Jasper hovered a fist in front of the manor door, about to knock, when it creaked open on its own.
Standing there was Evodil. Shirtless.
White hair messier than usual, half-matted like he'd been rolling across star maps in his sleep. His horns were the same—sharp, twitching faintly—but he looked tired. Not in the way gods usually pretended to be. Actually tired. Soul-worn. Faint bags under his eyes, like whatever dream he just crawled out of had tried to drag him back.
And of course, no shirt. Just pants. Socks. Nothing else.
Jasper didn't ask.
"Morning," he said casually, leaning on the frame. "James told me you dye your hair white."
Evodil blinked once.
"Apparently," Jasper added, "you've got the same hair as him and Noah. Black. Family trait or whatever."
Still no answer.
Instead, Evodil groaned. Louder than necessary. Then turned around and yelled into the manor, voice echoing through stone and shadows.
"HEY. HUMAN. YOUR ALCOHOLIC TOUR GUIDE'S HERE."
Footsteps followed almost immediately. Caroline emerged from deeper inside the hallway, fully dressed and moving fast—like she'd been waiting for this. Her blonde hair was tied back in a long ponytail that reached between her shoulder blades. The brown fur coat looked secondhand but clean, wrapped tight against the mountain chill. Leather pants, light tan, tucked into boots with faint scuff marks.
She nodded once toward Jasper. "Hey."
"Hey," Jasper returned. "You ready for the grand tour of this holy landfill?"
She raised an eyebrow. "That's what it's called?"
"No, but it should be."
Evodil had already walked off, muttering something about coffee and divine mistakes. Neither of them paid him much mind.
Caroline adjusted her coat. "Let's go."
They stepped out together, the door swinging shut behind them with a dull thud.
Jasper walked ahead like he'd done this a hundred times. He probably had.
Caroline stayed close behind, not because she trusted him, but because every other direction looked like a death sentence wrapped in fog. The bridge creaked underfoot, the same as before—suspended over that endless crater, the one that swallowed sound, warmth, and any illusion of safety.
"So this place," she started, "Menystria... what even is it? A city? A country? A divine accident?"
Jasper didn't turn around. "Yes."
"Seriously."
"Seriously," he said, then glanced back. "It's a place made by gods who didn't want to be found and a bunch of idiots who found them anyway."
She snorted.
They walked in silence for a bit longer, boots tapping stone and shadow. When the Citadel came into view again, it felt less alien than before. Still massive, still wrong in scale—but not quite hostile. At least not until James showed up.
He was already standing near the entrance, arms crossed, gaze locked directly on Caroline like she'd just broken a sacred law by breathing in his radius.
She kept her head down.
Jasper didn't slow. "Ignore him."
"He's glaring."
"He glares at soup. It's not personal."
They passed through the archway, deeper into the heart of the Citadel. The air changed—less sharp, more grounded. The divine weight didn't vanish, but it thinned. By the time they reached the far side, Caroline could almost forget the warhammer that might materialize behind her back at any second.
Almost.
Jasper stopped in front of the Gate.
Not the manor door. Not an arch. The Gate.
It towered over them—massive, alive with faint pulses of light that ran along its grooves like blood through veins. Caroline knew the stories. She'd heard whispers in the ruins. How this thing burned through the unworthy without hesitation. How only the gods—and the ones they marked—could pass through untouched.
Jasper didn't hesitate.
He turned back to her. "Don't flinch."
Then he stepped through.
No scream. No fire. Just silence.
Caroline took a breath.
Then walked after him.
Jasper turned around mid-step, raising an eyebrow when Caroline didn't disintegrate behind him.
"Huh," he muttered. "Guess Noah cranked the gate settings again. Probably while we were sleeping. He does that."
Caroline blinked at the gate behind them. The glow had already faded from its surface. Now it looked like nothing more than a wall made of lightless wood and cracked metal.
"You think he added me in?"
"Probably. If you're gonna hang around for a few days, it saves time not having to scrape your ashes off the floor every morning."
Caroline didn't laugh, but she didn't look terrified either.
They stepped into the wooden bridge that connected the Citadel to the rest of the city. This one wasn't sacred or glowing or laced with divine intent. Just old. Boards creaked underfoot. Dust curled between the planks like forgotten breath.
"Hey," Jasper said after a few steps, "why did Evodil look like he hadn't slept in a few thousand years? Even worse than me. And I basically start every morning half-dead."
