching the ground. At the same time, the castle doors released a deep creak—not mechanical, but conceptual. An echo you didn’t need ears to feel.

  A strange ambient soundtrack began to drift from the entrance. An instrumental mix of organs, harps, lute, and bells, with soft Gregorian chants. It wasn’t loud enough to overwhelm—if anything, it was a little relaxing. Calm.

  It felt like the entrance to a video game. Even Hanami got a few ideas from it, but she kept them to herself. Not the moment.

  Katherine didn’t waste time.

  Her aura expanded just enough to link her people. Clean telepathy—direct, unadorned.

  It was time to set their plans in motion and adapt.

  “—Eoin. Start. Now.”

  Eoin wasn’t physically there.

  His body was in a narrow subspace embedded in reality like a wedge: between the castle and something that shouldn’t exist. A crack of pure shadow, compressed.

  On his knees, surrounded by dark summoning circles, he breathed calmly. Around him floated fragments of technology from the dome they were in—his home.

  Remnants of all kinds of tech, unintelligible to him. Luckily, his job wasn’t managing it.

  His appearance had changed. The shadows seemed to wrap him, concentrated at a single point. A patch over his left eye—made of darkness.

  His imposing physique had changed too. He still had his height, but now he looked withered. No muscles—just an old man with one foot in the grave.

  A long beard accompanied rust-gray hair. Frost contrasted against his worn tunic and ragged clothes—leather and wool.

  Two ravens stood watch, and a spear to command the specters around him.

  The spirits of his Wild Hunt were already ready, waiting.

  Hunting dogs—bloodhounds poised for their master’s order, ready to march into a new hunt. And they weren’t the only ones: shadow riders accompanied them and led them. Rusted armor, weapons in decay. The lack of eyes didn’t make their search for prey any less certain.

  The horses were shadow-forms of the same kind, breathing a sickly black miasma from their nostrils.

  But they all shared the same thing: black carapaces.

  Eoin had spent all that “rest” time summoning them and fusing them with that technology—trying to make the fusion as invisible as possible. They wanted to catch Dinamo by surprise.

  “—I’ve seen it, Director,” he replied, his confident voice resonating in Katherine’s mind. “Releasing squads. I’ll start from the upper levels. I’ll look for routes, traps, and clone concentrations.”

  The shadows slid into the walls of the subspace and passed through without resistance—beginning a thunderous march throughout the entire castle. Traps, clones, even the walls themselves couldn’t hold them back. They went through everything like ghosts.

  Dinamo hadn’t anticipated entities with intangible capabilities. Now it was too late to alter the castle—doing that would ruin the game.

  Katherine felt a new map begin to sketch itself in the back of her mind: lines, nodes, dead zones. The information Eoin gathered arrived in a cascade, giving her a broad picture of the best route to take.

  “—Priority: find the shortest path possible with minimal interference to the throne room. Also distract guards and mark points of interest,” she added.

  “—Understood, Director,” he replied, shifting into a more professional tone. “If I see something interesting, I’ll mark it in red.”

  The link cut. First card played.

  Katherine stepped forward. Her voice rang out clear—no telepathy this time.

  —Caetano. Second phase.

  The man turned his head to her. Keeping his composure, he asked:

  —Are you sure, my lady?

  —Lift the restrictions on Dimitri.

  A moment of silence.

  Baek looked away toward Dimitri, calculating. Irina frowned. Yehiel blinked several times, confused.

  —“Lift”… what, exactly? —asked the horned messenger, with genuine curiosity.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  No one bothered answering. Dimitri was already smiling, eyes shot through with contained rage.

  —Isn’t it too early for that? —Caetano insisted—. We still have time. We could—

  —Stop wasting time with stupidities, —Dimitri cut in, stepping closer—. I want that bastard’s head. I want to avenge Seo. I want to avenge my people. My home. Release it now, or I’ll tear you into pieces.

  The words landed heavy. The silence thickened for an instant. Katherine didn’t avert her gaze, but she noticed the faint—almost imperceptible—tremor in the conceptual bracelet on her wrist.

  Caetano exhaled. He knew that once Dimitri’s Trait was activated, there would be no going back.

  —Before anything else… The silence of cowards —he said, extending a hand toward Dimitri. His aura exploded outward.

