Etzel was still staring at the image.
The figure stood at the edge of the rocky slope, blurred by distance and bad magnification. Humanoid. Upright. Something long extending from one arm. Five creatures dead behind its route. Three Hunters alive.
Etzel leaned back. “It knows the difference between monsters and people.”
DK stood beside him. “Apparently.”
“That implies a reason.”
“Or preference.”
Etzel looked at him. There was a difference. A reason could be understood. A preference could simply exist. And refusing to kill humans did not make the figure good. It only proved one thing. It could choose.
Etzel looked at the image again. “That somehow made me feel worse.”
“Good.”
Etzel turned. “Good?”
“You should not feel safe because something chose not to kill three people.”
Etzel considered that. “Annoyingly reasonable.”
Maerin sent the full patrol summary twenty minutes later. Etzel opened it immediately.
The first report was mostly measurements: Estimated height between one-point-nine and two meters; bipedal; humanoid proportions; dark gray or black exterior; possible natural armor or clothing (image quality insufficient to determine which). The long object on its arm was also unresolved—blade, weapon, or bone structure—unknown.
Etzel scrolled, then stopped.
Etzel: They attacked first?
Maerin answered.
Maerin: They attempted interception.
Etzel stared at the wording.
Etzel: That was not my question.
A pause.
Maerin: Yes.
Etzel leaned forward. The patrol had ordered the figure to stop. It had continued walking. They repeated the command. No response. One Hunter moved into its path. The figure changed direction. The Hunter followed. Then a weapon was raised. Only after that had the unknown humanoid fought.
Etzel read the combat sequence:
First Hunter: Weapon broken, knocked down.
Second: Disarmed, thrown several meters.
Third: Disarmed after attempting an attack from behind.
No pursuit. No finishing strikes. No confirmed lethal techniques.
Etzel frowned. “It had chances.”
DK looked toward the communicator. “To kill them?”
“Yes.”
Etzel typed:
Etzel: How many opportunities did it have to kill them?
Maerin took longer this time.
Maerin: According to the patrol?
Another message followed.
Maerin: More than three.
Etzel stared at it. Five dead creatures. Three living humans. Not an accident. Not inability. Restraint. Deliberate restraint.
The patrol recordings arrived next. Etzel played the first one: bad angle, shaking camera, one Hunter moving forward, the figure in the distance.
“Stop!”
No reaction. The Hunter accelerated. The figure turned slightly. Then—
Etzel paused the recording. “Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“You answered too quickly.”
“I saw it.”
Etzel replayed the moment. The Hunter attacked. The figure moved—not backward, not exactly sideways. Its body seemed to rotate around the strike with an angle that looked almost wrong. Then one arm moved. The Hunter’s weapon left his hand. The recording shook violently.
Etzel slowed it. Again. Again. He looked at DK. “Well?”
“It is trained.”
Etzel waited. “That sounded unpleasantly certain.”
“It is.”
“How trained?”
DK watched the footage again. The second Hunter entered. The figure avoided the first attack, turned, struck the weapon, shifted its weight, and the Hunter hit the ground.
DK said: “Enough to kill all three.”
Etzel’s expression changed.
DK continued: “It chose not to.”
Etzel looked at the frozen image. “Hunter?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate. Etzel looked at him. “How do you know?”
DK pointed toward the figure. “The balance.”
Etzel waited. “It transfers weight differently.”
DK moved the recording backward. “The shoulder does not follow human rotation.”
Again. “The rear leg.”
Etzel looked, though he could barely see it. “What about it?”
“It is supporting more of the turn than it should.”
“Could just be a strange fighting style.”
“No.”
Etzel glanced at him. DK rarely sounded that certain without reason. “It fights like something that learned for its own body.”
Etzel went quiet. That sentence stayed with him: not a human using an unusual technique, but something humanoid that had developed technique around a body that only resembled theirs.
The Authority had apparently reached a similar problem. Their scan had failed to return a standard classification:
┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ [SURVEY RECORD: SPECIMEN CLASSIFIED]│
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
│ Classification Incomplete │
│ Humanoid Aberrant — Unconfirmed │
│ Level: ??? │
│ Rank: ??? │
└────────────────────────────────────────┘
Etzel stared at the question marks. “Helpful.”
DK said nothing. Etzel enlarged the record—unknown Level, unknown Rank, unknown species. He caught himself before his imagination did something stupid.
“Unknown isn’t a Rank.”
“Correct.”
“It could still be weak.”
“Yes.”
Etzel looked at the patrol footage. Three registered Hunters had tried to stop it. “It probably isn’t.”
“No.”
“Thank you for preserving a little optimism.”
