Chapter 21: Questions

  “Excuse the question, but… doesn’t it feel uncomfortable being this close, Miss Irina?”

  The sentence came out more polite than it felt in my head. I didn’t want to sound that polite, but I guess habits are hard to kill.

  And in my defense, anyone would get nervous if a woman of External Manifestation sat next to you—pressed against you—while you crossed a labyrinth full of lethal traps, riding on the back of a giant sheep.

  There was also the fact that said woman was dazzling, which made it difficult to know where to look, or what to do with my hands.

  That’s why I’d been replaying the recent events in my mind, trying to distract myself from my dilemma.

  First, I’d been sent on what was supposed to be a simple messenger mission. An order given by my king to show commitment to the cause—sending one of his best men. But that’s where the “easy” ended.

  It turned out my first delivery mission would end in a fight to the death against the most powerful existence in… well, existence. All to buy a few minutes. It sounded depressing when I put it that way.

  And even though it hadn’t been difficult to integrate as an important piece of the brawl, I still felt a bit apart. Used might be the better word.

  After that, I was forced to witness unacceptable things—like the death of a young innocent woman, Seo Min, and the sensation that everyone was nothing more than pieces in a morbid game.

  “Though there were also shocking things.” Like remembering how Dinamo survived my lethal attack.

  But to end my wandering thoughts, there was my current situation. After we dealt easily with a group of guards and then got scolded, we managed to find a labyrinth—which we promptly entered.

  The information kept updating; apparently, one of Lady Katherine’s people was feeding it to us. Thanks to that, we’d been recognized a lot of obstacles and guards.

  The labyrinth we were in seemed to be the fastest route. The Warriors’ Labyrinth—interesting, even if the name wasn’t.

  Walls that changed position if you stared at them too long.

  Floors that tried to eat you if you stepped at the wrong angle.

  Ceilings that turned into blades if you failed to answer the riddle of the moment.

  Every now and then, some group of counterfeits or golden aberrations managed to find us. They didn’t last long. Very long.

  It still hadn’t gotten too complicated.

  Which, considering who we were going to visit at the end of the path, was worrying. But beyond all that, there was my most immediate problem.

  I was sitting on the soft back of one of the twin sheep, with Irina comfortably settled at my side.

  Too comfortably at my side.

  Mila—the sheep in question—moved forward with steady steps, almost completely cushioning the irregularities of the route. It was like traveling on a plush armchair with legs.

  In theory, an ideal means of transport.

  In practice, the problem was the distance between my shoulder and Irina’s.

  Nonexistent.

  From the beginning it had made me uncomfortable. Not because I disliked it—on the contrary, Miss Lelyanova was kind, calm, and quite pleasant to deal with.

  Precisely because of that.

  Too much physical contact for someone who still didn’t know whether he should address her formally or not.

  “Uncomfortable?” Irina repeated, tilting her head slightly in my direction.

  She leaned a little closer.

  The remaining distance between us vanished completely.

  I felt the warmth of her body against mine. My spine reacted with a stiffness more fitting of a recruit than of a royal messenger.

  “I feel very comfortable,” she added with a small smile, as if she didn’t notice my tension at all—or as if she enjoyed it. “Besides, Mila is behaving wonderfully. She’s very comfortable and adorable, don’t you think?”

  Hearing her name, the sheep beneath us let out a cheerful bleat, puffing her chest a little.

  Her wool vibrated with pride.

  “I’m glad you like her, Mila,” I thought before I could stop myself.

  This was one of the twin sheep—one that Irina had particularly won over. Between the gentle bouncing and her occasional satisfied bleats, it was clear she was delighted with her ride. Even if the scenery wasn’t the right kind of scenery. But…

  I couldn’t say the same about her sister.

  I slid my gaze sideways toward the other sheep, a little farther back, to the right.

  Tirsa.

  Tirsa didn’t look nearly as happy.

  Her expression—insofar as a giant sheep could have an expression—was a perfect blend of resignation, exhaustion, and a silent plea for help.

  And I didn’t blame her.

  At the moment, she was being monopolized by Freya von Edelstein.

