"Alright," I said, my voice serious now. "We need to talk about what's next."

  The imp's expression shifted from relaxed to attentive. "The boss room."

  "Yeah," I said. "I think it's time we actually tried to progress. We've been avoiding the Curator of Ruin, but we can't stay in Floor One forever."

  "DANIEL," the hare said nervously. "ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?"

  "No," I admitted. "But I'm stronger now. Level 6. Better stats. Better gear. And I have all of you."

  I gently set Kitten Cowboy down on the floor. The kitten immediately stood up on its hind legs, walking around in a small circle.

  "Here's the problem," I continued. "We don't know how the Curator fights. We don't know his patterns, his abilities, his weaknesses. We're going in blind."

  "That's... not ideal," the imp said.

  "Which means everyone needs to fight with everything they've got. Use every skill, every advantage, every trick we have. No holding back."

  I looked at each of them in turn.

  "So let me ask—what can each of you actually do in a fight?"

  The imp straightened up, her gossamer shawl catching the light. "I know a few simple spells. Nothing fancy, but useful. A shield spell that can block one hit. But it has a three-minute cooldown, so I need to save it for critical moments. Something lethal." She paused, considering. "And I can summon wind. Not much, but at maximum strength, it's enough to make clothing billow dramatically. Very slow casting time, though."

  "That's more than I expected," I said, trying to sound impressed.

  I turned to the hare. "What about you?"

  The hare's ears flattened against its skull. "I'VE NEVER FOUGHT ANYTHING. EVER. NOT ONCE. NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT."

  "Okay," I said carefully. "But you're good at something, right?"

  "I'M REALLY GOOD AT RUNNING AWAY," the hare said, almost apologetically. "VERY GOOD. THE BEST, ACTUALLY. I CAN DODGE. I CAN JUMP. I CAN ESCAPE FROM ALMOST ANYTHING. BUT FIGHTING?" The hare trembled. "I'M SCARED JUST THINKING ABOUT IT. I'M SCARED OF THIS CONVERSATION RIGHT NOW."

  "That's fine," I said gently. "Running and dodging is a skill. We'll work with that."

  I looked down at Kitten Cowboy, who was still standing on its hind legs, tail swishing.

  "And you, little one? What can you—"

  Kitten Cowboy's front paws came up in one smooth motion. Both paws were held out, formed into tiny fist-shapes that looked exactly like someone holding pistols. The kitten's golden eyes narrowed with intense focus.

  "Pew," Kitten Cowboy said, in a tiny, high-pitched voice that came out almost like a delicate meow.

  The kitten mimed firing, one paw, then the other. "Pew. Pew." Each sound was impossibly sweet and small, like a musical chirp.

  Then, still standing upright, Kitten Cowboy tucked into a roll—a perfect sideways roll across the stone floor, tiny body spinning, tail streaming behind like a banner.

  The kitten came up on the other side of the room, still on two legs, both paws still raised in the finger-gun position.

  "Pew pew pew," Kitten Cowboy said in that same adorable, meow-like voice, miming rapid fire, rolling again—this time in the opposite direction, little orange body tumbling with surprising grace.

  I stared, my jaw hanging open.

  The imp started laughing so hard she had to hold onto my leg for support.

  The hare watched in confusion.

  Kitten Cowboy rolled one more time, came up in a dramatic pose—one paw extended forward, one pulled back near its tiny chest, both still shaped like pistols—and said with complete seriousness in that impossibly sweet, squeaky voice: "Pew."

  Then the kitten dropped back down to all fours and started grooming its paw like nothing had happened.

  "I love this cat so much," I said, my voice cracking with emotion. "So, so much."

  Kitten Cowboy looked up at me, mewed once, and went back to grooming.

  "Okay," I said, trying to compose myself. "So to summarize: I have Delayed Reaction and Pocket Sand. The imp has basic combat spells. The hare is our dodge expert. And Kitten Cowboy…" I paused, watching the kitten. "Has imaginary guns and incredible rolling skills. We need to find you a real gun, little guy."

  I took a deep breath and looked at each of my companions in turn. "Is everyone ready?"

  The imp adjusted her gossamer shawl, making it catch the light perfectly. "I'm ready," she said with quiet confidence. "Let's do this."

  Kitten Cowboy stood up on its hind legs, made the finger-gun gesture with both paws, and said "Pew" with absolute seriousness.