  A slight distortion swept through space. It wasn’t visible; it was more like a sensation: the world “rearranged” itself around those present. Concepts like “presence,” “scent,” “sound,” and “conceptual signature” slid away from Dimitri and did not return.

  —Done, —Caetano reported—. From now on, Dimitri won’t be able to perceive our existence. So avoid getting in his way during the battle. To him, we are now background noise.

  He looked at Dimitri one last time.

  —I’m sorry, —he said, sincerely—. In advance.

  —I don’t need your pity, monk, —Dimitri mocked, showing his fangs—. Just stay out of my way.

  Caetano didn’t respond. He only inhaled and let it out slowly.

  Then, he let the last chain fall.

  —My chains are long. Trait released… farewell forever, Dimitri. —With that final sentence, Caetano said goodbye to one of his most reliable men.

  The anger didn’t come like an explosion; it came like a tide overflowing.

  Dimitri growled first. Then his muscles began to swell as if they were breathing. Skin stretched, veins rose, bones crackled. His conceptual combat armor shattered before it could adapt to the new volume.

  His aura became dense—thick, red. It wasn’t a clean flame; it was a badly controlled fire. The world around him complained.

  His eyes lost all humanity. The only thing left to read in them was: hatred.

  Katherine calculated the acceptable loss of control and chose not to think too hard.

  Then a sing-song voice cut through the tension.

  —Over here, redhead.

  Hanami appeared right at the edge of the safe zone, standing atop the railing of a side staircase. Her pink hair, tied into twin tails, swayed with a gravity that respected no law, and her ninjatō rested on her shoulder like it weighed nothing.

  She winked at Dimitri.

  —If you go in a straight line, you’ll break the castle before you find the boss. Come with me and I’ll show you the most fun route.

  Dimitri answered with a roar that didn’t need words.

  His body—now colossal—took its first step. The ground sank, the castle’s seams groaned, the walls trembled. Each footfall was a conceptual hammerblow.

  Hanami laughed.

  —That’s it, that’s it. Follow fabulous Hanami-chan! —She hopped backward, vanished in an explosion of red petals, and reappeared farther ahead on one of the interior balconies that had just opened by nobody’s order.

  Without looking away, the race started

  While the thundering footsteps of Dimitri faded into the distance—indiscriminately destroying walls, staircases, and the occasional guard-clone foolish enough to cross his path—the rest of them stood still for a couple of moments.

  Katherine felt the clock advancing.

  “A quarter of the available time,” she calculated. “And I’ve already played two of the heavy cards I have.”

  She hoped she wasn’t wrong.

  —We’re taking another route, —she said, turning to the others—. We don’t need subtlety, but we do need efficiency. Eoin will open us a workable path.

  The group moved toward the main gate as the castle finished opening its mouth. This was a game, and for now they would have to follow the rules.

  Somewhere in the castle, the commentator took back control of the spectacle.

  The screen reappeared—this time in multiple places—floating over the castle’s golden sea. Civilians still watching the broadcast from distant domes saw the robot take center frame.

  —And we’re back, my esteemed conscious and semi-conscious beings! —its voice sounded even more euphoric—. Our glorious host has transformed what was left of the city into a theme park of despair. For your convenience, I’ve split the transmission into three main channels.

  The screen divided into three sections.

  In the first, there was only moving darkness.

  The camera adjusted and managed to focus on several black creatures slipping between columns, ceilings, and impossible gaps within the castle. They were the shadows of a phantom cavalry. The crash of hooves and the clinking of black carapaces gave them a chilling vibe. They ran all across the castle, drawing a map as they completed their search.

  The guards—Dinamo’s copies—tried to stop their advance, but their attempts were futile. None of their attacks seemed to have any effect on the ghostly summons.

  Every time one of the shadow spirits passed nearby, their sensors added one more line to the conceptual map Eoin was building.

  —In channel one, —the commentator announced— we have our mysterious shadow-friend deploying a comforting plague of zombie spies into every corner. If you thought paranoia couldn’t get worse, wait until the walls start having eyes too! Ugh—terrifying.

  In the second section, the show was far less subtle.

  Hanami sprinted through a massive corridor decorated with gold columns and statues of Dinamo in ridiculously heroic poses. Her pink figure barely touched the ground; she sprang from railing to railing, crashed through windows, vanished into a cloud of petals, and reappeared in absurd positions.

  Behind her—Dimitri.