  Miss Edelstein had decided that Tirsa’s back was the perfect improvised beauty salon.

  “Don’t talk to me about ugly things until we go back to fighting Dinamo, oui?” she’d declared a few minutes ago, while spreading out a small set of shiny tools. “I need to rest. And look perfect. Don’t bother me.”

  From that moment on, Tirsa endured having locks of wool braided, tiny shiny ornaments placed on her, and a capricious noblewoman using her back like a luxury reclining chair.

  “Hang in there, my friend,” I told her in silence, directing the thought toward her as consolation.

  Tirsa let out a muted bleat, heavy with helplessness.

  I hoped my words could give her the comfort she needed to cushion the absolute resignation I could feel coming from her.

  Her ears pressed a little closer to her head as Freya’s satisfied giggle floated through the air.

  The rest of my small herd—goats and sheep alike—flanked us on both sides.

  Some walked; others simply levitated at our pace, stepping on invisible stairs. All of them maintained an almost perfect formation, designed to close any gap an enemy might try to exploit.

  Every time a Dinamo counterfeit got close enough, one of my goats moved ahead.

  A horn, a kick, a charge. Or a claw.

  Problem solved.

  Reaching us was an impossible task right now.

  Up ahead, at a comfortable distance, Katherine and Caetano levitated in parallel.

  They looked relaxed.

  Not a hint of effort on their faces. They weren’t attacking, they weren’t defending; they were simply moving forward—floating—while their loyal subordinates did the dirty work.

  “Are they saving energy for the rest of the fight?” I wondered.

  It made sense. If I’d learned anything in this place, it was that wherever Dinamo was, the worst was always at the end. Even so, a bitter feeling formed in the pit of my stomach.

  At the front was Baek In-wook.

  His role was simple: clear the path.

  With that strange sword, he kept cutting through traps, counterfeits, and hostile structures with impeccable efficiency. Throughout most of the climb, he’d shredded his opponents with a ease that was almost insulting—even when they matched or exceeded him in raw physical power.

  Lately, however, it was starting to cost him a little more.

  I saw it right then.

  A Dinamo counterfeit—an “assassin”—tried to catch him off guard, only to be split in two and turn to dust.

  Baek didn’t slow down.

  Another group took its place, but the result was always the same.

  Baek’s sword came down in a clean cut.

  The clone tried to block.

  It was split in two.

  There was no resistance.

  The false gold crumbled like wet mud before the polished edge of that indigo blade, with its discreet shine and almost harmless appearance.

  I swallowed.

  I still didn’t understand what that material actually was.

  But I was sure of one thing: even if it didn’t look threatening, I didn’t dare imagine myself trying to stop a strike from that sword head-on.

  Not with my reinforced body.

  Not with all my pride as a royal messenger.

  I didn’t think I’d survive.

  Flanking Baek, left and right, advanced Hassan Barakat and Ramiro Campillo.

  Hassan wielded a pair of curved swords, also made from that same miraculous material.

  Without a doubt, the two indigo weapons stood out against the otherwise almost completely golden scenery.

  “So not even his ability can touch it,” I thought, filing it away in the corner of my mind reserved for important strategic information.

  Romero, for his part, carried a rough club—almost vulgar in appearance—made of the same material.

  Every time he brought it down on the head, torso, or limbs of a counterfeit, the result was the same:

  Total neutralization.

  It didn’t matter how hard they tried to block, or even what stance they took—one blow was enough to erase any resistance.

  Many things about this place raised questions for me.

  Too many.

  So, to distract myself a bit from the very real discomfort of having Irina pressed against me, I decided to do what I did best:

  Ask.

  “Mm… Lady Katherine,” I raised my voice carefully, keeping my tone as respectful as possible. “Purely out of academic curiosity: what is that extravagant material those weapons are made of?”

  I fell silent.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Waited.

  A few moments.

  Nothing.

  Katherine didn’t turn her head at any point. She didn’t even pretend she’d heard me.

  Her gaze stayed locked forward, analyzing the labyrinth—the patterns, the path to the throne room. For her, my question wasn’t a priority.