  "I'll take that as a yes," I said, smiling.

  I turned to the hare.

  The hare was trembling. Its enormous eyes were wider than usual. Its ears lay flat against its skull.

  "I'M NOT READY," it said, voice shaking. "I'M REALLY NOT READY. I'M THE OPPOSITE OF READY. I'M AGGRESSIVELY UNREADY."

  "That's okay—" I started.

  "BUT I'M COMING ANYWAY," the hare interrupted, voice rising with panic. "BECAUSE YOU'RE MY TEAM. AND TEAMS STICK TOGETHER. EVEN WHEN THEY'RE TERRIFIED. EVEN WHEN IT'S A TERRIBLE IDEA. SO I'M COMING. BUT I WANT IT ON RECORD THAT I'M NOT READY."

  I felt something warm in my chest. "Noted. Your objection is officially recorded."

  "GOOD," the hare said, still trembling but standing a bit straighter. "LET'S GO DIE TOGETHER."

  "Let's try not dying," I corrected.

  I picked up Kitten Cowboy, who immediately settled into my arms and started purring. The imp climbed onto my shoulder. The hare positioned itself near my feet, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

  "Alright," I said, walking toward the edge of the safe room. "Let's go meet the Curator of Ruin."

  We left the sanctuary behind.

  The white structure of the Gallery loomed ahead, impossibly vast against the red wasteland. I'd seen it from a distance before, but approaching it now—knowing we were actually going inside—made it feel different. More real. More final.

  The walk took maybe ten minutes. The red dirt crunched under my boots (what was left of them). The hare stayed close, its new paw wraps making each landing completely silent. The imp's gossamer shawl caught the dim light, shimmering with every step.

  Kitten Cowboy purred contentedly in my arms, occasionally opening one golden eye to look around before settling back down.

  "I'M HAVING SECOND THOUGHTS," the hare said.

  "You can go back to the safe room," I offered.

  "NO. I'M STAYING. BUT I'M COMPLAINING THE WHOLE TIME."

  "Fair enough."

  The archway grew larger as we approached. Thirty feet tall. Twenty wide. Those perfect white columns, fluted and pristine. The entrance to the Gallery yawned before us—a threshold into pure darkness.

  I stopped at the edge, staring into that black void.

  The rows of alcoves were still visible, stretching into the distance. Each one holding a frozen figure. Each one labeled with their attempt number, their flaw, how long they lasted.

  "Daniel," the imp said softly. "We don't have to—"

  "Yes, we do," I said. I looked down at her on my shoulder. "You want to find your name. Your past. The Curator has records. We need to get in there. And I need to get to the lower floors."

  The imp was quiet for a moment. "Thank you," she said finally.

  "DON'T THANK HIM YET," the hare muttered. "WE MIGHT ALL BE DEAD IN TEN SECONDS."

  "Let's try to beat that record, then."

  I took a step forward.

  The darkness swallowed us immediately.

  One moment we were at the threshold, the next we were inside, surrounded by absolute blackness. The kind of dark that felt active, like it was pressing against your bones.

  My eye sockets adjusted slowly. Shapes began to emerge from the void.

  The Gallery was enormous. Cathedral-like. The ceiling stretched upward into darkness so complete I couldn't see where it ended. The walls were lined with those alcoves—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—each one holding a perfectly preserved skeleton in its moment of defeat.

  Between the alcoves, hanging from invisible fixtures, were lights. Not torches or lanterns. These were spheres of pure white light, floating in the darkness like captured stars. They illuminated the space with a cold, clinical brightness that somehow made everything feel more sinister.

  The floor was white marble. Polished to a mirror shine. Our reflections stared back at us. A skeleton in a torn pink sash holding a kitten, a tiny imp in a gossamer shawl, a trembling hare with wrapped paws.

  We looked ridiculous. And terrified. And completely out of our depth.

  "Where is he?" the imp whispered.

  I scanned the Gallery. The space was too big, too open. There were no obvious hiding places. No throne, no platform, no obvious "boss arena" setup. Just endless white marble and those floating lights and the silent witnesses in their alcoves.

  "I don't know," I said quietly.

  "MAYBE HE'S NOT HOME," the hare suggested hopefully. "MAYBE WE COULD LEAVE A NOTE. COME BACK LATER. LIKE IN A FEW HUNDRED YEARS."