  The berserker Trait had turned him into a mass of muscle and raw conceptual power. Every step made a crater. Every punch tore chunks of “indestructible material” out of the walls—chunks that disintegrated into golden sparks the moment they lost their creator’s blessing. Any guard who dared stand in the way—a Dinamo copy in polished armor and a bargain-bin smile—was crushed, impaled, or reduced to dust in an instant. Not even their shields made a difference.

  One copy did exactly that—raised its shield, bracing for impact.

  Dimitri charged.

  The shield shattered like glass. The clone became a red-and-gold smear on the wall. Then not even that remained.

  It turned to dust.

  —And in channel two… —the orb almost squealed with excitement— we have our sweet pink ninja guiding a beast of uncontrolled muscle that won’t stop growing! Everything in their path is obliterated! Walls, statues, guards, the architects’ egos… nothing is safe. Every time the colossus seems about to catch her, our little star appears on his back, sticks out her tongue, and vanishes. Exemplary professional relationship!

  As if responding to the comment, the camera caught a perfect moment: Dimitri throwing a brutal backhand toward where he thought she was—only to hit air; Hanami reappearing on his shoulder and tapping him on the head with the ninjatō’s hilt.

  —Faster, redhead, —she said, before fading again.

  The roar that followed made the screen vibrate.

  The third section showed the main group.

  Katherine at the front, the conceptual bracelet resting on her wrist like a sober threat. Around her walked Caetano, Baek, Irina, Romero, Hassan, Freya, and Yehiel—the last of them accompanied by his “assistants.”

  The corridors here were more restrained: high ceilings, less ornate columns, smooth floors reflecting the walkers.

  —And in channel three, ladies and gentlemen, we have the main cast advancing with calculated calm, —the commentator continued—. They’re waiting for instructions to reach the throne room as fresh as possible. But…

  The image froze for a second. At the end of the corridor, something changed.

  The air rippled, as if someone had tugged an invisible thread. The floor rose softly—and out of nothing, they appeared.

  Twelve figures.

  Twelve Dinamos.

  All identical: same height, same hair, same smile. They weren’t dressed like the Roman emperor on the throne, but in stereotyped versions of the classes they represented.

  Their auras weren’t impressive individually, but together they formed a compact wall.

  They took a simple, predictable formation to face them.

  Matching smiles.

  Yehiel smiled, tilting his head to the side.

  —Oh, adorable imitations, —he murmured—. Your template really does have an ego. —He was still annoyed about what had happened earlier; he wanted to vent.

  The commentator delivered the punchline:

  —…they’ve just run into their first opponents.

  Very far from there, high above the castle, reality closed.

  The external cameras shut down one by one. The hovering drones vanished. The screens went dark.

  In the true throne room, only two presences remained.

  Dinamo, still sitting calmly on his ridiculous seat.

  And the commentator.

  The metallic sphere floated near one of the pillars. Its lights blinked at a slower rhythm—less theatrical. Without an audience, its voice changed: it was still robotic, but it sounded more… normal.

  —Primary transmission: cut, —it reported—. No spectators. No secondary cameras active. The room no longer registers open channels.

  It fell silent for a moment. If it had a face, it would’ve been frowning.

  It had wanted to ask for a long time.

  —Boss, —it finally said, turning toward him— there’s something that’s been bothering me since this second act began.

  It drifted a little closer to the throne, lowering its volume by instinct, even though no one else could hear.

  And for the first time since the spectacle’s lights had turned on, the commentator stopped sounding like a host.

  The silence stretched a few seconds longer.

  The commentator floated to the side of the throne, its internal lights flashing in a pattern that, in any other creature, would’ve been cold sweat.

  —Boss… —it said at last, cautiously—. I understand that above all else, you’re seeking entertainment. I know it. I’ve seen it. But… there’s something I can’t quite process. Why lower yourself to their level? —it paused, weighing every word—. I thought you’d have your fun for a while and then finish them off. Why grant so many concessions? It doesn’t make sense.

  Dinamo didn’t respond.

  He didn’t move.

  He remained reclined on the throne, cheek on his hand, staring at an indeterminate point in the air. The faint smile was gone. His eyes looked focused on something very, very far away from that castle.

  The sphere didn’t dare speak again. It lowered its height slightly, as if trying to make itself smaller.

  Only when the silence became uncomfortable even for a god did Dinamo speak.

  —Katherine was a blessing for humans, —he said, without preamble.

