**Imperial Command Briefing – First Floor, 11:30 DT – Commander: Capt. John Corey**

  "The teleportation net doesn't just vanish. Find me a way back into those telepads. " Corey ordered; now they were limited to the first floor. He couldn't show his face if his latest reports home included that he lost the dungeon to the laborers who toiled in it. "You are dismissed."

  Captain John Corey paced the war room like a man who was writing a eulogy for his career. His boots echoed against the tile, clicking like punctuation marks on a sentence no one wanted to read. A group of nameless, pick-welding, savage Earthbound had undone him again. Not tacticians, just slaves. He clutched his crystal glass; it was the eighth pour tonight. His hand found the bottle on muscle memory, but the bottle was way too light. Nothing remained of the expensive gift. He stared at the label like it might refill itself if he looked hard enough. That bottle had seen him through two years in this filthy hole, two betrothals that turned sour, and more than one disappointment. And now, of course, it was gone just like the fifth floor. Another thing those castless would answer for.

  "Dante!" he barked, the name spat through a tensed jaw and a glass following the words across the room, catching the wall, and exploding into expensive glitter.

  No response from the spy master. Just a voice from the threshold, serene like the ocean with a light breeze.

  "He's out setting traps for your Earthbound infestation," said Jayce, not flinching as he stepped into the shattered mess. Hands folded behind his back like this was a debrief, not what it was, a crumbling stronghold. "You'll have to settle for me."

  Corey didn't shout, refusing to lose any more of his refinement. "Then deliver this," he said, his voice low and slow. "If I don't have the head of 605 by the end of the week, Dante won't have to worry about his lost status anymore; he will be sent back to his family in a box."

  **Shadow Directive – Fifth Floor, 12:00 DT – Agent: D. the Twelfth Shadow**

  Dante watched from the shadows; he was always listening. He could not see in the shadow world, but was still able to hear any conversation from those to whom he attached his shadow. The 5th-floor encampment was quiet at this hour.

  The Emperor's mark still burned his core like lava poured onto ice, his gift for becoming a champion of the imperium. The mark had dug deep into his soul and changed him. He felt rotten from the inside out and had begun to notice that his personality had been affected. It was a good thing his noisy mind quieted; he no longer cared for his lost birthright or his order, the Scarlet Legion; instead, he only wanted to complete the mission.

  Six months back, the quest came like divine law, a System Quest delivered like the word of a wrathful god; that's when he received the mark. It elevated him from mid-tier E to D rank so quickly that his interface hadn't even finished recalibrating. He should've been grateful. He was stronger, faster, and more than he had been. However, the jump had cracked something in his foundation; until the quest was done, until 605 was dead, he'd never see C-grade.

  And Dane, no 605, was a problem. He was elusive. Dante had tracked him to the 45th floor, only to lose him mid-clear. He attempted to intercept him on the 46th floor, but the boy had gone to the 20th instead. This child had a sense of danger unrivaled; he was like a trap-sniffing hound. Worse still, the Emperor had lost track of him as well. Even his Dreamwatch skill meant to soul-link him with his target's coordinates failed. Dane's echoes came from two places at once. Even after upgrading the spell, the result was the same. He had somehow figured out a way to block his skill, or he was now two separate people.

  So Dante adapted. Dropping the pursuit, he began watching the people who formed his inner circle.

  The healer was one of the only people to slip through his grasp. He dropped a whole floor on top of her, and she was still alive. She was no longer just the medic. She was some form of curse user, if he had to guess. Her silent guard stuck close. Even two grades beneath Dante, the man had managed to sense his presence.

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  One of Dante's distant cousins ran drills in the corner of the camp. Amelia Tudor, if his memory served. She was a traitor and would be the second mistake he would rectify from the empire. She was the leader of this budding operation. She looked ragged and tired, and she was instructing the recruits well enough for a scout, but there were still small mistakes ingrained in the ragtag group of ex-miners. Mistakes he would exploit in the coming days.

  The Inventor took up most of his time; he was entertaining and brilliant. Dante would have to leave him alive. He gave off the vibe that he didn't care which side employed him as long as he could experiment.

  Still, none of them were 605. Dante had begun to wonder if Dane had abandoned the effort, letting his little rebellion grow without him until he saw him step through the teleporter. Dante didn't follow; he just watched, having plenty of time. The prey that had given him this much trouble deserved to be savoured. He still had six months left after all.

