"Alright. After that display, and hearing you vote, I guess I'll inform you of my Otherrealm." Morres exhaled, a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry centuries of reluctance. His shoulders hunched slightly, as if the weight of memory pressed down on him. "I want you to imagine the dirtiest world possible. Not dirty like soot on your hands or dust on your boots—dirty in the way rot spreads, in the way disease takes root in the marrow. Partly because my world is Other-infested. Viraloids"

His voice lingered on that last word, sharp enough to silence the room.

Most of us didn't need him to elaborate. The images came unbidden—dark alleys choked with stench, creatures that shouldn't exist dragging themselves through ruin. I swallowed hard. Everyone else seemed to do the same, except Fallias, who tilted her head like a curious bird.

"One. What's a Viraloid? Two, what happens during their outbreak?" she asked abruptly, cutting through the tension with her bluntness. Her tone wasn't mocking or dismissive—it was serious, urgent. She knew she was the only one who didn't understand, and she refused to pretend otherwise.

Ranah answered before Morres could. Her voice was clinical, crisp, but underneath it carried a note of unease. "A Viraloid is a pathogenic Other. Not just a beast, not just a shadow—it's a sickness that thinks. It infects a host and twists their mind and body, reshaping them into something resembling a rotting hulk. Flesh sags, bone juts through where it shouldn't, and whatever the person once was gets buried beneath hunger. A Viraloid outbreak is a very polite term for a 'zombie' outbreak in most Otherrealms."

Fallias blinked, her lips pulling into a thin line. "…Lovely."

"Quite." Morres inclined his head, though the grimness in his eyes never softened. "Understand this: Dominus are forbidden from interfering with events in their Otherrealms. Usually. Ninety-nine percent of the time. My hands are tied more often than not. But I can…stretch things. I can allow you in as visitors. However—" his voice darkened, low and steady—"you'll basically have to cleanse the infestation before you get back. There is no halfway. You step into my world, you commit."

The air thickened with silence. I could feel it pressing against my chest like a weight.

"How do we do that?" I finally asked. The words slipped from me before I could stop them. My throat felt dry, but I needed to know.

Morres folded his arms. His eyes, pale as bone, scanned each of us before settling back on me. "That is simple. Simple does not mean easy."

He raised one finger. "First, restore the Tower of Dreams. It was the heart of the world's balance, and without it, the infection spreads unchecked. The tower is not just stone and mortar—it is consciousness made manifest. Reviving it means navigating its halls and passing its trials. Fail, and it will consume you."

A second finger rose. "Second, eliminate the Viraloid Queen. The source of the plague, the hive-mind incarnate. She is not a monster you simply strike down. She adapts. Learns. The more you resist, the more cunning she becomes. Think of her less as a beast and more as a disease given a body."

And then a third finger. "Third, create a territory free of infection. A sanctum, a bastion. Once all three of these tasks are accomplished, the infestation will collapse in on itself. It will starve. It will wither. The world will begin to breathe again."

He lowered his hand and released a slow breath, as though speaking the words aloud made them heavier. "Only then can you leave my Otherrealm intact. Only then will it release you."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Ten, usually quick to scoff or mutter some biting remark, stayed quiet. I could see her jaw tense, her eyes narrowing as though measuring the scale of the fight ahead.

Cordelia's fingers twitched against her lap, a small, nervous tic she usually kept under control. "The Tower of Dreams…trials. What kind of trials?" she asked carefully.

Morres's mouth curved into something that might have been a smile, though it carried no warmth. "The kind that knows you better than you know yourself. They are tailored. They cut to your marrow. If you walk those halls, you will be forced to face your greatest weaknesses and your deepest truths. Some come out stronger. Others never come out at all."

Basaroiel shifted beside me, feathers rustling, his head pressing lightly into my shoulder as if to ground me. My hand instinctively rose to scratch at the pin-feathers behind his beak. His intent was simple, wordless—steady.

I exhaled. "So it's not just fighting monsters. It's…everything."

"Exactly," Morres said, almost sharply, as if daring me to turn away now.

V gave a low whistle, leaning back with his arms crossed. "Well. Sounds like fun. A plague world, trials that eat you alive, and a queen who out-thinks you while trying to rip your face off. Delightful vacation."

"Shut it, V." Wallace's voice rumbled like distant thunder. His hand tightened around the haft of his mace. "This isn't a joke."

"Never said it was," V countered smoothly, his smile never faltering. "Just means we'll need to be clever. Which, lucky for you, is what I do best."