Maerin sent another message.
Maerin: They’re considering human origin.
Etzel stopped. He knew what that meant: the transformed, humans changed by the calamity. Human monsters could retain intelligence, some more than others, along with fragments of behavior, memory, and reasoning—but they were still dangerous, often extremely so.
Etzel looked at the silhouette again.
Etzel: Human monster?
Maerin: Possibility only.
Maerin: Behavior doesn’t fit cleanly.
That was exactly what bothered him. The figure was not behaving like a mindless predator, nor even like an intelligent predator. It was moving with purpose, avoiding unnecessary fights, using restraint, and following a route.
Etzel looked at DK. “If it used to be human…”
“Do not decide before you know.”
Etzel paused, then nodded. “I know.”
And this time—he actually did. A few days ago, he might have built an entire answer from three clues; now he knew better. Correct observations could still produce the wrong conclusion.
Etzel sent Maerin one message:
Etzel: I’m not going there.
The response took several seconds.
Maerin: Good.
Etzel frowned:
Etzel: You could at least pretend that surprised you.
Maerin: Why?
Sivenne appeared:
Sivenne: Wait.
Then:
Sivenne: Etzel voluntarily said he isn’t going toward the dangerous mystery?
Etzel: Personal growth.
Sivenne: DK, confirm.
Etzel looked at DK. “Do not.”
DK held out his hand. Etzel pulled the communicator away. “No.”
DK lowered his hand. Etzel typed:
Etzel: DK confirms.
DK looked at him. Etzel smiled. “Efficient communication.”
“You lied.”
“Technically, I represented your likely opinion.”
“You lied.”
“Very rigid definition.”
They trained later that afternoon. Rhel Vasken had taught Etzel something he did not like: creatures could be dangerous, but humans could be worse—not because humans were stronger, but because they lied, feinted, adapted, and watched back.
Etzel stood opposite DK with his spear. “How do you read someone who is reading you?”
“Lie.”
Etzel paused. “That was disturbingly fast.”
DK raised his practice sword. “Attack.”
Etzel did. He looked right, thrust left. DK knocked the spear aside. “Obvious.”
Etzel recovered. “Constructive criticism exists.”
“Again.”
Etzel changed approach: shoulders left, eyes center, spear right. DK stepped inside and tapped the practice blade against Etzel’s chest. “Worse.”
“How?”
“You thought more.”
“That is normally considered positive.”
“Not when I can see it.”
Etzel reset. Again. This time he tried to give no signal at all. DK swept the spear away and hooked Etzel’s ankle. Etzel hit the ground.
He stared at the sky. DK looked down at him. “You lie with your mouth better than your body.”
Etzel raised one finger. “Finally, recognition.”
DK walked away. “That was praise.”
Etzel sat up. “It did not feel like praise.”
They continued—again, again, again. Etzel began to understand the problem: a feint was not simply pretending to attack somewhere else; that was too easy. The lie had to look like truth—weight, eyes, breathing, weapon line, and intent all told the opponent something, and a good opponent could use those signals against him.
Etzel tried to read DK in return: front foot, shoulder, sword angle, breathing. He thought he saw a pattern, but DK attacked differently, so Etzel adjusted, and DK changed again.
Etzel frowned, trying another attempt with another pattern and another change. Witness remained silent. Etzel waited, but nothing happened.
Then he understood why: there was no stable Flaw because DK knew Etzel was observing him and so he changed.
Etzel lowered the spear slightly. “You’re doing that deliberately.”
“Yes.”
“Every time I start understanding the pattern, you change it.”
“Yes.”
“That’s cheating.”
“No.”
“It feels like cheating.”
DK raised his weapon again. “Intelligent opponents learn.”
Etzel stared at him. Rhel had done it too, not as well, but he had reacted when Etzel started understanding Borrowed Tomorrow. A beast might repeat a behavioral dependency until it died, but an intelligent enemy could realize the dependency had been discovered and change the fight.
Etzel tightened his grip. Witness did not solve that problem, which was good. He smiled.
DK noticed. “Why are you smiling?”
“More work.”
“That pleases you?”
“Apparently I have problems.”
“Yes.”
Etzel sighed. “Again.”
The message arrived halfway through the next exchange. Etzel’s communicator vibrated—once, twice, then continuously with emergency priority. Both of them stopped.
Etzel opened it. Maerin.
Maerin: Second contact.
Etzel’s attention sharpened.
Etzel: Patrol?
Maerin: Observation team.
Maerin: No interception this time.
Good, someone had learned.
Etzel: What happened?
The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, and appeared again before showing:
Maerin: It stopped near a road marker.