  Or, more likely, it wasn’t relevant.

  Caetano, at her side, did react.

  A half-smile—tiny, barely a shadow on his stone face—appeared for an instant.

  “Lady Katherine is focused,” he commented, in a tone that didn’t quite reach mockery, but played dangerously close. “It would be better if you didn’t distract her with trivialities.”

  I felt my discomfort return. Multiplied by a thousand.

  Before I had time to regret opening my mouth, Irina intervened.

  “I’m sorry about Commander Katherine,” she said, pressing her shoulder a little more against mine, as if she wanted to soften the blow. “When she’s in ‘battle mode’ she can seem cold. It’s not personal. Try to let it go, alright?”

  She paired her words with a small, strained giggle.

  Then she cleared her throat and continued:

  “As for your question…” She looked toward the weapons ahead, following the pale flash of Baek’s sword, the arc of Ramiro’s swings, the curve of Hassan’s blades. “The truth is we don’t know all the details.”

  That caught my attention immediately.

  “You don’t know them?” I asked, surprised.

  “We obtained it fortuitously,” she explained. “Let’s just say it was a… lucky accident.” Her eyes glinted for an instant, as if remembering something she couldn’t share. “One thing led to another, and we ended up with a certain amount of this material. Even Dinamo doesn’t have all the information about it.”

  That was interesting.

  A resource in this world that even the golden monster couldn’t fully understand.

  “I can’t give you many details right now,” she continued, kind but firm. “Part of it is classified. And another part is that, honestly, we don’t understand it completely ourselves.”

  “I understand,” I nodded. Not insisting in front of someone who could turn the environment into an impassable fortress was good policy. “Should I assume you’ll tell me if we make it out alive to the Central Dome?”

  Irina smiled.

  “Exactly. We’ll tell you everything in the Central Dome. Well… if we survive,” she added with a touch of dry humor. “But you don’t have to worry too much, Mr. Yehiel. It’s very likely you’ll make it. You’re strong.”

  “I’m flattered by your confidence,” I replied, not entirely sure I deserved it.

  “What I can tell you now,” she added, looking forward again, “is that it’s unbreakable. And that it can kill Dinamo because of one of its main characteristics: concept annulment.”

  “Concept annulment?”

  “Yes. It can nullify any kind of defense or regeneration Dinamo tries to use to survive. Because of that, he has to rely on a less conventional method.”

  I watched Baek’s sword again, Hassan’s blades, and Ramiro’s club after her statement. It was undeniably fascinating.

  “Unbreakable, concept annulment, and capable of killing a being who calls himself a god.”

  It was hard not to feel a shiver of hope at that.

  “If you have more questions, you can ask me,” Irina concluded calmly. “I’ll answer whatever I can.”

  I glanced at her.

  Her smile was gentle. Her eyes attentive.

  At least someone here seemed willing to satisfy my curiosity.

  Which was dangerous.

  Because my questions were only just beginning.

  More questions piled up in my head.

  There was something I’d always been curious about, so I simply let out the first one that took shape.

  “Since we’re at it, I have one more doubt,” I said, shifting slightly on Mila’s back. “I’m curious about the Central Dome. I’ve heard many stories: that it’s humanity’s lair, the demons’ cave—different versions depending on which Rank 9 or 10 you ask. But honestly, I could use some clarification. Could you share more details?”

  Irina smiled softly, as if she’d been offered a pleasant topic of conversation.

  “Well, it’s certainly an interesting question,” she answered, almost cheerfully. “Though, again, I can’t give you too many details. It’s closely tied to the location of the material and its origin.”

  She paused briefly, as if sorting mentally what she could say and what she couldn’t.

  “What I can tell you,” she continued, “is that the Central Dome formed shortly after Dinamo’s ascension to Rank 10. It’s an indestructible dome he can’t pass through. It has sheltered humanity for more than a million years.”

  I swallowed.

  A million years.

  It was such a ridiculous amount of time that my mind almost tried to reject it.

