The training chamber existed in defiance of geometry.
Grimm stepped through the doorway and found himself not in a room but in a space—a vast hexagonal void where gravity seemed to operate by suggestion rather than law. The floor beneath his boots was obsidian, polished to a mirror finish that reflected nothing, not even his own shadow. The walls, if they could be called walls, shifted between states of matter: stone becoming glass becoming something that might have been frozen smoke.
Pythagoras (Peranos in the ancient tongue) stood at the chamber's center, his black robes absorbing the ambient light like a singularity.
"You're early." The ancient wizard didn't turn. "Seventeen minutes, thirty-two seconds. The absolute rationality makes you punctual, I suppose. Predictable."
"Predictability is a tactical advantage."
"Is it?" Pythagoras finally faced him, and his storm-cloud eyes held depths that made Grimm's dimensional sensitivity ache with recognition. "In combat, perhaps. In learning? Predictability is a cage."
He gestured, and the chamber responded. The walls solidified into something resembling a library—shelves rising into infinity, each bearing artifacts that hummed with contained power. A table materialized between them, its surface a single sheet of crystal that showed, when viewed at certain angles, the ghostly outlines of mathematical equations in constant flux.
"Sit."
Grimm sat. The chair that formed beneath him adjusted to his posture with organic precision, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable—simply appropriate.
"Your evaluation revealed exceptional dimensional sensitivity," Pythagoras began, producing a small object from his robes. It was a prism, simple in design, but the light that passed through it fractured into colors that had no names in any language Grimm knew. "Class-S at Rank 1. Unprecedented. Do you know what that means?"
"It means I possess capabilities that exceed standard parameters for my rank."
"It means," Pythagoras corrected, placing the prism on the crystal table, "that you are a statistical impossibility. The Holy Tower's records contain three hundred years of dimensional sensitivity measurements. You exceed the ninety-ninth percentile by a margin that shouldn't exist."
The prism rotated slowly, casting patterns across the chamber that seemed to sketch diagrams of impossible structures.
"Most formal wizards spend their first decade mastering elemental theory. Fire, water, earth, air—the classical foundations. You will not." Pythagoras's voice carried the weight of decision already made. "Elemental theory is a ladder. For most, necessary. For you? A waste of time."
Grimm processed this. "You intend to accelerate my training."
"I intend to customize it." Pythagoras produced a second object—a scroll that unrolled itself across the table, revealing not text but a three-dimensional diagram of what Grimm recognized as the human spiritual system. "The standard curriculum assumes linear progression. Rank 1 masters basics. Rank 2 develops specialization. Rank 3 achieves integration. But your dimensional sensitivity suggests non-linear capability."
He pointed to a node in the diagram that pulsed with violet light. "This is where conventional theory locates dimensional perception—in the upper spiritual centers, accessible only after significant advancement. Your evaluation suggests you access it here." His finger moved to a lower node, one that glowed with the same violet hue in the diagram. "At the foundation. Simultaneously with basic perception."
"The Fire Fusion Orb," Grimm said, understanding. "Its integration altered my spiritual architecture."
"Partially." Pythagoras's eyes narrowed. "The Orb is a catalyst, not a cause. Something in your essential nature responds to dimensional energies. The Orb simply... amplified what was already present."
He rolled up the scroll, and it vanished into his robes. "Your first lesson, then. Not elemental theory. Not combat technique. Something more fundamental."
The chamber shifted again. The library shelves dissolved, replaced by a simulation—Grimm recognized it as the dimensional gap, that impossible space between worlds where his sensitivity allowed him to perceive what others could not. But this was controlled, contained, a training construct rather than the real thing.
"Show me," Pythagoras commanded. "Show me how you see."
Grimm focused. The absolute rationality that governed his consciousness settled into observation mode, and he extended his perception toward the simulated gap. The Fire Fusion Orb warmed against his chest, responding to the proximity of dimensional energies even in this artificial form.
He saw.
Not with eyes—eyes were limited, bound to electromagnetic spectra, to physical photons. He saw with that other sense, the one that had awakened during Ravenna's sacrifice, the one that recognized the spaces between as intimately as the spaces within.
The dimensional gap was not empty. It was full—full of currents and pressures and entities that moved through geometries that had no names. Grimm perceived them as patterns, as mathematical relationships made manifest, as music composed in a scale that human ears couldn't hear.
