The dull pain had faded into a constant background presence.

  The wound beneath the bandage throbbed faintly with each step, a reminder that my body no longer corrected my ‘mistakes’. I kept my pace steady. I wasn’t ready for unwelcome questions. Especially ones I couldn’t answer.

  The massive steel gates loomed ahead, freshly reinforced and closed as always. No guards stood watch—not because we were careless, but because the abode didn’t need them. Anything hostile that approached uninvited tended to announce itself loudly and violently.

  Quiet threats were the ones that worried me now. The hidden enemies within.

  The gates parted naturally at my touch. The steel panels slid seamlessly inward. I’d never given it much thought before, but even monsters could be members, owners, even.

  Inside, the atmosphere felt different than when I’d left that morning. The early gloom had lifted, replaced with something sharper. Focused. Like everyone had silently agreed that panic was a luxury we could no longer afford.

  People moved with intent around the compound. Even the newcomers had formed a small squad off to the side, running drills and coordinating movement. My instructions from that morning had taken root faster than I’d expected.

  Eleven days.

  The knowledge sat heavy in my chest as I crossed into the inner yard. A few heads turned, but it was Glenn who called out.

  “Mike!”

  He was hunched over a crate near the auction house terminal, brow furrowed in concentration, fingers stained with ink from one of his endless notes. He looked up as I approached, eyes flicking briefly to my arm before returning to his work.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said flatly.

  “Was,” I corrected. “I’ll live.”

  He nodded once, already moving on. Glenn had always been better with systems than people. His attention returned fully to the scattered papers in front of him, energy creeping into his posture.

  “All three notes sold,” he said. “Faster than expected. First one went maybe two hours after Jessica left. The rest followed not long after.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said, lowering myself onto the edge of a nearby crate. “Any responses?”

  Glenn hesitated, then reached into his inventory and pulled out a folded scrap of paper. Not one of ours.

  “Got a message back,” he said. “From… Australia.”

  I paused.

  “Australia?”

  He nodded. “That’s what they wrote. Same system. Same permanent death. Same countdown mechanics.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Different enemy.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I took the paper from him and unfolded it carefully.

  The handwriting was rough but legible, lines jagged with urgency.

  We’re not fighting demons.

  It’s bugs. Massive ones. Hives, nests, queens. The land itself is infested.

  We don’t get waves like you described. We get surges. Territory expands unless burned out.

  Everyone’s dying the same, just… differently.

  I read it twice, then folded it halfway, then opened it again. Twirled reality between my fingertips.

  “So it’s not identical,” I murmured. “The world isn’t being tested the same way everywhere.”

  “Looks that way,” Glenn said. “Whatever’s doing this is tailoring the threats.”

  Tailoring. The word sat wrong, but hit true.

  “This isn’t chaos,” I said quietly.

  “No,” he agreed. “Design.” Everyone here would agree. We had heard the voices, seen the indications.

  I handed the note back. “Anything else?”

  “There was more,” Glenn said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They mentioned progression. Places that resisted too long got… adjusted. Harder enemies. Less warning. Faster escalation.” He paused. “They also said something about time not dictating the waves—but the world dictating time.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Did they mention stopping it?”

  He shook his head. “Not directly. But they did say every major shift happened after a large-scale objective was completed, failed… or ignored.”

  “The demon waves,” I murmured. “And the raid.”

  “They also sent coordinates,” Glenn added. “Not asking for help. Just proof they exist.”

  He showed me the map interface. A distant region filled in, glowing faintly green—far larger than our own territory, and impossibly far away.

  It kept my focus longer than it should have.

  “So the auction house works,” I said eventually. “At least for information.”

  “And materials,” Glenn said, a note of satisfaction creeping into his voice.

  That got my attention.

  “We have them all,” he said. “Every requirement.”

  I straightened. “Already?”

  “One came from the new guy—Evan. Didn’t even know what he had. Stabilized Gem Fragment. Dropped from a level thirteen rare. He thought it was junk and Lidya did well to convince him.” Glenn passed me a rock roughly the size of a baseball.

  The gem’s interior looked fractured, webbed with fine cracks, like it might shatter if pushed too hard.

  “Lucky us,” I muttered.

  “The second came through the auction house,” Glenn continued. “Free, actually. From the group overseas.” He pulled a black, sharply tapered object from his coat and held it out.

  I frowned. “That’s… an insect stinger?”

  “Yeah, exceedingly common where they are.” He chuckled. That explained the generosity.

  “That last component isn’t an item,” Glenn said. “It’s a medium. Something to bind users to the structure.” He was referring to the stinger.

  “Bind how?”

  “The system suggests hair, personal items… things with strong emotional attachment.” He paused. “But the most stable option is blood.”

  That tracked.

  “It runs through every part of you,” he went on. “The system recognizes it cleanly. Least risk of rejection.”

  I nodded. “And the stingers?”

  “Strong enough to hold it. Durable enough to survive the process.” He tapped them together lightly. They rang like hollow metal. “Perfect vessels.”

  “So we can build it,” I said. “Once we pick a location.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We’ll have one as soon as Jessica gets back.”

  Glenn nodded, then hesitated.

  “Mike,” he said, quieter now. “You okay?”

  I flexed my fingers, feeling the faint, ever-present pressure of bone armor, and even further was the distant and fleeting feeling of Bone manipulation.

  “I’m adapting,” I said.

  He studied me for a second longer than necessary, then looked away.

  “Right,” he said. “Good.”

  But his voice didn’t quite convince either of us.