  “It’s also the source of the other domes’ existence,” Irina went on. “All the others derive from it, though they’re infinitely weaker than the central one. That’s why we’re where we are now.”

  Her expression darkened.

  In that instant, I could see the weight of the current situation crashing down on her: the “infinitely weaker” domes about to be destroyed, humanity compressed into shelters that were no longer as safe, the prolonged war against a “god” who never tired.

  Without thinking too much, I did something I normally wouldn’t.

  I wrapped an arm around her.

  It was a clumsy gesture, a bit stiff—but sincere.

  For my relief, it seemed to work. Irina blinked, surprised for a second, and then her smile returned. She cuddled a little closer against me, as if taking the gesture as something obvious—natural.

  Mila, sensing the change in mood, let out a loud bleat, almost triumphant, as if she also wanted to cheer her up.

  Irina let out a brief giggle at her antics.

  “Thank you, Mila,” she murmured, giving her wool a few pats. “And thank you as well, Mr. Yehiel.”

  I nodded, trying to keep my composure.

  “In general, those are the characteristics of the Central Dome,” she resumed, returning to a more explanatory tone. “It has been a safe place for humanity to prosper, and it’s expected to remain so for a long time.”

  She fell silent for a few moments, watching the front, where the miraculous weapons kept carving a path.

  “If you still want to keep talking, don’t hesitate,” she added, glancing at me. “Ask whatever you want.”

  She didn’t need to repeat it.

  As I watched the three fighters on the front line, another question formed on its own.

  Baek remained unflappable, clearing the way with his sword. Hassan wore a compassionate expression—though it was hard to read with that blindfold over his eyes. Ramiro, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself far more than was advisable.

  Me? I was sitting on a comfortable sheep, holding an important young lady, not doing anything particularly useful.

  It wasn’t the best feeling in the world.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” I commented, subtly gesturing toward the front. “If those three are dealing with everything that shows up, why isn’t the rest helping them clear the obstacles faster?”

  Irina blinked, then smiled, delighted that I was still asking questions.

  “Because it’s better to be rested when we reach the throne room,” she replied naturally. “For now, we’re waiting for Eoin to indicate the best possible route. We shouldn’t waste strength until he has it completely defined.”

  I frowned.

  “With all due respect, that doesn’t make much sense,” I replied. “Three of them don’t stop dealing with every problem they run into, and the rest of us are like this. You could rotate. Besides…” I looked at my own hand, resting on Mila’s wool. “I feel uncomfortable resting while others work for me.”

  Irina watched me as if I’d just said something very strange.

  “They aren’t more tired than they were before,” she answered calmly. “For Rank 10s, physical wear is nonexistent. And thanks to the miraculous material, they only need a good hit to finish off any standard opponent.”

  She leaned a little toward me, curious.

  “Didn’t you know?” she asked. “Rank 10s can’t get tired.”

  I opened my mouth, closed it, and took a couple seconds to find an answer remotely dignified. Truthfully, it made sense.

  “I’d never heard that,” I admitted, with a bit of embarrassment.

  For a throne messenger, it sounded pretty ignorant.

  Irina tilted her head, intrigued.

  “How long have you been Rank 10?” she asked. “Doesn’t Dinamo have some kind of teaching system, or something? I hardly know anything about the outside of the domes, but I imagined you’d have, I don’t know… classes, manuals, something.”

  I sighed.

  If they asked about my life, the story wasn’t that complicated. Just not very interesting.

  “I was born two hundred and seventeen years ago,” I began. “Since I was born a Rank 9, they separated me from my parents, who were lower rank. Other Rank 9 followers of Dinamo took me to a special school created by him—or so they told me.”

  Irina frowned slightly, as if she didn’t like that part.

  “They taught me basic things there: the language, reading and writing, some mundane matters. Nothing too deep. I stayed there until I was five. Then they left me to my own devices.”

  Remembering that part always gave me a strange sensation, like a cold hollow in my stomach.

  “I wandered for a while,” I continued, “moving through different zones, surviving however I could. There wasn’t a plan, or a tutor, or a manual. Just staying alive. I ascended to Rank 10 a little over a hundred years ago. But honestly, I don’t know much about what a Rank 10 is supposed to know.”