Caroline adjusted the strap on her coat. "He was talking to himself last night. Loud. I was on the couch, trying to rest. Pretty sure I heard him say something about a 'White Palace' and something else... 'The Fallen'? He didn't sound normal. Not even Evodil-normal."
Jasper frowned.
She kept going. "There was furniture getting slammed around. Couple of mugs broke. And I could hear coffee getting poured nonstop."
"Sounds like a Tuesday."
"Didn't feel like one."
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted over the cracked beams above them, then back to the path ahead.
White Palace. The Fallen. Weird texts. That wasn't normal talk—even for Evodil. Especially if it made him look like that.
Might be worth telling James. Or Noah. Or both.
Still, the tension was rising again, and Jasper didn't like it when conversations started to sound like responsibility. So he pivoted.
"Reminds me of last week," he said. "Noah came by early morning. Thought Evodil might want to talk. Y'know, diplomacy or whatever."
Caroline glanced sideways.
"Big mistake. Evodil hadn't had his morning dose yet. You know what that lunatic did?"
"What?"
"Threw a mug at him."
Caroline blinked. "Like, to catch?"
"No. Like, to kill."
She raised her eyebrows. "He hit him?"
"Noah dodged, barely. But the coffee? That was personal. Splashed right across his face. Burned off part of his fringe. Looked like a burnt dandelion for three days."
Caroline didn't laugh, not fully—but her mouth twitched.
Jasper grinned. "Guy gets murdered by caffeine. How's that for the God of Knowledge?"
They walked on, the city slowly revealing itself ahead—quiet ruins and buried purpose waiting in the dust.
They stepped off the bridge and onto land.
Or, what passed for land in Menystria.
One of the larger floating islands hovered beneath their feet—massive, stable, and full of life that didn't belong anywhere else. Buildings stretched upward around them, all sharp angles and mismatched heights. Dark concrete structures, stained by time and weather, loomed like monuments to forgotten design philosophies.
Most of them were blue. Or dark gray. A few pitch black, blending into the stone beneath like they'd been carved from void.
An archway marked the district's entry. Not divine. Not glowing. Just old concrete with a jagged crack running down one side. Functional. Uncaring.
Caroline stepped through, and the temperature changed.
So did the air.
Lamps hung from metal posts overhead, their yellow light flickering softly like sleepy stars. Wooden benches lined the corners of wide walkways. Restaurants spilled scent into the street—baked bread, something fried, maybe cinnamon. No music played, but the ambiance had rhythm. Like the city was breathing through its bones.
Shades walked among them.
Tall. Humanoid. Ink-skinned shadows with long limbs and glowing white pupils—no eyes, just those floating dots watching everything in still silence. They moved in pairs sometimes. Groups. Some carried bags. Others just passed by. One leaned against a wall, reading a book held upside down.
None of them paid Jasper or Caroline much mind.
A few waved.
Jasper waved back.
"That one's Mox," he said, pointing toward a Shade adjusting a lantern string. "Works on lighting for this whole block. Kind of a perfectionist. Nearly killed someone once over a misplaced bulb."
Caroline stared. "You're kidding."
"Nope. Dude almost died over lumens."
He kept pointing as they walked.
"That's Rana. Owns the bakery on 3rd. Best burnt butter rolls this side of the crater."
They turned a corner.
"And that tall one in the vest? That's Deth. Don't talk to Deth."
Caroline frowned. "Why?"
"Deth doesn't speak in words. He sings in hexes. You'll dream of mirrors and not wake up."
A few of the Shades glanced at Jasper as he passed. One nodded. Another waved with a long, four-fingered hand. None of them seemed threatening. If anything, they looked like tired citizens just trying to live between planes.
She didn't speak for a while.
Didn't need to.
The city spoke plenty.
Ahead, the road widened—slate-black and smooth, almost like it had once been used for cars. But there were no wheels here. Just feet. Everyone walked.
A billboard crackled to life across the block, neon blue, animated. Something about a "shade-silk" festival. Another ad ran next to it, showing a half-translucent mask being dipped in purple fire.
Jasper watched her watching it all.
He didn't say anything.
Not yet.
He just kept walking—leading her toward a street that dipped into a small, quieter corner of the city. The kind of place people passed through without ever really looking.
They squeezed through an alley halfway buried in its own shadows.