  The robot almost jolted internally.

  Dinamo continued in a flat tone:

  —She was born a Rank 10. The first Rank 10 born since the domes appeared. Since centralization and consensus on the use of Ranks. —He barely shifted his gaze into the void—. She was born in the central dome. A dome impenetrable even to my current self.

  He didn’t sound proud. He sounded like someone reciting a fixed datum—a constant of the universe. An irrefutable fact.

  —But during her first millennium, —he added— no human called her a “blessing.” To them, she was a curse.

  The commentator couldn’t help but intervene, keeping its voice low:

  —A curse? —In its mind, that seemed absurd.

  —Yes. —Dinamo nodded slowly—. She took control of everything. Every system, every decision, every structure humans had built. It was inevitable. Absolute superiority. And she was the only one of her Rank. She didn’t need to claim the central dome—she simply occupied it. The rest followed because they had no alternative.

  He fell silent for a second, remembering.

  —A thousand years after her birth, —he went on— she brought a fleet to challenge me.

  The commentator’s lights flickered hard.

  —The… god of creation and destruction? —it asked, more to itself than to him.

  Dinamo made a vague gesture with his hand.

  —At first I didn’t take it seriously, —he admitted—. I let several of my slaves handle it. Old toys. Remnants of earlier eras. I thought it would be enough to crush her and send her back to her shining cage. Or give her a miserable death.

  He leaned forward slightly.

  —She annihilated them all, —he said, without hiding a certain shade of satisfaction—. With an ease worthy of my attention.

  The commentator went completely still.

  —So I faced her myself.

  His eyes narrowed.

  —And I killed her.

  The silence that followed was dense. The robot didn’t dare emit even a system hum.

  It was obvious Dinamo wasn’t speaking just to speak—he was seeing it, reliving it right there, as if the battle had ended moments ago.

  A few moments passed before he added:

  —Well… —he tilted his head— I killed a copy. Just an android sent to check her limits and mine. But by that point I had no hope that a human capable of challenging me would ever be born. Everything was repetition—noise, tiny variations on the same defeat. She was the first to make me look twice.

  He leaned back again, never losing the thread of the memory.

  —Later, more than ten thousand years after our first encounter, she came for me again, —he continued—. This time she brought something new. Cursed.

  The name seemed to dirty the air.

  —Our battle was astonishing, —he said, and for the first time in the entire conversation, his expression truly changed.

  A different smile appeared. Not the theatrical smile, nor the arrogant one, nor the cruel one. It was sincere—clean—the smile of someone remembering something he genuinely enjoyed. The kind he only showed Jane.

  And it lasted only a couple of moments.

  Then it dissolved, as if it had never been there.

  Dinamo let out a faint sigh—almost human.

  —Katherine used a horrible method to create someone like Cursed, —he explained—. Horrible even by my standards. A method that led her to do something… interesting.

  The commentator didn’t move. The words “horrible even by my standards” were not something it wanted to fully process.

  —She created emotions for herself, —Dinamo added—. She designed herself to feel. Guilt. Fear. Empathy. Disgust. Everything necessary to make sure she never even considers something like that again.

  The sphere processed that sentence several times.

  Katherine—the cold queen, the perfect mind—manufacturing emotions solely to restrain herself. Not the kind of story you expected to hear in a god’s throne room.

  Dinamo raised a hand and looked at his palm, as if reading something written there.

  —To finish this little story… —he said, tired but entertained— if the destruction of this dome had happened before the last two hundred and fifty years, I wouldn’t have let anyone escape. The capsules, the evacuation plans, the small concessions—none of that would’ve existed. I would’ve snuffed this city out like blowing out a candle.

  He lowered his hand.

  —But Katherine did something two hundred and fifty years ago, —he concluded— something that changed the direction of the current. And I’m following the tide accordingly.

  The robot took a few seconds before daring to speak again.

  —Then… —it said, with genuine respect— what is it you’re looking for, boss?

  Dinamo finally looked at it directly.

  His eyes were no longer far away; they were here—present, sharp.

  —I want Katherine to create a new Cursed, —he answered bluntly—. I want her to replicate the only opponent I couldn’t defeat.

  The smile that appeared this time held nothing warm.

  It was ruthless. Fierce. A slash across his face, sharp as a weapon.

  —I want to show the cosmos, —he said— that I am Dinamo.