"Interesting." Pythagoras's voice came from somewhere distant. "You perceive structure. Most sensitives perceive only chaos."
"Chaos is merely pattern at insufficient resolution."
A sound that might have been laughter. "Yes. That is precisely the perspective I hoped for."
The simulation dissolved. The chamber returned to its neutral state—hexagonal void, obsidian floor, shifting walls.
"Your training will proceed in three phases," Pythagoras said. "First, dimensional theory—the mathematics and metaphysics of the spaces between. Second, practical application—techniques for utilizing your sensitivity in combat and exploration. Third, and most difficult, integration—learning to exist simultaneously in multiple perceptual frameworks without losing coherence."
"Timeframe?"
"The thirty years I mentioned is a formality. A bureaucratic convenience." Pythagoras's smile held edges. "You will advance at the pace your capabilities allow. If that means five years, so be it. If that means fifty..." He paused, letting the implication settle. "Well. We shall see."
He produced the iron key that Grimm had received yesterday, holding it up so that it caught the chamber's ambient light. "My private library. You have access. But understand—knowledge without foundation is dangerous. The texts there contain truths that have driven lesser minds to madness. You will read only what I approve, when I approve it."
"Understood."
"No." Pythagoras's voice sharpened. "You don't understand. Not yet. You think you do—the absolute rationality processes my words, files them appropriately, constructs compliance matrices. But understanding requires something beyond processing. It requires... accommodation. The willingness to let knowledge change you."
He placed the key on the table between them. "Your first assignment. Read the text I leave in your quarters tonight. Not with your mind—with your sensitivity. Let it resonate. Tomorrow, you will tell me what changed."
The chamber door opened, dismissal implicit.
Grimm stood, taking the key. "What is the text?"
"A journal." Pythagoras turned away, his robes whispering against the shifting air. "The last student who attempted my training kept it. Study it well, Grimm. He was very much like you."
The door closed behind him, leaving Grimm alone in the corridor with the key heavy in his palm.
Very much like you.
The private library occupied space that shouldn't exist.
Grimm inserted the iron key into a door that appeared only when he approached it—a door set into a wall that had been blank stone moments before. The key turned with a sound like distant thunder, and the door opened onto a chamber that extended further than the Holy Tower's external dimensions should have allowed.
Shelves. Endless shelves, rising into shadows that his enhanced vision couldn't penetrate. The air smelled of old paper and older magic, of knowledge accumulated over centuries and preserved through means that probably violated several natural laws.
He stepped inside.
The door closed behind him, and the chamber adjusted. Lighting emerged from nowhere—soft, amber, the color of candlelight without the flicker. A path illuminated itself on the floor, leading between shelves that seemed to rearrange subtly as he passed, presenting volumes that might have been relevant to his current studies.
The journal waited on a reading desk at the chamber's center.
It was bound in leather that might once have been human skin, though Grimm's sensitivity suggested something more complex—layered, dimensional, material that existed in multiple states simultaneously. The pages within were filled with handwriting that shifted when viewed directly, resolving into legible text only when seen peripherally.
Day 1 of training. Pythagoras says I perceive structure where others perceive chaos. He seems pleased.
Grimm turned pages. The entries continued, documenting a training regimen similar to what Pythagoras had described—dimensional theory, practical application, integration exercises. The handwriting grew more precise as the entries progressed, then began to deteriorate.
Day 127. The spaces between are not empty. I see them now—the currents, the entities, the patterns. Pythagoras says this is progress.
Day 289. I can hear them. The dimensional entities. They whisper mathematics that human minds weren't meant to process. Pythagoras says I must learn to filter.
Day 412. The filtering isn't working. The whispers come through regardless. I see the patterns everywhere now—not just in the dimensional gap, but in the physical world. In people. In myself. We are all just... geometries. Temporary arrangements of forces that could dissolve at any moment.
The handwriting became erratic, the entries shorter.
Day 500. Pythagoras says I lack foundation. He says I tried to run before learning to walk. He says—
The entry ended mid-sentence.
Grimm turned the page and found not text but a diagram—a complex geometric pattern that seemed to move when viewed, that pulled at his dimensional sensitivity with hypnotic force. He recognized it: a representation of the spiritual system, but twisted, distorted, showing pathways that shouldn't exist, connections that violated the standard architecture.