It shouldn't have been darker than the streets they came from—this was a city built on dimness, after all—but something about the narrow walls, the flickering lamps, the way the air pressed in close... made it feel heavier. Like stepping into a throat.
Caroline brushed against the concrete as they walked, trailing her fingers along the side just to stay steady.
"Hey," she said quietly, "can they talk?"
Jasper glanced back. "The Shades?"
She nodded.
"Yeah. Some do. Some don't. Depends. Language doesn't always work the same when your body's made of memory and residual trauma."
She blinked. "...what?"
He waved a hand like it didn't matter. "They're fine. Mostly. You get used to it."
The silence stretched again.
A lamp sparked above them—brief, static buzz, then dead. They kept walking.
"Y'know," Jasper said after a beat, "I had this dream. Or—nightmare, maybe. Back when the rebellion started. Few weeks ago. Month? Time's weird."
Caroline raised an eyebrow. "What kind of nightmare?"
"I woke up in my room. In the Citadel. But it wasn't the Citadel. It was just... gone. Replaced by this perfect black. No floor. No ceiling. No shadow."
He paused.
"I checked under my shirt. Nothing. Not even a trace. It was like I'd been erased."
Her eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
"I ran. Screamed. Cursed at the void. All that heroic crap."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Then the eyes showed up."
She slowed her pace.
"Millions. Or thousands. Whatever. Didn't count. Just... eyes. Hanging there. Watching. No bodies. No blinking."
He didn't look at her.
"They started talking. Not in words. Just raw thoughts. Begging. Demanding. Hating. Wishing. It was like hearing every prayer that never got answered and every revenge fantasy that never played out. All at once."
Jasper stopped near the end of the alley. Light leaked through a crooked exit ahead, just enough to silhouette his frame.
"But it didn't shake me. Not really."
Caroline frowned. "Why not?"
He turned his head slightly, still half-shadowed.
"Because I already knew what I wanted. Before the eyes. Before the war. Even before Menystria felt like a real place."
She waited.
He spoke quieter now. Not whispering—just less guarded.
"I want to build something. Not a palace. Not a kingdom. Just... a place. Where people come in pissed and leave a little less angry. Where nobody throws a warhammer at your head just because you said the wrong thing about soup."
A pause.
"Somewhere to eat. Drink. Complain. Laugh. Mourn. Sit in silence."
He glanced back at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"I want to build a pub."
The alley spat them out into a clearing.
No buildings. No benches. No lights strung between poles. Just an open space the city had seemingly forgotten—like it had skipped over this block entirely when rebuilding itself.
Caroline stopped.
Off to the left, tucked against the edge of a crumbled wall, sat a building.
It wasn't ruined. But it wasn't alive either.
No windows. No door. No paint, no signage, no attempt at beauty. Just a shell of gray stone and exposed beams, shaped like it used to matter.
They approached slowly.
Jasper climbed in through a side window without hesitation, landing with a thud that kicked up dust.
Caroline reached the front and stepped through the empty doorframe.
The air inside was thick with quiet.
Boxes littered the floor—flattened, torn, scattered like someone had tried moving out in the middle of a fire and forgot halfway through. The counter to the right had been stripped bare, though a large cooler slumped near the edge like a tired animal, wires spilling from its back. She couldn't tell if it was dead or sleeping.
Jasper stood behind the counter, peering through a half-open door.
She followed.
The room behind it was smaller. Maybe an office once—if such things existed here. One plastic chair sat in the corner, its legs crooked, the surface slightly warped. It felt wrong. Not dangerous—just normal. Out of place.
Jasper didn't sit.
He stepped into the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle, eyes wide.
"This is it."
Caroline raised an eyebrow. "This is what?"
"The pub."
She looked around. "It's empty."
"Exactly."
He walked back out into the main space, already gesturing as if tracing walls in the air.
"Second floor goes up there. Rooms for crashing. Private space for me—might even put a second door in the office so I don't have to walk through the bar every time I want to take a nap."
He pointed to the wall behind the counter.
"Bar here. All kinds of drinks. Stuff we can steal from Noah's place. Stuff we'll beg James for. Stuff we'll invent."
He spun toward the opposite wall.
"Kitchen there. Hire someone to run it. One of the Shades—maybe Mox. Or that bot Noah's been working on. What was it called—Toaster-Face?"
Caroline folded her arms. "I think he named it 'Basilisk.'"
"Right. Toaster-Face."