  A sound echoed through the Gallery.

  Footsteps. Slow, dramatic footsteps.

  The sound of leather soles on polished marble, each step perfectly spaced. Click. Click. Click.

  The footsteps came from deeper in the Gallery, beyond where the floating lights illuminated.

  I set Kitten Cowboy down gently. The kitten immediately stood on its hind legs, both paws held out in the finger-gun position. Ready.

  The darkness ahead began to shift. Something was moving toward us. Something large. The floating lights seemed to dim slightly as it approached, as if the figure was drawing light into itself.

  "Here he comes," the imp breathed.

  The footsteps continued. Click. Click. Click. Perfectly rhythmic. Unhurried. The sound of someone who had all the time in the world.

  A shape emerged from the darkness.

  Tall. Impossibly tall. At least nine feet, maybe ten. The figure was draped in robes that seemed to be made from shadows themselves—fabric that shifted and flowed like liquid darkness, absorbing light rather than reflecting it.

  The robes were pristine. Perfect. Not a single wrinkle or stain. They moved with geometric precision, each fold maintaining its exact angle as the figure walked.

  Above the robes, I could make out a hood—deep and dark, hiding whatever face lay beneath. But from within that hood, I saw eyes. Two points of cold blue light, like stars frozen in ice.

  The figure's hands emerged from the sleeves. Skeletal.

  In one hand, the figure carried a staff. The staff was made from polished black wood that seemed to drink in light. At its top was a glass orb filled with swirling mist that pulsed with inner light.

  The figure stopped about thirty feet away.

  The Gallery fell completely silent. Even the sound of my bones settling went quiet. Even Kitten Cowboy's purring stopped.

  The figure raised one skeletal hand and pulled back its hood.

  I'd expected something horrifying. Something monstrous. Something that would justify the fear, the labels, the eleven-second survival times.

  What I got was...

  A skeleton wearing glasses.

  Actual, honest-to-god, wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nasal cavity. The kind you'd see on a librarian. Or a nerd.

  The Curator of Ruin looked like someone who'd spent his entire existence organizing filing cabinets and worrying about proper citation formats.

  He adjusted his glasses with one finger.

  "Oh," he said in a voice that was surprisingly pleasant—mild, even, with a slight nasally quality. "Visitors."

  He looked at us. Then down at a small leather-bound notebook that had appeared in his other hand. He flipped through a few pages, squinting slightly through his glasses.

  "I don't have you scheduled," he said, sounding genuinely confused. "Are you sure you're in the right Gallery? The Gallery of Torment is three floors down. People mix us up constantly. Very frustrating."

  I stared at him.

  This was the Curator of Ruin. The boss of Floor One. The being responsible for thousands of preserved corpses.

  "Um," I said eloquently.

  The Curator pushed his glasses up his nasal cavity again—a nervous habit, clearly—and consulted his notebook. "Let's see... Daniel Keres? Is that right? K-E-R-E-S?" He looked up at me over the rim of his glasses. "I'm afraid your appointment isn't until next week. Did you receive a confirmation scroll?"

  "I... no? I didn't make an appointment?"

  "Oh dear." The Curator looked genuinely distressed. He flipped through more pages. "That's very irregular. The system should have sent you a scroll. Did you check your inventory? Sometimes they get filed under 'Miscellaneous' by mistake." He sighed. "The sorting algorithm needs work. I've submitted seventeen bug reports."

  "I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT'S HAPPENING," the hare whispered.

  "Neither do I," the imp whispered back.

  The Curator looked up from his notebook and seemed to really see us for the first time. His cold blue eyes moved from me, to the imp, to the hare, to Kitten Cowboy.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "Oh my," he said softly. "Is that a kitten? Standing upright? Why is it making that gesture with its paws?"

  "Pew," Kitten Cowboy said helpfully.

  The Curator blinked—or made the gesture of it. "Fascinating. I'll need to document this. Do you mind if I take notes?"

  Without waiting for an answer, he pulled a quill from somewhere in his robes and began writing in his notebook, muttering to himself.

  I looked at the imp. She looked back at me. We were both completely lost.

  "Excuse me," I said carefully. "Are you the Curator of Ruin?"