A note in Pythagoras's hand, added later in different ink:
Marcus Vane. Rank 1. Class-A dimensional sensitivity. Attempted integration at Day 500 without adequate preparation. Result: dimensional dissolution. Body recovered. Consciousness... dispersed. A lesson in patience. Remember: three successes in two hundred years of my teaching. The path is narrow, the fall eternal.
Grimm studied the diagram. The absolute rationality processed the information, constructed risk assessments, calculated probabilities. Marcus Vane had attempted something—some technique, some perception—that his spiritual architecture couldn't support. The result was death, but not ordinary death. Dimensional dissolution. Scattered across the infinite spaces between worlds.
He turned more pages. The journal continued, but the handwriting changed—different students, different attempts, different failures. Pythagoras had been teaching dimensional sensitivity for two centuries, and the record was... sobering.
Elena Cross. Rank 2. Class-B sensitivity. Survived integration but lost emotional capacity. Now serves as dimensional navigator for expeditionary forces.
Thomas Wren. Rank 1. Class-A sensitivity. Refused integration training. Specializes in dimensional detection, avoidance of dimensional hazards. Functional but limited.
Kael Voss. Rank 3. Class-S sensitivity. Successful integration. Currently Rank 6, serving as World Lord. One of three successes in two hundred years.
Three successes in two hundred years.
The statistics were stark. Dimensional sensitivity at Class-S level represented extraordinary potential, but the training mortality rate was... significant. Pythagoras's methods produced results, but they also produced casualties.
Grimm closed the journal. Sat in the amber light. Processing.
Risk assessment: acceptable.
He stood, returning the journal to its place on the desk. The path illuminated itself again, leading him toward a different section of the library—texts on dimensional theory, the mathematics of the spaces between, the physics of interstitial existence.
The first volume that presented itself was titled The Geometry of Between: A Treatise on Dimensional Topology. Grimm took it, feeling the weight of knowledge in his hands.
Tomorrow, he would tell Pythagoras what had changed.
Tonight, he would begin building the foundation that Marcus Vane had lacked.
Millie Frostwhisper stood before her family's ancestral shrine and felt the weight of three hundred years of expectations pressing down upon her shoulders.
The shrine occupied the highest chamber of the Frostwhisper enclave within the Holy Tower—a privilege of status, of ancient alliance, of power accumulated across generations. Ice formed the walls here, not as decoration but as manifestation. The Frostwhisper bloodline carried elemental affinity so strong that it shaped the environment around them, freezing moisture from the air, lowering temperature by mere presence.
She had learned to control it, of course. Control was the first lesson any Frostwhisper received. Uncontrolled, the affinity would isolate, would destroy, would transform the bearer into something beautiful and inhuman and alone.
The shrine held statues of her ancestors—great ice wizards who had served the Holy Tower since its founding. Matriarchs and patriarchs who had shaped policy, led expeditions, died in service to wizard civilization. Their eyes, carved from glacial sapphire, seemed to follow her as she moved through the chamber.
The Frostwhisper family had risen to prominence during the Abyss Incursion two centuries past, when their ice magic proved uniquely effective against the demonic hordes. Since then, they had maintained their position through careful alliance, strategic marriage, and ruthless calculation of risk versus reward. They were known throughout the Holy Tower as the "Frozen Calculators"—a name that carried both respect and subtle fear.
"You requested this meeting, granddaughter."
The voice came from behind her. Millie turned, schooling her expression into the appropriate mask of respect.
Matriarch Frostwhisper stood in the doorway, and her presence made the chamber's temperature drop further. She was ancient—even by wizard standards, where longevity was measured in millennia rather than decades. Her hair was white not from age but from elemental manifestation, each strand a filament of frozen air. Her eyes were the pale blue of deep ice, and they saw everything.
"I have concerns," Millie said. "About our investment in Grimm."
"Concerns." The Matriarch moved into the chamber, her footsteps leaving patterns of frost that faded slowly. "The Frostwhisper family does not concern itself with concerns. We calculate. We decide. We act."
"Then let me present calculations." Millie straightened, meeting her grandmother's eyes. "Grimm has been assigned to Pythagoras. The training will accelerate his advancement—potentially significantly. But Pythagoras's methods carry mortality rates that—"
"Are acceptable," the Matriarch interrupted. "For the potential return."
"He could die."
"He could also become the first Class-S dimensional sensitive to achieve Saint-level in three centuries." The Matriarch's voice carried no emotion—only the certainty of someone who had made such calculations thousands of times. "Do you know what that would mean for the Frostwhisper family?"