He didn't stop pacing.
Didn't stop seeing it.
A place for people to sit. A place for quiet arguments and loud music. A place that smelled like fried food and ancient whiskey and half-clean floors. A place that meant something.
Caroline didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Jasper had already decided.
Jasper hopped onto the counter, legs crossed like he owned the place.
The wood groaned under his weight. Loud enough to make Caroline flinch.
"If that breaks," she warned, "you're getting impaled by rusted nails."
"Adds flavor," he muttered.
Then, from his coat, he pulled out a phone.
Caroline blinked. "Is that a—"
He gave her a look so sharp it could've filed glass.
"What? You think we don't have phones?"
"I didn't mean—"
"You think just because we've got void magic and root-walls and floating death islands, we don't get signal?"
She looked away, already regretting it. "Sorry."
Jasper rolled his eyes and tapped the screen. The dial tone buzzed once, then twice.
Then jazz.
Scratchy, old, low-tempo jazz poured out of the speaker—some slow horn melody backed by the softest drums this side of existence.
Caroline raised a brow.
"What?" Jasper shrugged. "He put it in himself. Claims it helps with migraines."
The line clicked.
A familiar voice came through.
A voice like iron stretched too thin. Cold. Grounded. Tired.
"...Jasper."
It wasn't quite a question. More like a statement reluctantly spoken.
"What do you want?"
Caroline expected something harsh. Stern. Maybe furious.
But James sounded... mild. Irritated, sure—but not the rage-forged volcano she remembered from the Citadel.
Jasper grinned. "Hey, Pops. Quick one. I want to buy a building."
A pause.
"Abandoned one," Jasper added. "Out in the west district. Block G."
The line went quiet for a few long seconds.
Then James spoke again.
"How long has it been empty?"
Jasper glanced around. "Long enough to rot. Not long enough to fall apart."
"Do you have a blueprint?"
Jasper shrugged. "Mentally."
Another pause.
"Is this going to involve... people?"
Jasper leaned back on his hands.
"Oh, you have no idea."
A sigh crackled through the phone speaker.
Caroline could hear the faint clack of keys in the background. Fast. Precise. James typing something into whatever divine spreadsheet he'd buried inside that eternal database of his.
Jasper didn't rush him. Just sat on the counter, legs swinging slightly, watching dust dance through broken sunlight.
Finally, James spoke again.
"It's for sale."
Jasper grinned. "Knew it."
"And cheap."
"How cheap?"
"Three marks."
Caroline tilted her head. Jasper didn't notice—but she did glance at him a second time, just to be sure she hadn't misheard.
"Three what?" she asked quietly.
He ignored her. For now.
James continued. "No record of previous buyers. No enchantments. No tenants. Just rot."
Jasper smirked. "Perfect."
Another pause.
"Who's funding this?"
"Oh. Uncle Evo."
Silence.
Another sigh. This one louder.
Then the line clicked—cut off mid-exhale. Typical.
Caroline crossed her arms. "Okay. What the hell is a mark?"
Jasper raised an eyebrow like she'd just asked what air was.
"Currency."
"Obviously. But—how much? And what's the system here? Because I've never heard anyone in the ruins talk about... marks."
"Well yeah, they're not exactly running stable markets down there."
She waited.
Jasper finally gave in.
"Alright. Breakdown time. Pay attention."
He raised a finger. "Starts at Stain. That's the lowest. One Stain's enough for stale bread or cheap soup. Ten gets you a trashy room in a worse inn."
He added a second finger. "Next up: Symbol. Think twenty bucks. A full tavern meal or some basic tools."
A third finger joined. "Then Mark. That's what we're dealing in now. Five Symbols equals a Mark. About a hundred credits—or dollars—or whatever you called it where you're from."
Caroline nodded slowly, absorbing it.
"And above that?" she asked.
"Sigils," he said, waving a fourth finger. "Five Marks. That's your heavy stuff. Buying land. Commissioning weapons. Paying someone to 'forget' certain names existed."
She blinked. "And you're buying this entire building for three Marks?"
He shrugged.
"Technically James is letting me buy it. Uncle Evo's footing the bill."
Then he hopped off the counter and clapped the dust off his hands like the deal was already sealed.
Caroline stared at him.
"You're opening a pub."
"Yep."
"With divine permission."
"Kind of."
"And coffee."
"If I don't die before it's brewed, yeah."