  "Hmm?" He looked up from his notes. "Oh. Yes. That's me. Sorry, I should have introduced myself properly." He tucked the notebook under one arm and extended a skeletal hand for a handshake. "Curator Aldwin Moss, Third Archivist of the First Floor, keeper of Records, maintainer of the Gallery of Attempted Passage. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  I stared at his extended hand.

  Slowly, hesitantly, I reached out and shook his hand.

  His grip was firm but not aggressive. Professional. His bones were cool to the touch and smoother than mine—like polished ivory.

  "There," he said, releasing my hand and looking pleased. "Much better. Now, what can I help you with? I assume you're here to attempt passage to Floor Two?"

  "We... yes?"

  "Wonderful!" He pulled out his notebook again and flipped to a new page. "I'll need to get some information first. Standard intake procedure. Name—already have that. Level—six, noted. Companions..." He looked at my team again. "One tutorial imp, one anxiety-class familiar, and one... what would you classify the kitten as?"

  "Legendary," I said automatically.

  "Really?" The Curator pushed his glasses up and leaned in to look at Kitten Cowboy more closely. "Interesting. The legendary classification is quite rare. May I see its stat sheet?"

  "I don't think—"

  "No, no, you're quite right. That would be invasive. Professional boundaries." He straightened up and made another note.

  He snapped his notebook shut and looked at me with those cold blue eyes.

  "Let's begin your evaluation, shall we?"

  The Curator's staff tapped the marble floor once.

  The sound echoed through the Gallery like a gunshot.

  The floating lights exploded outward shooting across the Gallery like angry fireflies on methamphetamines. They swarmed around us in chaotic patterns, creating strobing shadows that made it impossible to track movement.

  "WHAT'S HAPPENING?!" the hare shrieked.

  "Please don't panic. Panicking reduces your score." the Curator said pleasantly.

  "THAT MAKES ME WANT TO PANIC MORE!" the hare yelled.

  The marble floor beneath us rippled. Actually rippled, like water. I stumbled, my cracked leg nearly giving out. The imp grabbed onto my shoulder with her tiny claws.

  "Daniel—"

  The floor dropped.

  Like someone had hit a button. We fell about three feet before slamming onto a new surface that materialized underneath us. My bones rattled. Kitten Cowboy landed on all fours completely unbothered.

  "Phew," Kitten Cowboy said calmly, raising one tiny paw to its forehead in a wiping motion.

  The Curator was suddenly standing right in front of me. I hadn't seen him move. He just was there, adjusted his glasses, and consulted his notebook.

  "Reaction time: adequate," he muttered, making a note with his quill. "Balance: poor."

  "Wait, you're grading us?!" I shouted.

  "Of course. It's an evaluation." He looked genuinely confused by my confusion. "How else would I assess your readiness for Floor Two?"

  "MAYBE BY ASKING POLITELY?!" the hare suggested frantically.

  "That would provide insufficient data." The Curator tapped his staff again.

  The walls started moving.

  The alcoves—those hundreds of preserved corpses in their moments of defeat—began rotating on hidden mechanisms. The entire Gallery transformed into a massive, shifting maze. Walls slid past us, creating new corridors, blocking old ones. The preserved skeletons spun by like a macabre carousel.

  "Oh, this is completely reasonable," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I pressed myself against a moving wall to avoid being crushed.

  The imp leaped off my shoulder, landing in a crouch. Her gossamer shawl billowed dramatically. "Which way?!"

  "I DON'T KNOW! EVERYTHING IS MOVING!" the hare bounced in panicked circles on its silent paw wraps.

  Kitten Cowboy, still standing on two legs, walked calmly toward a gap between two rotating walls. It paused, looked back at me, and mewed.

  "You want me to follow you?" I asked the kitten.

  "Pew."

  "The kitten says go that way!" I shouted, hobbling after Kitten Cowboy as fast as my cracked leg would allow.

  We dove through the gap just as the walls slammed together behind us with a thunderous BOOM that shook the entire Gallery.

  We emerged into a circular arena. The floor was still that polished white marble, but now there were pedestals rising from the ground at random intervals. On each pedestal sat an object. A book. A sword. A rubber duck. A potted plant. A human skull wearing sunglasses.

  "What is this?!" the imp demanded.

  "You have thirty seconds to prepare a defense," the Curator's voice announced from everywhere and nowhere. "I will be attacking shortly."

  "ATTACKING?!" the hare screamed. "YOU SAID THIS WAS AN EVALUATION!"