Fractal shifted uncomfortably, hugging her knees against her chest. "If…if we cleanse it…does that mean the people infected can be saved?"

Her question cut deeper than I expected. Everyone turned to Morres.

For a moment, his expression cracked. Pain flickered there, brief but undeniable. "No," he said softly. "The infection is absolute. Once taken, they are no longer themselves. Cleansing the infestation is an act of mercy, not rescue."

Fractal's eyes glistened. She looked down, silent.

Ten scoffed and shook her head. "So it's all kill or be killed. Nothing new. I can live with that."

Cordelia shot her a sharp glare, but said nothing.

I looked back at Morres. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to ask, "And if we fail? What happens to us?"

Morres met my eyes, steady and unflinching. "If you fail, you will not leave. The world itself will claim you. And you will not come back as yourselves."

The words hung like a death sentence.

Basaroiel pressed closer to me, feathers warm against my arm. I scratched behind his neck, though my own hands trembled faintly.

We all sat in silence, the weight of Morres's world pressing against us like an uninvited guest, already testing our strength.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Morres's words hung in the air like a miasma. Restore the tower. Slay the Queen. Claim a territory. Simple in the same way that drowning in shallow water was simple—you knew exactly what was happening while it killed you.

The table we'd gathered around in Pendell's borrowed barracks creaked under the weight of silence. Everyone stared at him, though no two gazes carried the same thing. Sven's eyes narrowed into sharp calculation. Wallace's jaw flexed, his knuckles white as if already grasping his mace. Cordelia sat like stone, unreadable, but I caught the twitch of her fingers—she was thinking, probably of nightmares wrapped in flowers. Ten swung her legs idly, chains clinking, but her face carried that restless grin that only came when she wanted a fight.

And me? My hand kept brushing against Basaroiel's feathers, half-hidden in the satchel at my side. He was drowsing, heavy, radiating warmth. I envied his ease.

Fractal broke the silence first. "If it's a plague world, then we'll need fire." She traced a finger across the map we had laid out. "Or salt. Something purifying. Otherwise, it'll spread."

V's lip quirked in amusement at the mention of salt. "That, I can provide." He spun the small vial of crystalline dust between his fingers, casual as ever. "Walls of salt, burning salt, even choking salt. But I'll need to stockpile more if you expect me to sterilize an entire outbreak."

"You won't sterilize an entire outbreak." Morres's tone left no room for debate. "Not possible. You focus. Pockets of safety. A foothold. Then you press outward from there."

Wallace finally grunted. "Supply lines. We'll need to carry enough rations for two weeks, maybe three. If this infection twists the land itself, there's no foraging safely."

Ten tilted her head. "And what if we get cut off? 'Cause that's usually what happens, isn't it? You build your neat little outpost and then—bam—the things swarm you at night, and you're trapped."

"You will be swarmed." Morres met her gaze evenly. "Do not delude yourself. You will need fortifications."

I frowned, leaning forward. "The tower of dreams—what's its role? Why is that first?"

"Because," Morres said, lowering his voice, "the tower acts as a tether. Think of it as the spine of the world. When it fell, so did the realm's defenses. The Viraloids spread freely. Restore the tower, and the flow of dreams—the barrier between thought and disease—rises again. Not perfectly, but enough. Enough to weaken them, and enough to give you hope of finding the Queen."

Cordelia stirred for the first time, voice soft but carrying. "Dreams are psychic soil. When corrupted, the mind rots fastest. That is why it must come first."

Fractal shivered. "So if the tower is down, every nightmare spreads?"

Cordelia did not answer, but the silence was her answer.

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. "Alright. Let's talk equipment, then." I forced the words out, because if I didn't we'd be stuck in horror forever. "We'll need fire—torches, oil, anything that can burn. Wallace is right: food for weeks, maybe longer. What about medicine? If these things are parasites, they'll infect wounds fast."

"Antibiotics. Antivirals. Alchemicals for cleansing." V ticked off each word like coins. "I can provide tinctures, but we'll want a steady supply line. If one of you falls, you won't have long to cleanse it."

My hand drifted to my Odachi resting beside me. The steel whispered of cutting through flesh—but if that flesh got too close, if even a scratch infected me—

I looked down at Basaroiel again. He cracked an eye, gave a questioning chirp. I rubbed his head until he huffed and tucked himself tighter. My little monster, trusting me not to screw this up.