  Irina stayed silent for a few seconds.

  Her expression shifted into something clearly sad—almost indignant.

  Without saying anything, she snuggled deeper into my arms, as if she wanted to wrap around me too.

  “What a waste,” she murmured. “To have someone at your level and leave him without guidance. Someone with so much potential.”

  She looked me in the eyes—serious, with a determination she hadn’t shown until now.

  “You can ask me anything trivial,” she said. “For the rest of the trip, I’ll answer all your doubts. I’ll make sure you become a competent Rank 10.”

  I couldn’t help smiling—partly awkward, partly grateful—at the enthusiasm of this young woman.

  “Then I’ll make use of that permission,” I replied. “I promise I won’t abuse it. Much.”

  We held each other’s gaze for a few seconds.

  Her closeness didn’t feel as uncomfortable as it had at the start. Or maybe I was simply getting used to it.

  It was then that a voice interrupted the scene over the speakers.

  The commentator’s voice.

  “Oh, but you look so cute!” he exclaimed, in that ridiculously excited tone that defined him. “Just look at that adorable couple! Long live love in the middle of conceptual genocide! You have my full approval. Just don’t forget to invite me to the wedding. I’m a good photographer, in case you were wondering.”

  I heard a series of giggles filter through the speakers.

  Then the transmission cut out.

  Irina covered her face with one hand, red up to her ears.

  I stared up at the labyrinth’s ceiling, sincerely wishing some trap would spare me the embarrassment of staying alive.

  Cough, cough.

  To get out of the embarrassment as quickly as possible, I opened my mouth before my brain could stop me.

  “Ahem… speaking of questions,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I still have a doubt about something Director Katherine said when she spoke with Dinamo. The conversation revolved around the fact that she can only use fifteen percent of her power, but I don’t feel like her internal energy is any lower than that of an average Rank 10. And while we’re at it—do all Rank 10s have the same amount of internal energy? If so, why is there such a difference in power between them?”

  I felt the heat rising to my ears.

  “I mean… if it’s not too much trouble to ask,” I added awkwardly.

  Irina, who was still red because of the commentator, composed herself faster than I did.

  She blinked a couple times, stared at me, and put on an expression that was a mix of surprise and mild concern.

  “Your lack of information is more severe than I thought…” she murmured, almost to herself.

  That hurt a little more than I expected.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed, lowering my gaze. “I suppose—”

  She shook her head, cutting off my apology.

  “Don’t you apologize,” she replied. “This is something anyone, at any rank, should know. If they didn’t teach you, it isn’t your fault.”

  She shifted slightly on Mila, as if switching into explanation mode.

  “The difference between Rank 10s comes mainly down to three factors,” she continued: “the quality of internal energy, the output of that energy, and conceptual attunement. All three can be improved—but they require a lot of time and dedication.”

  I nodded immediately—almost too fast.

  “I’d like a more detailed explanation,” I said, with more fervor than I’d meant to show.

  Irina smiled, satisfied, and began.

  “First: the quality of internal energy.” She raised a hand, drawing an invisible line in the air. “You can imagine it like a conductor. Your internal energy is the cable; your conceptual ability is the electricity passing through it.”

  She pointed toward the front, where one of Baek’s cuts split another counterfeit in two.

  “If your energy quality is bad, it’s like using an old, cheap copper wire,” she went on. “It works, but it has losses, it heats up, it limits what you can do. If the quality is good, it’s like a superconductor—almost no loss, everything flows cleanly and efficiently. That depends on the refinement you do over time.”

  She turned her head toward me, assessing me with unexpected seriousness.

  “In your case, your quality is outstanding, from what I can see,” she said.

  I went still.

  “I assume you’ve never refined your internal energy, have you?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Never.”

  Irina let out a long sigh, heavy with frustration.

  She wasn’t scolding me, but it felt like I’d disappointed someone without knowing how.

  “Fine,” she said at last, as if resigning herself. “We’ll fix that later.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure whether to feel grateful or nervous.