Etzel waited.
Maerin: They think it was reading it.
Etzel frowned.
Etzel: Reading?
Maerin: Or trying to.
Another pause.
Maerin: One observer spoke to it.
Etzel stopped breathing for half a second.
Etzel: What happened?
The response came:
Maerin: It answered.
Etzel slowly looked at DK, who had already seen his expression.
“What?”
“It spoke.”
The recording was audio and video, of better quality this time. The observation team had maintained distance. The humanoid stood beside an old road marker. Up close—or at least closer—it looked even less human: dark material covered most of its body (Etzel still could not tell whether it was armor or skin), proportions close but not quite right (arms slightly too long, shoulders positioned differently, head narrow beneath a dark ridge), and the object extending along one arm definitely looked like a blade, whether carried or grown remaining unclear.
A Hunter’s voice came through the recording: “Can you understand me?”
The figure stopped, then slowly turned. Etzel leaned closer. Several seconds passed. Then the figure spoke—roughly, as though the sounds were familiar but rarely used:
“Yes.”
Etzel froze. One word, but that was enough. DK’s expression did not change, but his attention sharpened.
The Hunter on the recording hesitated, then asked: “Where are you going?”
The figure looked northeast, toward the dungeon. Its answer came after several seconds:
“Door.”
Etzel paused the recording. Silence. He looked at DK. “It called the dungeon a door.”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
DK looked at the frozen figure. “No.”
Etzel studied him—no reaction, no memory, nothing. He resumed the recording.
The Hunter asked another question: “Did you kill the creatures behind you?”
The figure turned its head: “They attacked.”
Etzel leaned back. There it was—his theory proved. The creatures had not been prey; they had interfered.
The Hunter continued: “Why didn’t you kill the patrol?”
Longer silence. The figure seemed to consider the question, then:
“They stopped.”
Etzel felt something cold move down his back—simple, almost brutally simple: the creatures attacked, continued attacking, and died; the Hunters attacked, then stopped, and they lived.
Etzel saw the behavioral rule immediately, but Witness remained silent. He did not wait for it, knowing it was not necessarily a Flaw, not every rule was a weakness, and not every observation existed to be exploited—a lesson becoming increasingly important.
The Hunter in the recording spoke again: “Why are you going to the door?”
The humanoid did not answer.
“Do you want something inside?”
Its head shifted: “No.”
The Hunter hesitated: “Then why?”
The figure looked northeast again. One word:
“Close.”
Etzel paused the recording. This time he stood. DK remained still. Etzel looked at him. “It doesn’t want to enter the dungeon.”
“No.”
“It wants to close it.”
“Yes.”
Etzel stared at the frozen image. “That is significantly worse.”
“Possibly.”
“Why do you always say possibly when I want certainty?”
“Because you do not have certainty.”
Etzel hated how useful that answer was. The Authority apparently had the same problem: the figure was intelligent, communicative, capable of restraint, potentially dangerous, and now claiming—in whatever limited way it could communicate—that a monitored dungeon needed to be closed.
They did not attack it, but they also did not trust it. Sector 14 remained closed, the dungeon was placed under emergency observation, and nearby hunting activity was suspended. Etzel read the updates, then looked at DK.
A thought arrived, and he did not particularly like it. DK had come from another world through Limited Necromancer—his soul, his body, his missing memories, all of it proving that the boundaries between worlds were not absolute.
Etzel looked back at the humanoid. A door.
DK noticed. “I am not that.”
Etzel blinked. “I know.”
A beat. “Probably.”
“Etzel.”
“Sorry.”
But the question remained: if DK could come here, what else could, and through what? A summon Ability was one answer, maybe not the only one. Etzel did not like that thought either.
Night had almost fallen when Maerin sent the final update. The humanoid had continued northeast, and the Authority followed at a distance with no further attacks and no new creature deaths. Then the figure reached the outer monitoring radius of the dungeon, and something happened.
Etzel opened the live report:
He sat forward. A second warning appeared:
Etzel frowned. “What does that mean?”
DK moved beside him. The dungeon gate on the recording had begun to change, its normally stable energy now rippling across its surface once, twice. The humanoid had stopped and was staring at the entrance, which seemed to be reacting to it.
A third System warning appeared:
Etzel stared. “Matching what?”
He typed immediately:
Etzel: Matching what?
Maerin’s response came moments later:
Maerin: We don’t know yet.
Etzel looked at DK. The knight had gone very still. “What?”
DK watched the gate. “It knows the door.”
“You said that already.”
“No.”
DK’s gaze remained fixed on the recording. Etzel waited. Then DK spoke:
“The door knows it.”
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