You’re shaken awake.

  You stir, blinking. It’s the middle of the night. You’re in a bed strewn with sheets and blankets. It smells like sweat – it’s warm out, like the first reaches of summer brushing in earnest.

  “Hey, wake up.”

  You turn. Beside you is a catfolk. He’s stocky, and his soft fur is light orange, striped with cream – the innkeeper’s son. He’s young, like you. His name is Keo, short for something much longer, and you spent the night playing dice at the bar after your show. He was enamored with you. He even said you’d be famous one day. You hope so. When his father’s back was turned, you used magic to draw a glittering pink penis in the air, an arrow pointing upstairs. If a catfolk could blush, he did. You spent a long, lazy evening together. All that plush fur pressed against your skin was divine. His tongue was rough, but not in a bad way. He purred when you pleasured him, your fingers massaging the base of his tail.

  You’re in a tiny town along the ocean on the western edge of Rheda. It’s called Yakita or something, a day or so south of Hayawara. It’s not even on the map. When you arrived, looking to play a show, the whole town had to take up a collection. They were eager to have you.

  Keo shakes you again. In the faint moonlight, his handsome, amber, slitted eyes are wide and dilated. His whiskers twitch. “Something’s going on. Do you hear that?”

  You sit up. You’re both naked. You listen for footsteps outside the sliding door, but don’t hear anything. Maybe his father hasn’t noticed you’re not in your assigned room.

  Then you realize people are screaming outside.

  You push out of bed, going to the window. He follows. His tail swishes against your calves as you peer out.

  First, you notice flames. The inn is furthest from the beach, but some of the homes along the shore are on fire. In the flickering light, you see shapes. Some of them are fleeing. There are other shapes, armored. They’re big, hulking figures. They have axes, swords, and shields.

  Then you see ships pulled up on the beach.

  Keo gasps. “Raiders. We have to go.”

  He grasps your arm with a paw-hand. Razor claws are hidden within it. His fingers easily wrap around. You don’t have much strength to speak of.

  Your mouth is dry. “What do they want?”

  “Us.”

  You freeze. You were just wandering through. You were going to leave in the morning, or maybe the day after. You look at Keo. Definitely the day after. You watch more people fleeing. Some of them are cut down. Some of them fight. Most are being carried or handled toward the ships.

  “Come on!” Keo jostles you, throwing clothing in your direction. “Let’s get Dad and go!”

  You peel yourself away from the window, haphazardly putting on clothes. You’re shaking. The sound of screaming and clashing weapons is getting louder. Nearer.

  Then comes a crash downstairs.

  Your heart skips a beat. “Is there another way out of here?”

  He shakes his head, his tail between his legs. “I don’t know.”

  “Hide, then. Under the bed.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  He gets to his hands and knees, scampering underneath the bed. It’s a tight fit. He jostles the slatted bed frame. It scrapes against the floor. You scuttle in after him. His arm wraps around you, pulling you further in. More crashing comes from outside the room. They’re upstairs, now.

  You run a finger along the gap under the bed. Pink magic flashes silently, becoming translucent to your eye. You erase the image of the two of you, showing only empty darkness – a picture of the wall behind you.

  “Heard something in here,” comes a voice. It’s gruff.

  The door slides open.

  You stop breathing. Heavy boots plod into the room. Mail clinks and leather creaks. Through the translucent pink, you can see boots and thick legs. They’re wet and dark with blood. The smell is sharp and metallic. You feel the pounding of Keo’s heart against your back.

  A slight breeze comes through the door. Fur brushes against your nose.

  It’s excruciating. You can’t move or react. Everything in you wants to brush it away. Itch it. Sneeze. A paw-hand moves, clasping over your mouth. Keo's shoulder jostles the bed again.

  A face appears.

  It’s a half-giant with ashy skin, painted with dark red stripes and knots. A gnarled scar stretches across his wide jaw. He’s missing an ear. His dark eyes narrow as he peers under the bed. He reaches a hand out. It passes through the illusion.

  It touches you.

  “Got ‘em!” he bellows over his shoulder.

  “Torm? Where are you?” calls another voice.

  “In here.”

  He grabs a fistful of your shirt and pulls. You skid across the floor, into the waiting grasp of another raider. A sword appears at your throat. It glints in the nighttime. It has a leather-wrapped handle, decorated with scraps of fur. There’s only one sharp edge on it, coming to a point after a squared-off arch along the spine. The half-giant crouches and drags Keo from under the bed. He thrashes, hissing. The half-giant reels back, blood brimming from his forehead.

  “Shit! Fucking cat. Not worth the trouble.”

  “Take his claws off,” the second raider says.

  “No. They’re useless without fingers.”

  Keo skitters into the corner, eyes wide and fur standing on end. There’s black blood on his hands.

  The second raider hefts you up, slinging you over a shoulder. He’s a full-blooded orc and barely able to fit his shoulders through the door. Your fiddle is still sitting on the dresser nearby. Your chest seizes. You spent months saving for it.

  “Wait! We’re not from here,” you say. “We’re just passing through. Let us go, and we’ll not bother you. Please.”

  The orc only laughs. The half-giant nods his head over his shoulder. “A talker. Get him out of here. I'll take care of this one.”

  Cold grips you. Keo watches. He’s shaking, amber eyes locked on you. They’re begging. More words come from your mouth. “His father’s in Carthesia! He’ll pay you.”

  “His father’s downstairs. You’ll see him on the way out.” The half-giant grins. He draws a single-sided axe. A long whip is coiled on his belt.

  The orc carries you through the doorway. Your head smacks against the frame. You’re not saying anything anymore. You’re just screaming.

  You shut your eyes tightly. Your heart hammers in your chest. The orc beneath you smells like blood, piss, and sweat. And seawater. His armor grates. Warm night air hits you. You’re outside. This can’t be real. This is some kind of terrible nightmare.

  You’re unceremoniously dumped on the beach.

  Breath whooshes from your chest. You cough. Sand fills your orifices. The night sky stretches, a moon glistening overhead. Coramine’s bright rings span the horizons. The droning roar of the ocean fills your ears. Another raider appears, wrapping cutting twine around your hands.

  You’re stood on your feet by a lean dark elf. Her white hair is in a long braid that falls down her back. A knotted tattoo scrolls across her purplish gray skin. Her eyes are yellow. She’s holding another sword like the one you saw earlier. It’s on fire. Strong magic wafts from it. It casts warm, flickering light around the sand.

  She brandishes it at you, gesturing with it. It whooshes. “Over there.” She glances you up and down. Her gaze lingers. “Gods, you’re not gonna last long.”

  “Catherine!” someone calls. She turns, heading toward them.

  You’re shoved toward a group of people, all of them bound. You recognize some from earlier. They’re being herded toward the shore, toward the ships. One massive one stands out. You're being loaded onto it.

  It's a double-decked ship – long and flat, either end tall and curled, with a massive line of oars. “The Black Tide”, it’s called. The prow is a carved wooden figure of a woman emerging from the sea, adorned with shells, scales, gills, and frills - Aenta, the Wilderkeeper, the goddess of all things natural. She’s surrounded by sea creatures – a spiky, scaled turtle and a tentacled, toothy beast. And in the midst of the ship is a huge mast and sails.

  The sails are black. A breeze trickles through, catching the cloth. Moonlight glints off the symbol stitched on it.

  A black dragon.

  What if cultivation was engineering?

  Engineer mind + Taoist cultivation + Blacksmith MC

  He died. He glimpsed infinity. Now he's building his way back—with a hammer.

  No shortcuts. Just a nine-year-old forging lightning generators and formations in a dying kingdom.

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