  "It is. I evaluate by attempting to kill you. Very thorough method."

  "THAT'S NOT THOROUGH, THAT'S MURDER!"

  "Twenty-five seconds."

  I spun around, looking at the pedestals. My Cognition kicked into overdrive, processing options. The sword was obvious—too obvious. The book might have magic? The rubber duck was definitely a trap. The skull with sunglasses was—

  "Daniel!" the imp shouted. "Do something!"

  "I'm thinking!"

  "THINK FASTER!"

  "Twenty seconds."

  Kitten Cowboy walked over to one of the pedestals—the one with the potted plant—and started batting at the leaves.

  My Delayed Reaction skill activated. The world slowed slightly. 2.2 seconds to process.

  The plant. The kitten was interested in the plant. But why? My eyes darted across the pedestals. The sword, the book, the rubber duck, the skull with sunglasses—all too obvious. But the plant...

  I lunged for the potted plant, grabbing it off its pedestal. The leaves rustled as I held it up defensively.

  "Get ready for this!" I shouted.

  "Ready for what?!" the imp yelled back.

  "Ten seconds. You've chosen... the plant?" The Curator adjusted his glasses, looking at my choice with mild interest.

  "Just wait for it!" I shouted back.

  "Five seconds."

  The hare grabbed the rubber duck in its mouth and hopped behind me. The imp snatched the book and held it like a shield. Kitten Cowboy climbed up onto my shoulder, still standing on two legs somehow, balancing perfectly.

  "Three."

  "We're going to die," I muttered.

  "Two."

  "WE'RE DEFINITELY GOING TO DIE," the hare agreed, muffled by the rubber duck.

  "One."

  The Curator raised his staff.

  "Begin."

  A beam of pure white energy exploded from the orb, aimed directly at my skull.

  My Delayed Reaction kicked in. I threw myself sideways and held the potted plant up like a shield.

  The beam hit the plant.

  And the plant absorbed it. The leaves glowed brilliant green, pulsing with energy. Then, with a sound like a whip crack, the plant launched the energy back at the Curator.

  The reflected beam struck him square in the chest, sending him stumbling backward. His wire-rimmed glasses flew off his skull.

  "My glasses!" he said, genuinely distressed. "Do you know how hard it is to get prescription lenses in Hell?!"

  "SORRY!" I shouted, not sorry at all.

  The imp threw the book. It spun through the air and smacked the Curator in the skull with a satisfying thwack.

  "Ow," he said mildly, adjusting his now-sandy glasses. "Aggressive use of literature."

  The hare spat out the rubber duck. It bounced across the marble floor and landed at the Curator's feet. He looked down at it.

  "Why did you throw a rubber duck at me?" the Curator asked.

  "IT WAS ON A PEDESTAL! I THOUGHT IT WAS IMPORTANT!" the hare defended.

  The Curator picked up the duck. Squeezed it. It let out a pathetic squeak.

  "It's just a duck," he said, sounding disappointed. "Why would I put a powerful artifact on a pedestal shaped like a rubber duck?"

  "BECAUSE YOU'RE WEIRD!" the hare shouted.

  "I'm not weird!" He tossed the duck aside and raised his staff again. "You didn't play by the rules. It's time for round two."

  "ROUND TWO?!" I yelled. "WE JUST SURVIVED ROUND ONE!"

  The floor opened up beneath us.

  Not the whole floor. Just random circular sections, dropping away into darkness. I leaped from solid marble to solid marble, my cracked leg barely holding together. The imp sprouted her tiny wings and glided between gaps. The hare's new paw wraps let it bounce silently from platform to platform.

  Kitten Cowboy, still on my shoulder, still standing upright on two legs, seemed completely unbothered by the chaos.

  "Pew," it said.

  "I KNOW, RIGHT?!" I shouted back at the kitten.

  The Curator appeared on a platform ahead of us, staff glowing.

  He tapped his staff. The platforms started rotating. Spinning. Some rose higher, some sank lower. It was like the world's most dangerous merry-go-round.

  "I assure you, I'm taking very detailed notes." The Curator held up his notebook, which was somehow staying perfectly level despite standing on a rotating platform. "Your form is terrible, by the way."

  "I HAVE A CRACKED LEG AND A RIB!"

  "Yes, I noted that. " He made a checkmark. "Continue."

