“The heavens…,” the Holy Sword muttered. It sounded shaken in a way Ketal had never heard from it. Only now did it understand how much he had been holding back. He had fought in earnest, yes, but he had fought with the brakes on, and the realization left the spirit grasping for a floor that would not appear. 2

Where were his limits? Where did the bottom begin? the sword wondered. It had no answer and, for a rare heartbeat, no words.0

Ketal did not wait for certainty to return. He drove forward, shouldering monsters aside and tearing others open with a violence that felt almost cheerful. Creatures built to know no fear, even when the world ran red, began despite themselves to show it on their faces. Orders were etched into their very bones, leaving them no path but forward. They charged because charging was all they had been made to do, and Ketal met them with the calm delight of a craftsman returning to a familiar tool. He broke them one by one, moving without hurry and without waste.0

A hooked claw raked at his flank. He slipped and let it pass, but a talon caught his coat, and the fabric tore with a long, complaining rip.0

“My clothes…” He sighed, clicking his tongue.0

Myst sheathed him well enough to keep blades and curses from his skin, but cloth was cloth. Unlike muscle and bone, fabric did not grow stronger under pressure; it frayed and gave way under the same force that left his skin unmarked. He had packed spares, yet even those were nearly gone. He made a note, almost idly, to find something sturdier when he returned to the surface, and while he thought about it, his hands cleared the floor.3

There were more than a hundred monsters down here—each...0