Millie knew. She had run the scenarios herself, constructed the probability matrices, calculated the strategic advantages. A Saint-level ally with dimensional capabilities would transform the family's position within the Holy Tower hierarchy. Access to dimensional travel without World Lord intermediaries. Influence over expeditionary planning. Protection against the family's enemies.
"The potential return justifies the risk," she acknowledged. "But my concern is not financial."
The Matriarch's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"
Millie opened her mouth. Closed it. The words were dangerous—admission of attachment, of emotion, of the very qualities that wizard training was designed to eliminate. But the Matriarch had asked directly, and evasion would be noted.
"I have... invested in this relationship." The word tasted strange on her tongue, too small for what she felt. "Time. Attention. Strategic positioning." She listed them like assets on a ledger, hoping the Matriarch would hear only the calculation. "If Grimm dies during training, those investments are lost."
"Investments." The Matriarch tasted the word. "Yes. That is an acceptable framing."
She moved to the shrine, her fingers tracing the features of her own mother's statue. "You care for this boy."
"I—" Millie stopped. Denial would be transparent. "I recognize his value. I have positioned myself as his ally, his... friend, within the Holy Tower structure. If he dies, I must rebuild those relationships with whoever replaces him."
"And if he lives?"
"Then my position is strengthened. I am the one who protected him during evaluation. The one who warned him about Pythagoras. The one who—" She caught herself. "The one who established early alliance."
The Matriarch turned, and her ice-blue eyes held something that might have been assessment or might have been understanding. "You speak of positioning, investment, strategic value. But your spiritual resonance tells a different story."
Millie felt the familiar pressure of her grandmother's perception—ice-elemental sensitivity turned inward, reading the thermal patterns of emotion, the heat signatures of attachment. It was a Frostwhisper family secret technique, passed down through generations: the ability to perceive emotional states through temperature variations in the blood.
"The Frostwhisper affinity reveals truth through temperature," the Matriarch said softly. "Your blood runs warm when you speak of him. Warmer than strategy requires."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the subtle song of ice forming and reforming in the chamber's atmosphere.
"Attachment is weakness," Millie finally said. "I know this."
"Attachment is risk," the Matriarch corrected. "Different thing. Risk can be managed. Calculated. Integrated into strategy." She moved closer, close enough that Millie could feel the cold radiating from her grandmother's ancient body. "But you must be honest with yourself about what you feel. Dishonesty creates blind spots. Blind spots create vulnerability."
"And if I acknowledge the attachment?"
"Then you manage it. As you manage your elemental affinity—channeling it, controlling it, using it without letting it use you." The Matriarch's hand rose, touching Millie's cheek with fingers that burned with cold. "The boy is interesting. Unique. His absolute rationality makes him predictable in ways that most wizards are not. But it also makes him... limited. He will never reciprocate what you feel. Not in the way you might wish."
"I know."
"Do you?" The Matriarch withdrew her hand. "Then you are wiser than I was at your age. I too loved someone who could not love me back. A fire-elemental wizard, ironically—our affinities were incompatible in every possible way. But I pursued the connection regardless."
"What happened?"
"He died." The Matriarch's voice carried no emotion—only the weight of centuries. "Not from our incompatibility, but from the war. The Abyss incursion, two hundred years ago. I survived. He did not. And I have often wondered whether the time I spent pursuing the impossible might have been better spent on... possible things."
She turned back to the shrine, her ancient shoulders bearing burdens that Millie could only imagine.
"The family's investment in Grimm continues," the Matriarch said. "But your personal involvement... that is your choice. I will not command you to withdraw, nor to pursue. Only to be honest with yourself about the costs."
Millie bowed, the formal gesture of respect that the moment required. "I understand."
"No." The Matriarch's voice followed her as she moved toward the door. "You don't. Not yet. But you will."
The chamber door closed behind her, leaving Millie alone in the corridor.
The warmth in her blood that no amount of ice could freeze.
The combat simulation chamber bore no resemblance to the training space where Grimm had received his first lesson.
This was a arena—circular, sand-floored, surrounded by barriers that hummed with containment magic. The ceiling was open to a sky that wasn't real, showing constellations that shifted too rapidly, that suggested the chamber existed in multiple temporal frameworks simultaneously.
