The copper staircase ended.
Not at a floor—at gravity's funeral.
Dylan's next step met nothing, and the world dropped him into a shaft of amber light. Wind bit his ears. The fork on his back hummed, drinking the static like a stray cat at a milk bowl.
> [Gravity inverted – 3 s until impact]
[Recoil → Speed conversion: 15 %]
[Suggested action: Channel]
"Already on it," he hissed.
He spun the Lightning Fork mid-air. Tines scraped the shaft wall—CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—each spark shaving speed. Recoil funneled into his calves; boots kissed the wall, ran it sideways, then pushed off.
He landed crouched inside a cavern so wide the ceiling was star-dust and the floor was noise.
> [Prerequisite 3/3: Survive the bell ceremony – COMPLETE]
[New milestone: Reach the Origin Pipe before the Well drinks your name.]
Dylan straightened, eyes sweeping.
A perfect circle of marble—arena-sized—floated in the void, supported by nothing. At its center: the Origin Pipe, now glass-clear, revealing a liquid gear that turned ideas into math.
The Resonance Well.
Around the rim: thirty-nine desks.
Thirty-nine students.
One empty chair.
> [Seats remaining: 1]
[Course: Basement Level Zero – Theory of Want]
[Professor: ???]
Applicants noticed him. Masks lifted. Goggles flared. A mercury-armored girl—the same from the amphitheatre—waved two fingers, friendly as a scalpel.
"Rat-bait made it down," she mused. "Wallet or wit?"
"Both," Dylan answered. "But I pay interest."
She laughed once, then turned back to the Well.
A bronze gong floated above the circle. No rope, no striker—just waiting.
Rules unrolled across Dylan's retina like ticker tape:
> 1. State your price.
2. The Well will match it.
3. If you flinch, you become tuition.
Simple. Terrifying.
Student #021 stepped forward first—a boy in noble blue, crest of the Royal Aether Hall blazing on his collar.
"I offer ten million credits and the loyalty of my House," he declared, voice echoing off star-dust.
The Well pulsed. The liquid gear spun faster. A sigil rose through the glass—a golden contract.
> [Offer accepted. Equivalent desire detected.]
[Payment method: future tense – House to fall within nine years.]
Noble-boy paled, but nodded. The contract burned into his forearm like a stock-ticker of fate. Seat #021 glowed green—payment collateralized.
One by one, applicants priced themselves.
- A blind swordswoman offered her reflection.
- A merchant prince offered the memory of his first betrayal.
- A clockwork nun offered the sound of her heartbeat—forever.
Each time, the Well matched, signed, sealed. Seats glowed. The circle shrank—not in size, but in mercy.
Ten left.
Five.
Two.
Dylan and mercury-girl.
She went first.
"I offer my next victory," she said, voice smooth as poured silver. "No matter who I must kill, betray, or become."
The Well shivered, hungry. Contract rose—mirror-bright.
> [Offer accepted. Next victory guaranteed. Price: morality variable.]
She signed with a drop of liquid metal from her fingertip. Seat glowed. She sat, armor humming approval.
One chair.
Every eye turned to #013.
Dylan stepped forward. Lightning Fork rested on his shoulder—five charges, two already spent surviving the stairs. He met the turning gear inside the Well and smiled the way lightning smiles—brief, bright, destructive.
"I offer the memory of my first storm," he said. "Already taken, already gone. You want interest? Take the echo instead."
He raised the fork and struck the marble floor.
CRACK-BOOM!
Five charges released at once.
Lightning bit the circle, raced the rim, bit every glowing contract in passing. Recoil slammed into Dylan's bones—15 % converted to speed, 85 % to pain—but the echo of his stolen storm rode the current, howling into the Well.
The liquid gear screamed—metal on metal, math on math. Contracts flickered, numbers rewriting themselves. Seats strobed red. Applicants clutched their forearms as interest rates doubled, tripled, compounded.
Dylan rode the wave, boots skating the marble, and dove head-first into the Origin Pipe itself.
Cold.
Wet.
Silent.
He floated inside the gear, pupils dilated, every equation that ever described want carving itself into his skin.
> [Offer accepted – payment: variable interest on collective debt.]
[Seat #013 secured via chaos arbitrage.]
[Warning: you now owe the Well a favor.]
He laughed, bubbles escaping like stock-tickers.
Splash!
The pipe spat him back onto the marble. He landed kneeling, skin tattooed in golden ratios, fork molten at the tip.
The gong rang—once—and the Well sealed, gear slowing, sated.
Thirty-nine seats glowed green.
Thirty-nine contracts rewritten.
One favor bookmarked.
Ledger—mask of Coin—tilted her head, ink-veins pulsing approval. "Class is in session, debtor."
A door melted open beneath the pipe, revealing a spiral classroom that descended into starlight.
Dylan stood, tattoos fading to skin-tone, pain converting to grin.
He bowed to the Well, polite as a knife.
"See you at collection day."
Then he walked into the starlight, thirty-eight new classmates behind him, all owing interest on the chaos he'd arbitraged.
> [Course: Basement Level Zero – Theory of Want]
[Professor: the Well itself.]
[First homework: don't die before mid-term.]
Behind him, the gong hovered, waiting for the next late student.
Tuition rates rising.
Interest compounding.
Favor bookmarked.
He descended, smiling the way lightning smiles—
brief, bright, already counting the interest on tomorrow's storm.