  A platform rose suddenly beneath the hare, launching it into the air. "DANIEL!"

  The imp dove, wings spread, and caught the hare mid-fall. They tumbled onto a nearby platform together, the hare's paw wraps absorbing the impact silently.

  "THANK YOU!"

  "Can we PLEASE just talk about this like reasonable people?!" I shouted, barely catching myself as my platform tilted at a forty-five degree angle.

  "We are talking," the Curator said reasonably.

  Kitten Cowboy shifted on my shoulder. I felt tiny claws grip my collarbone for balance. The kitten's golden eyes tracked the Curator's movement with surprising focus.

  Then Kitten Cowboy did something completely unexpected.

  It raised both tiny front paws and held them out in front of its chest.

  Shaped like finger guns.

  "Pew," Kitten Cowboy said.

  And a small blast of golden energy shot from its tiny paws.

  The blast hit the Curator's staff, knocking it out of his hands. The staff clattered across a rotating platform and fell into one of the dark gaps.

  Silence.

  Complete, absolute silence.

  The platforms stopped rotating. The lights stopped strobing. Everything just... stopped.

  The Curator stared at Kitten Cowboy. Then at his empty hands. Then back at the kitten.

  "Pew," Kitten Cowboy said, still holding the finger gun pose. Then, with dramatic flair, it blew gently across the tips of its tiny paws, dispersing wisps of golden smoke that curled away into the air.

  The Curator's entire demeanor changed in an instant.

  "Oh," he said softly, his voice dropping to something cold and dangerous. "Oh, I see."

  He straightened up, his skeletal fingers flexing. The wire-rimmed glasses caught the light at an angle that made his empty eye sockets look somehow darker, more hollow.

  "The evaluation," he said slowly, deliberately, "is over."

  "That's good, right?" the imp said hopefully.

  "No," the Curator said. "That's not good at all."

  The platforms beneath us rumbled. The entire Gallery shook.

  "I was being gentle," the Curator continued, his voice echoing with a resonance that hadn't been there before. "I was being professional. I was being considerate of your obvious disadvantages."

  "THAT WAS YOU BEING GENTLE?!" the hare shrieked.

  "Yes." The Curator raised both hands. Magic crackled around his skeletal fingers—not the clean white energy from before, but something darker, something that looked like it was eating the light around it. "Now we fight for real."

  "Oh shit," I whispered.

  The Curator clapped his hands together.

  The entire Gallery screamed.

  Reality itself seemed to tear. Black rifts opened in the air around us, and from those rifts emerged shapes—twisted, wrong shapes made of shadow and broken geometry. They moved like insects, scuttling across the platforms toward us.

  "WHAT ARE THOSE?!" I shouted, stumbling backward.

  "Echoes of failure," the Curator said calmly. "Every adventurer who died in this Gallery. Every mistake. Every miscalculation. They're all preserved here."

  The shadows lunged.

  I threw myself sideways, my cracked leg giving out beneath me. I hit the marble hard, feeling my ribs scream in protest. A shadow thing passed through the space where my head had been a second ago, its form leaving a trail of frost in the air.

  "POCKET SAND!" I shouted desperately, flinging another handful at the nearest shadow.

  The sand passed right through it. The shadow didn't even slow down.

  "Oh, come on!" I rolled again, barely avoiding clawed appendages that carved grooves into the marble.

  The imp sprouted her wings and took to the air, her gossamer shawl billowing. She hurled small bursts of flame at the shadows, but they seemed to absorb the fire, growing slightly larger with each hit.

  "They're feeding on magic!" she shouted down at me.

  The hare bounded between platforms, its silent paw wraps letting it move without drawing attention. But there were too many shadows. One caught it mid-jump, slamming it down onto a platform. The hare let out a strangled cry.

  "NO!" the imp dove, grabbing the hare and pulling it free just as another shadow swept through where it had been.

  Kitten Cowboy, still perched on my shoulder, fired again. "Pew pew!"

  Golden blasts struck two shadows, dispersing them into wisps. But for every shadow destroyed, two more emerged from the rifts.

  The Curator watched from above, standing on a platform that had risen higher than all the others. He raised one hand, and a massive sphere of dark energy began to form above his palm.

  "You showed promise," he said. "Real promise. But promise isn't enough."

  He threw the sphere.