Pythagoras stood at the arena's edge, his robes stirring in a wind that had no source. "Your evaluation tested elemental affinity and dimensional sensitivity. It did not test combat capability. That changes today."
Grimm said nothing. The absolute rationality had already shifted into combat mode, processing the environment, calculating angles, assessing the containment barriers' strength.
"Your opponent."
A figure materialized in the arena's center—not human, not entirely physical. It was a construct of force and geometry, a three-dimensional shadow that moved with the jerky precision of something operating on pure mathematical logic. Its form suggested a predator, all angles and edges, but the details shifted when viewed directly.
"Dimensional entity simulation," Pythagoras explained. "Rank 2 equivalent. It perceives and attacks through dimensional channels as well as physical ones. Standard combat techniques will be insufficient."
The construct attacked. No wind-up, no shift in posture—just translation. One moment distant; the next, claws of compressed space slashing toward his throat. The attack bypassed physical distance, operating through the same dimensional channels that Grimm's sensitivity allowed him to perceive.
He moved.
Not fast—fast was irrelevant against dimensional translation. He moved correctly, shifting his spiritual resonance to occupy a slightly different dimensional frequency, making himself momentarily inaccessible to the construct's attack vector.
The claws passed through where he had been, and Grimm responded with fire.
Not ordinary fire—elemental fire shaped by will and channeled through the Fire Fusion Orb's integration. Golden flames that burned not just matter but the dimensional connections that allowed the construct to exist. The attack struck home, and the construct shuddered, its geometric form destabilizing.
"Good." Pythagoras's voice was clinical assessment. "You used dimensional evasion instinctively. The integration has progressed further than I estimated."
The construct recovered, reforming its damaged geometry. This time it attacked differently—not translation but extension, stretching its form through dimensional space to strike from multiple angles simultaneously.
He couldn't evade all of them. The absolute rationality calculated probabilities, identified the least damaging option, and he moved to intercept the primary attack while accepting minor damage from secondary vectors.
Pain—sharp, cold, the sensation of space itself cutting into his shoulder. He ignored it, focusing on the counterattack.
The Fire Fusion Orb blazed. Golden traceries erupted across his skin, the visible manifestation of his dimensional sensitivity activating to full capacity. He saw the construct's core now—not the shifting geometry of its physical form, but the dimensional anchor that sustained its existence in this simulation.
He struck there.
Fire shaped by dimensional perception, burning not the construct's body but the mathematical relationship that allowed it to exist. The attack was precise, surgical, leveraging his Class-S sensitivity in ways that no Rank 1 wizard should have been capable of.
The construct dissolved.
Not destroyed—unmade. Its dimensional anchor severed, its geometric form lost coherence, and it scattered into the ambient energy of the simulation chamber.
Grimm stood alone in the arena, breathing hard, golden light still flickering across his skin. His shoulder wound bled slowly, the blood seeming too dark against the sand.
"Interesting." Pythagoras entered the arena, his ancient eyes studying Grimm with renewed intensity. "You didn't use any technique I taught you. That was instinct. Raw capability channeled by your... unique architecture."
"Is that acceptable?"
"Acceptable?" Pythagoras smiled, and the expression held genuine warmth. "It's exceptional. Marcus Vane survived six months before he could perceive dimensional anchors. You did it in your first combat session."
He gestured, and medical constructs emerged from the arena's walls, moving toward Grimm's wound. "The training will continue tomorrow. Same time. But now I understand better what we're working with."
"And what is that?"
"Potential," Pythagoras said, "that exceeds even my optimistic estimates."
The mission briefing chamber was smaller than Grimm expected.
Not the grand amphitheater of Academy war councils, not the intimidating void of the interrogation chamber. This was a simple room—stone walls, wooden table, chairs that were merely chairs rather than thrones or diagnostic platforms. A single window overlooked the Holy Tower's central courtyard, where Hunters moved through their daily routines with the purposeful efficiency of an organization at permanent war.
Pythagoras sat at the table's head. To his right, a woman in administrative gray—Mission Coordinator Vex, according to the insignia on her collar. To his left, an empty chair that Grimm understood was meant for him.
"Sit," Pythagoras said. "We have business to discuss."
Grimm sat. The chair was uncomfortable in precisely calibrated ways—designed to maintain alertness rather than encourage relaxation.
"Your training has progressed... rapidly," Mission Coordinator Vex began, consulting a tablet of obsidian. "More rapidly than standard protocols allow. Normally, a Rank 1 Hunter requires five years of preparation before first world assignment."