Sven raised his hand, breaking the circle of spiraling thoughts. "We're overcomplicating. Supply, yes. Weapons, yes. But we need structure. Otherwise we're seven people blundering into a plague world and hoping not to choke."

"Then propose your structure," Cordelia said, voice sharp as a drawn blade.

"Teams," Sven answered without pause. "We divide by function. Wallace anchors defense. Ten holds the flanks with her weight tricks. Alexander—" he glanced at me—"you'll be our forward strike. Your aura bleed makes hiding pointless. Better to turn you into a hammer."

I grimaced, but he wasn't wrong.

"Cordelia covers us psychically, Fractal supports with light and mobility, V runs traps and firebreaks, I handle ranged." He leaned back, folding his arms. "That gives us a unit capable of advancing and holding. If one of us falls, the structure bends but doesn't break."

Morres nodded slowly. "That…will suffice."

"Good." Sven scratched another note onto his pad. "Now the question is: do we prepare here for a week, or do we leap in tomorrow?"

Ten immediately raised her hand. "Tomorrow. Every day we waste, the things spread. Right?" She shot a look at Morres.

"Correct," he said simply.

Fractal frowned. "But if we go in underprepared, we'll just die. A week gives V time to gather salt, gives me time to refine light orbs. Even Wallace can fabricate shields that burn."

"I can do it in three days," Wallace rumbled. "No more."

"Three days." Cordelia echoed it flatly, already turning the number over like a stone in her palm.

Sven exhaled. "Compromise then. Three days of prep, then we move."

I rubbed my temples. The thought of waiting made my skin crawl, but so did the thought of charging in blind. "Alright. But what about the tower itself? Do we even know where it is?"

Morres tapped the map, his finger falling on a spire drawn in faded ink. "Here. Or what's left of it. The land has shifted, yes, but the tower leaves a scar. You'll feel it once you draw near."

"And the Queen?"

He looked at me. "You will not find her until the tower stands again. She hides in dreams. And until dreams are restored, she is untraceable."

That settled that.

***

The next three days passed in a blur of motion.

V requisitioned crates of salt from Pendell's guildhall, muttering formulas under his breath as he refined them into wards and choking powder. The rest of us learned to recognize his sigils—quick lines to carve in the ground, little piles to scatter at choke points. Wallace hammered together barricades with unnerving precision, his Arte shaping barriers of raw force into the wood so that even a hulk of a Viraloid would struggle.

Cordelia never explained what she was doing, but I saw her sitting with closed eyes and flowers growing from her palms, each bloom blacker than the last. She didn't let anyone touch them. Ten trained like always, chains cracking the air, though I noticed the way she practiced wrapping them around her arms as much as flinging them. Defense, not just offense.

Sven drilled us in formation until we were sick of the word. Advance, halt, pivot, retreat, cover fire, rotate. Again. Again. My Odachi cut air until my shoulders burned, and still he shouted for me to keep moving.

And Fractal…Fractal practiced light. Not the soft orbs she loved, but spears, lances, bursts that blinded even with my eyes squeezed shut. She looked tired afterward, pale, but when I asked if she was alright, she only smiled. "They'll need light in the dark, won't they?"

I didn't answer, because she was right.

Through it all, Basaroiel stayed tucked against me, stubbornly refusing to leave my side. He wasn't ready to fight, but he preened and nipped and spread his wings whenever my focus faltered. And somehow that helped more than the drills.

By the morning of the fourth day, we were as ready as we were going to be.

Morres led us to the edge of Pendell, where an arch of black stone stood waiting. It hadn't been there yesterday. His hands traced runes across it, and the air between the stones rippled like oil on water.

"This is it," he said quietly. "Once you step through, you'll be in my realm. There will be no turning back without my leave."

I adjusted the strap of my satchel, feeling Basaroiel stir inside. He gave a sleepy chirp, as if sensing the weight of the moment.

Wallace hefted his shield onto his back. V checked the straps on his satchel of salt. Ten twirled her chains, grinning like she was about to dance. Cordelia's eyes were closed, lips moving in a silent prayer—or curse. Sven adjusted his bowstring. Fractal's hand brushed mine briefly, a squeeze of reassurance before she stepped forward.

Morres's gaze swept us one last time. "Remember: the tower, the Queen, the territory. Fail, and the infestation will never end. Succeed—and the realm breathes again."

The portal shimmered, shadows and light twisting.

I drew in a long breath, tightening my grip on my Odachi.

"Alright," I said, voice low but steady. "Let's end a nightmare."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.