Caroline sat down beside him, the counter groaning again under her added weight.
She didn't care.
Not right now.
She let out a slow breath, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Then looked sideways.
"So… now what?"
Jasper leaned back on his elbows, boots lightly tapping the front of the counter.
"Now we wait."
"For what?"
He shrugged. "James. He's bringing the paperwork in person. City law, divine approval, blah blah."
Caroline blinked. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. Can't sign a deed without a witness. Or a thousand-year-old control freak with a stick up his legal system."
She raised an eyebrow. "How long is that gonna take?"
Jasper tapped his foot. "He's probably free right now, but he still has to print everything, grab the Marks from Evo, and make it through his own paperwork pit first. So… twenty minutes."
Then, after a beat, he added: "Forty if they get into a fight."
"With Evodil?"
Jasper grinned. "I bet my last Sigil on it."
Caroline scoffed. "I'd bet too, but I don't have money. Not your kind, anyway."
"Coward."
She bumped his shoulder with hers, not hard. Just enough to register.
He bumped her back, slightly harder.
Then she tilted her head. "Okay. Real question."
He glanced at her.
"How many systems do you guys have like this? Like the money thing. Stuff that's just… unique to Menystria?"
Jasper thought for a second, eyes drifting up to the cracked ceiling.
"Three? That I know of. Currency. Weapon rights. And Oaths."
"Oaths?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Contracts. Promises. Sworn deals. Stuff that glows when it's serious."
She blinked. "Of course it glows."
He chuckled. "Doesn't everything here?"
Caroline didn't answer. Not really a question.
Jasper stretched again, spine cracking once, then added, "But don't take my word for it. I don't live here full-time. I just drink here."
She tilted her head. "Then who should I ask?"
He didn't hesitate.
"The nerd."
"Noah?"
Jasper grinned. "Obviously."
Roughly seventeen—maybe twenty—minutes later, James arrived.
Caroline noticed the orb before she noticed him.
It floated in slow, deliberate loops around his right shoulder. A sphere of warm, golden light about the size of a clenched fist. Encased inside it, suspended like an insect in glass, was a thin sun-shaped symbol—drawn in sharp strokes, more like a sketch than an object. Triangles orbited the circle's edge, spinning faintly in opposite directions.
Jasper waved. "Hey, look who brought the mood lamp."
Caroline squinted. "What is that?"
"That?" He gestured lazily. "Kind of like a god's heart."
Her eyebrows lifted.
"Not literally," he added. "Doesn't explode if you stab it. Just symbolic. Shows emotions. Tells you what not to say before you get vaporized."
She eyed the floating orb again. "So that's James's?"
"Yup."
"And the triangles mean…?"
"He's in a mood to talk. Or at least tolerate. If it was just the sun alone? Even I'd run."
He paused.
"And I don't run from much."
"Do gods always carry them?"
"Nah. Usually hidden. Inside their chest, vault, desk drawer, whatever. But when they float like that? It's a signal."
James stepped into the ruined pub, looking about as thrilled as a man forced to personally deliver mail. His coat fluttered slightly behind him, and the golden orb shifted its orbit—circling tighter now.
He snorted, clearly catching the tail end of Jasper's divine gossip.
"Maybe I should float yours next time," he muttered. "Let people see how often it shrinks around Caroline."
Jasper didn't dignify it with a response.
Caroline looked between them, more confused than insulted. But before she could ask—
Footsteps echoed behind James.
Evodil.
Dragging himself forward.
Slower than usual. Head tilted downward. Still shirtless. Still tired.
And worse—blindfold gone.
"Oh, no," Jasper muttered.
Evodil stepped into the light, eyes half-lidded.
Caroline caught the barest glimpse.
Two black holes.
Deep. Still. Featureless—save for the tiny white dots suspended inside, like stars that didn't twinkle. They didn't move. They didn't need to. Just being near them made the air feel thinner.
Jasper didn't wait.
He slapped a hand over Caroline's face, the other over his own, and yelled, "DON'T LOOK. VOID VISION. BRAIN SUICIDE. DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT—"
Caroline flinched behind his palm.
Evodil chuckled. Low. Bone-dry.
"Relax," he muttered, voice hoarse. "I haven't killed anyone with a stare in weeks."
"Not the comfort you think it is," Jasper grumbled, peeking between his fingers like a kid watching a horror movie.
Caroline slowly lowered his hand. "Was that... real?"