"And?"
"And your mentor has requested an exception." Vex's voice carried the particular neutrality of someone who disapproved but lacked authority to prevent. "He believes you are ready for supervised field experience."
"I agree with his assessment."
"Of course you do." Vex's eyes met his, and Grimm detected the professional evaluation in her gaze—assessment of risk, calculation of outcomes, the same processes that governed his own thinking. "The Committee has approved the request, with conditions."
She slid a folder across the table. Grimm opened it to find mission parameters, intelligence briefings, risk assessments—all the documentation that preceded a world assignment.
"The target is designated World 7-19-Alpha. A small world, recently discovered, containing ruins of a pre-Cataclysm civilization. Standard survey and resource assessment mission." Vex's voice became more formal, reciting parameters. "Low probability of hostile entities. Moderate probability of environmental hazards. High probability of valuable archaeological data."
"Duration?"
"Three weeks standard, with two-week extension option. You will be accompanied by a senior Hunter—supervision requirement for all first assignments."
Grimm processed this. Supervision was logical—Rank 1 capabilities, however exceptional, were insufficient for independent world operations. The senior Hunter would provide experience, judgment, emergency support if dimensional or combat situations exceeded his capacity.
"Who is the supervisor?"
"That hasn't been determined yet." Vex closed her tablet. "Assignments are being finalized. You'll be notified within forty-eight hours."
Pythagoras spoke for the first time since Grimm entered. "The mission is appropriate for your capabilities. World 7-19-Alpha has dimensional anomalies—minor ones, but sufficient to test your sensitivity in field conditions. The ruins may contain artifacts relevant to your training."
"And if they don't?"
"Then you will have gained field experience that no simulation can provide." Pythagoras's eyes held depths that Grimm was learning to read—assessment, expectation, something that might have been concern filtered through centuries of watching students succeed and fail. "The training chamber can teach technique. Only the field can teach judgment."
Mission Coordinator Vex stood, gathering her materials. "Forty-eight hours, Hunter Grimm. Use them to prepare. The quartermaster's office will provide standard expedition equipment. Your mentor may authorize additional resources."
She left, her footsteps echoing in the corridor beyond.
Grimm remained seated, studying the mission folder. World 7-19-Alpha. Pre-Cataclysm ruins. Dimensional anomalies. The parameters suggested moderate challenge—sufficient to test his capabilities without presenting existential risk.
"You have concerns," Pythagoras said. Not a question.
"I have calculations. The mission parameters suggest acceptable risk-to-reward ratio. But the supervision requirement introduces variables I cannot control."
"The senior Hunter will be... compatible." Pythagoras's voice carried implications that Grimm couldn't fully decode. "I have made certain arrangements."
"Arrangements?"
"The Holy Tower is a political entity, Grimm. Never forget that. Power flows through channels that have nothing to do with capability and everything to do with alliance." Pythagoras stood, moving to the window overlooking the courtyard. "Your assignment to my tutelage created... interest. Other factions wish to observe, to assess, to determine whether you represent threat or opportunity."
"And your arrangements?"
"Ensure that observation does not become interference." Pythagoras turned back, his ancient face illuminated by the afternoon light. "Prepare for your mission, student. The field will teach you things that no library can. And when you return... we will discuss what you have learned."
He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "One more thing. The ruins on World 7-19-Alpha—they are not merely pre-Cataclysm. Our preliminary surveys suggest they may predate the Wizard World's current cycle. Ancient beyond ancient. If you find anything... unusual... you will report to me directly. Not to the Mission Coordinator. Not to the Committee. To me."
"Understood."
"Do you?" Pythagoras smiled, the expression holding secrets. "Perhaps. In time, you will understand more."
The door closed behind him, leaving Grimm alone with the mission folder and the weight of his mentor's final words.
Ancient beyond ancient.
Unusual findings.
Direct reporting.
The absolute rationality processed the implications, constructed scenarios, calculated probabilities. Something about this mission was not what it appeared to be. Pythagoras had plans within plans, interests that extended beyond simple training.
Grimm gathered the folder and moved toward the door. Forty-eight hours to prepare. Equipment to requisition, techniques to review, contingencies to plan.
His first world assignment awaited.
And somewhere in the ruins of World 7-19-Alpha, something ancient slept—waiting to be found.