  “Let’s move to the second factor: output,” she continued, returning to her teacher’s tone. “You can think of your internal energy like a battery. The wider the output point, the more energy can flow at the same time. And the more energy flows, the more concept you can use and sustain.”

  She made a gesture with her hand, like opening an imaginary valve.

  “If you prefer, think of it like a faucet: the bigger the spout, the more water comes out. It doesn’t help much to have a lake behind it if the faucet is the size of a needle.”

  It was a pretty clear image.

  “And the third factor,” she went on, “is your attunement with the conceptual ability you possess. It’s simply how attached you are to your concept—how aligned you are with it. It’s a bit abstract, it varies from person to person, and there isn’t a single way to measure it.”

  Her eyes shone a little when she mentioned the obvious example.

  “That’s why Director Katherine can say she’s only at fifteen percent and still be terrifying,” she added, with a mix of respect and something very close to devotion. “She’s extremely competent in all three areas: quality, output, and conceptual attunement.”

  Irina spoke of Katherine with an almost religious fervor.

  She sounded like a fanatic. It made me feel a little uncomfortable.

  “But you don’t have that much to worry about,” she added, looking back at me. “As you are now, you’re doing very well. You just need to correct certain mistakes, and your progress is guaranteed.”

  At that last line, her expression deflated a little, as if she remembered something unpleasant—perhaps someone who didn’t correct their mistakes in time, or something else.

  I decided to change the subject to lift her mood.

  “That’s fantastic,” I said, and I truly meant it. “I’d like to take more detailed information with me. My King would benefit greatly from learning all this. Do you have books or something similar I could study more in depth?”

  Irina opened her mouth to answer.

  She didn’t get to.

  Another voice cut in.

  It wasn’t unfamiliar.

  But it was a surprise.

  “Balduino does not possess information on that.”

  The sentence hung in the air with cutting clarity.

  I instinctively turned forward.

  Katherine wasn’t looking at us.

  But she’d decided—voluntarily—to enter the conversation.

  “No. He only recently reached Rank 9,” I explained, trying to keep my voice steady. “He’s currently preparing to ascend to Rank 10. We haven’t had time to investigate anything.”

  I paused briefly.

  “Though you shouldn’t compare me to my King,” I added. “My ignorance is far deeper than his. Still, it never hurts to have extra information.”

  I didn’t like the idea of staining Balduino’s name.

  His knowledge was vast.

  The problem was mine. I was the failure dragging him down.

  Katherine seemed like she was going to respond. I lifted my gaze, attentive, waiting for some clarification, a correction, a judgment—something.

  Then something changed up ahead.

  “Big Bubble.”

  Ramiro detonated his aura in an instant.

  An invisible, dense sphere expanded around him, stopping dead the assassin that had just appeared behind him—blade raised, ready to sever his head.

  The impact halted it for one heartbeat.

  A single heartbeat.

  Long enough for Ramiro to slip out of reach.

  But not out of reach of the lancer coming from the side.

  I saw it: the spear was already halfway in, aimed straight at Ramiro’s torso, exploiting the smallest opening in his defense. My body tensed; my companions reacted at the same time I did.

  I was going to move.

  Regretting not having joined the fight earlier.

  I knew I wouldn’t make it in time to save him.

  Two short shots snapped me back to reality.

  They sounded so close together they almost felt like a single sound.

  The bullets hit with surgical precision: one punched through the skull of the assassin trapped by Ramiro’s defense; the other shattered the lancer’s neck mid-charge.

  Both fell like puppets with their strings cut.

  Dust.

  Katherine lowered the weapon slightly.

  She hadn’t even reduced the speed at which she was levitating.

  The time for questions, it seemed, was over.

  More of those cheap copies kept pouring in through the corridors, like ants spilling out of a crazed anthill. Their strength increased again—tougher, faster, more coordinated.

  And in the rear, there was a different one.

  A taller Dinamo, more defined, with armor unlike all the others clinging to his skin.

  Over his head floated two words:

  WARRIOR COMMANDER.

  His smile was the realest among his peers.