  It moved slowly but I could feel its pull. Gravity itself bent toward it. The shadows scattered, afraid of their own master's attack.

  "DANIEL, MOVE!" the imp screamed.

  I tried. God, I tried. But my leg wouldn't cooperate. The cracked bone sent white-hot pain shooting up my spine with every movement. I managed three hobbling steps before collapsing.

  The sphere was ten feet away. Eight. Five.

  "Daniel!" The imp's voice was raw with panic.

  My Delayed Reaction activated. 2.2 seconds of processing time.

  Not enough. Not nearly enough to get clear.

  The sphere hit.

  It didn't explode. It imploded. Everything in a fifteen-foot radius was pulled inward—marble, shadows, air, light. I felt my body yanked forward, my ribs compressing, my cracked leg bending at an angle that made me scream.

  Then the implosion reversed.

  The force threw me across the Gallery. I hit a wall—one of the alcoves with its preserved corpse—and felt something in my shoulder break with a wet crunch. I slid down to the floor, tasting blood.

  "Daniel?" the imp's voice was distant, muffled. "Daniel, get up!"

  I tried. My body wouldn't listen. Everything hurt. My leg was definitely broken now, not just cracked. My shoulder was useless. My ribs felt like someone had stomped on them.

  I was dying.

  The Curator descended from his platform, landing gracefully in front of me. He looked down, adjusting his glasses.

  "You did better than most," he said, almost kindly. "But not better than enough."

  He raised his hand. Dark energy coalesced around his skeletal fingers, forming into a blade.

  "I'll make this quick."

  "Pew."

  Kitten Cowboy had somehow stayed on my shoulder through everything. The little kitten stood up on its hind legs, raised both tiny paws, and fired.

  The golden blast hit the Curator's hand, dispersing the dark blade.

  Then he backhanded Kitten Cowboy off my shoulder.

  The tiny kitten flew through the air, hit a wall, and dropped to the ground, motionless.

  Something in me broke that wasn't physical.

  "No," I whispered.

  The imp screamed—a sound of pure rage—and dive-bombed the Curator, claws extended. He caught her by the throat mid-flight and slammed her into the ground. She struggled, gasping, her wings crumpling.

  The hare tried to help, hopping forward on its silent wraps. The Curator didn't even look. He raised one hand and a wave of force sent the hare tumbling backward into a rift. The darkness swallowed it.

  "And now," the Curator said, turning back to me, "we end this."

  He raised both hands. The air around him distorted, reality bending under the weight of whatever he was preparing.

  I couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but watch as death approached in the form of a scholarly skeleton with wire-rimmed glasses.

  This was it. This was how I died. Again.

  The Curator's hands began to glow with that terrible dark light.

  "Any last words?" he asked, almost politely.

  I tried to speak. Blood bubbled up in my throat instead.

  “P—P…Po—”

  The Curator paused, his skeletal hand still raised, dark energy crackling between his fingers. He tilted his head, the motion oddly bird-like.

  "What was that?" he asked, genuinely curious now.

  "P—Po—" I sputtered, blood still trickling from the corner of my mouth.

  The Curator lowered his hand slightly, the dark energy dimming. "I want to preserve your last words accurately for the Gallery's records. Speak clearly, please."

  He actually knelt down beside me, leaning in close. His skeletal face was inches from mine now, those empty eye sockets focused intently on my lips. The wire-rimmed glasses slipped down slightly on his nasal cavity.

  "Po—Poc—" I gasped, my hand slowly, painfully moving toward my pocket.

  "Pocket?" the Curator guessed helpfully. "Pocket what? Pocket watch? Pocket dimension?"

  He leaned in even closer, turning his skull slightly to better hear me. "Come now, take your time. I'm a scholar. Proper documentation is important."

  "Pock—Pocket—"

  "Yes?" The Curator was now so close I could see the fine scratches on his skull, probably from centuries of thoughtful head-scratching while grading papers.

  "Pocket Sand, you motherfucker!"

  I flung the handful of sand directly into his face.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then the Curator jerked backward with a sound that can only be described as a skeletal screech.

  "MY EYES!" he shrieked, clawing at his face. "MY EYES!"

  "You're not even wearing your glasses!" I wheezed, almost laughing despite the agony. I reached into my inventory with trembling fingers and pulled out the Lesser Restoration Vial. Without hesitation, I uncorked it with my teeth and drank it down in one desperate gulp. The liquid burned going down, but then warmth spread through my body. My cracked leg bone knitted itself back together with a sensation like hot pins and needles, the pain vanishing in an instant.