"Too real," Jasper said. "You ever want to hallucinate falling into a black hole until your heart stops, you know who to call."
Evodil raised a hand half-heartedly in greeting.
"Yo."
Evodil didn't bother with the door.
He vaulted through the broken window, landing in a slow crouch before standing upright and dusting himself off like it mattered.
Jasper raised a hand. "Nice. Good style. I did the same thing."
James ignored them both and walked cleanly through the empty doorframe, every step somehow managing to sound disapproving.
Inside, Evodil summoned a single tendril from his shoulder. It curved upward like smoke, then wrapped itself gently across his eyes. A blindfold, more or less—living, twitching, but effective.
James narrowed his eyes. "Where's the real one?"
Evodil coughed into his arm. "Put it somewhere. Can't remember where. Maybe under the coffee machine. Maybe in the tree."
Jasper blinked. "What tree?"
"Exactly."
Caroline watched all of this unfold with the exhausted patience of someone trapped in a room full of overpowered, under-rested theater kids.
Evodil continued, voice raspier than usual. "Shades don't die from my eyes, anyway. Not really. That's why I filled the crater with them. Keeps the place lively."
James didn't comment.
Instead, he approached Jasper and handed him a clipboard and a pen.
"Sign here," he said. "Then here. Initial that box. And if you cause a structural breach that destabilizes the island's gravity field, that's on you."
Jasper nodded without looking up. "Got it."
James kept going, voice flat, deliberate. "As stated under Article 9 of the Menystrian Foundry Code: 'Any property seized, purchased, or granted to a mortal shall be subject to divine review if—'"
"No explosions," Jasper cut in.
"Correct."
"Cool."
Caroline blinked. "Wait, that's it?"
Jasper signed the last box with a flourish. "That's it."
James took the clipboard back.
Just like that, the building belonged to Jasper.
The keys didn't exist, the deed was encoded in runes, and the roof still had a hole—but none of that mattered.
This place was his.
He looked around the hollow room like he was seeing it for the first time, even though he'd already seen its future in his head.
It would stand.
And it would matter.
He wasn't letting it fall. Not in a day. Not ever.
Then he turned to Evodil.
"You named the city, right?"
Evodil raised a brow. "Depends who's telling the story."
Jasper nodded. "Good enough. Name the pub."
Evodil paused.
Thought about it.
Several names passed behind his expression—some too long, some too stupid, some probably cursed.
Then he smiled.
Small.
Crooked.
"...Astral Pub."
Jasper grinned.
Caroline blinked. "Huh."
James sighed. Again.
The orb still circled his shoulder.
And in the middle of a ruined block, on a forgotten floating island, something new had just begun.
Evodil clapped Jasper on the back—not hard, but enough to make the counter creak beneath them.
"Congrats," he said, voice low. "You've got your own place now. Try not to get arrested in it."
Then, without another word, he turned and vaulted back out the window.
Landed without a sound. A flicker of shadow where he hit the ground, then nothing.
James followed a moment later—less dramatic, more inevitable. He walked through the doorframe with the same quiet finality he walked into everything else.
"Goodbye, son," he muttered.
And then kept walking.
Didn't spare a glance for Caroline. Just passed her like air and exited into the alley.
She watched him disappear, then turned toward the window. "Where's he going?"
Evodil, halfway into dissolving, paused mid-step.
"Sunday visit. Gotta prepare."
"To who?"
He shrugged, his form already thinning into static. "Old friends."
Then he turned slightly toward Jasper.
"Take her back to the Manor before the bigger ones start walking around."
Caroline blinked. "Bigger—?"
Jasper's hand moved to his katana.
"I can handle it," he said.
Evodil's smile lingered just a little too long.
To Caroline, he added, "When you get bored of surface-level answers, visit the biggest nerd in the crater."
Then corrected himself.
"Or… below it."
And with that, he vanished.
No flash. No sound. Just gone—like he'd never been standing there at all.
James was already out of sight.
Caroline stood in the doorway of the building Jasper now owned. She glanced around once more. The broken walls. The cracked floor. The empty office.
It was real.
All of it.
But one thing still itched in her brain.
"What did he mean by 'below the crater'?"
Jasper started walking, motioning for her to follow as he led the way back toward the Citadel.
"The Underground District."
Caroline followed, steps slower now.
"Is it… dangerous?"
Jasper smirked without looking back.
"Welcome to Menystria."