  "WHY DOES IT HURT SO MUCH!" The Curator stumbled backward, both hands pressed to his eye sockets.

  He spun in a circle, completely disoriented, dark energy firing off randomly in all directions. One blast destroyed an alcove. Another created a small crater in the floor. A third somehow made it rain indoors for exactly two seconds.

  "WHO CARRIES SAND?!" the Curator wailed, still frantically trying to rub the grit from his eye sockets. "WHO DOES THAT?!"

  "THIS GUY!" I shouted back, gesturing weakly at myself with my one working arm.

  The Curator tripped over a platform edge and fell flat on his face with a rattling clatter. His wire-rimmed glasses flew off and skittered across the marble.

  "Pew," said a tiny voice.

  We both froze.

  Kitten Cowboy was standing up. Slowly, shakily, but standing. The tiny kitten fixed its golden eyes on the Curator, raised both paws, and took aim.

  "Oh no," the Curator said.

  [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: KITTEN COWBOY has activated ULTIMATE ABILITY]

  Time seemed to slow.

  Kitten Cowboy's tiny form began to glow with an intense golden light. The kitten stood perfectly still on its hind legs, both paws extended forward, its eyes blazing like twin suns.

  "What—" the Curator started, still scrambling backward on the ground.

  Then the barrage began.

  PEW PEW PEW PEW PEW PEW PEW!

  Golden energy erupted from Kitten Cowboy's paws in a continuous stream. Not individual shots anymore—this was a torrent. Dozens of golden blasts per second, each one striking with precision and force far beyond what the tiny kitten had managed before.

  The Curator raised his hands to shield himself, but the barrage was relentless. Each blast punched through his defenses, cracked his bones, splintered his ribs, and shattered his skull.

  "IMPOSSIBLE!" the Curator screamed over the sound of continuous firing. "YOU'RE A KITTEN!"

  "Pew pew pew pew pew!" Kitten Cowboy's voice was steady, unwavering, almost mechanical in its rhythm.

  The golden energy intensified, growing brighter with each passing second. The Gallery itself seemed to shake from the sheer power being unleashed. Shadows dissolved. Rifts closed. The floating platforms began to crumble under the weight of the energy.

  The Curator tried to summon his dark magic, tried to open another rift, tried to do anything. But every attempt was immediately interrupted by another volley of golden blasts. His left arm shattered. His right leg cracked and fell off. His spine fractured in three places.

  "You... you can't..." the Curator gasped, collapsing to his knees.

  Kitten Cowboy took one tiny step forward. The golden light around the kitten grew so bright I had to shield my eyes.

  "PEW."

  The final blast was different. Larger. Brighter. It left a trail of golden fire in its wake as it crossed the Gallery in an instant.

  It struck the Curator directly in the chest.

  For a moment, nothing happened. The Curator just knelt there, his skeletal hand reaching up toward where his heart would have been if he'd still had one.

  "This will… negatively affect… your evaluation…"

  Then he shattered.

  His entire skeletal form broke apart into thousands of fragments that hung in the air for one impossible moment before dissolving into golden motes of light.

  The wire-rimmed glasses fell to the ground with a soft clink, somehow intact.

  Then the Gallery began to change. The darkness receded. The rifts sealed themselves. The alcoves with their preserved corpses faded away like morning mist. The marble floor stopped shifting, settling into a stable pattern.

  Light—real light, not the dim illumination from before—flooded in from above.

  A notification appeared in my vision:

  [FLOOR ONE BOSS DEFEATED: CURATOR OF RUIN]

  [Calculating rewards...]

  [Level Up! You are now Level 7]

  [Level Up! You are now Level 8]

  [Achievement Unlocked: First Boss]

  [Achievement Unlocked: Against All Odds]

  [Achievement Unlocked: The Power of Pocket Sand]

  [Special Achievement Unlocked: Witness to Ultimate Power]

  I stared at the notifications, then at Kitten Cowboy.

  The tiny kitten's golden glow faded. It dropped back down to all fours, wobbled slightly, then curled up into a small ball and immediately fell asleep, its tiny chest rising and falling with gentle breaths.

  "What," I said slowly, "the actual fuck."