  The crystal tucked beneath his collar buzzed with static. Jayce's voice fought its way through the interference. "Master. I hate to interrupt, but Captain Corey's spiraling; he wants 605 dead by week's end, and he insinuated that he would kill you."

  Dante let out a long, controlled exhale. Two guards glanced his way at the sound. He vanished deeper into the shadows. It was time to pay a visit to the war room.

  **Unscheduled Command Review – War Room, 20:00 DT**

  Captain John Corey sat hunched at the head of the war room table, one hand wrapped around a chipped mess-hall glass of lukewarm swill, the other fumbling through half-scrawled reports. The Silvan Spirit was gone. He'd drained most of it the night they lost control of the outer barricades. Now all that remained was fermented piss served in a dented tin. He deserved better. His father's crest had secured him this post, and his noble blood was supposed to be enough. But somehow, a band of half-dead slaves had made him look like a joke.

  He threw the glass across the room. It rang out instead of giving off the satisfaction of shattering.

  The doors opened without announcement. Dante entered with silent footsteps, dressed in black leather reinforced with ruinic mesh. The faint outline of shadow magic pulsed around his shoulders, like oil on water.

  "You're late," Corey muttered, voice thick with drink. "And empty-handed," Dante said nothing. He approached slowly, gaze fixed on the captain's face. Corey stood unsteadily, squinting. "I said by the end of the week."

  "You did," Dante replied.

  Corey didn't process the phrasing fast enough. He gestured to the reports. "I need your assassins to track every thread and give information on the movements of the Earthbound."

  Dante took another step forward. "You mistake me for someone who cares what you need."

  Corey blinked as Dante closed the distance. He didn't move. Didn't reach for the sidearm he hadn't carried in weeks. Just stood there, shoulders relaxed, eyes glassy from drink.

  "Guess I was never meant to see the week out." Corey's gaze drifted to the map table, now streaked with mess hall swill and ink. The lines, obsolete now. Dreams of control drawn in straight lines by a man too scared to fight for them.

  "You know," he said, looking Dante in the eye, "I read every report on that boy. I told myself he was just another fluke the System threw up. But the longer it went on…" He exhaled, not quite a sigh, more like something being let go. "Don't make the same mistake I did. Don't underestimate him. He's seen the belly of this dungeon. Learned to breathe its air better than any noble-born bastard ever could." He leaned forward, the last of the drink burning down his throat.

  "They've got nothing left to lose, Shadow. And men like that… they rewrite empires." He swallowed, then gave a crooked smile, proud in a self-destructive way. "I couldn't break them. And I damn sure couldn't outrun them. So if you're here to clean house, fine. But don't pretend you're not standing in the last place you'll ever be relevant." He opened his arms, mock-theatrical. "Go on. Send me home.”

  John Corey didn't fight. Didn't beg. Just waited for the blade, relieved he wouldn't have to keep pretending to be someone he never was.

  **Reassignment – War Room, 23:30 DT – Commander: D. Twelfth Shadow**

  Thirty officers filed into the war room, faces pale from exhaustion and dread. They were met with the sight of their former commander's severed head resting atop the floor's tactical map. No one asked questions. Dante stood behind it, hands behind his back, shoulders relaxed. The aura around him was heavier than gravity.

  "I'll be brief," he began, voice cutting cleanly through the silence. "Your previous commander was an artifact of nepotism. He served his name, not the Emperor."

  He stepped closer to the map, gaze sweeping the room.

  "You serve me now."

  A pause. No one moved.

  "Those of you who have been refraining from evolving to E-Rank, I have a list and expect you to be evolved by 0500. That means every officer will be combat viable and reassigned to frontline units. If you are injured, you will push through it. If you are tired, you will adapt. And if you hesitate…"

  Dante gestured to Corey's head.

  "... you'll be recycled."

  A lieutenant near the back shifted his stance as if to object. Shadows licked up his boots. Dante didn't stop talking.

  "We will not retake the fifth floor by playing fair. From now on, we deploy nightmare tactics, illusions, sabotage, scentless toxins, and psychic suggestion. Be the monsters that they already know you to be. If they see the sun, we've failed. If they sleep without fear, we've failed. We remind them what it means to be prey."

  His tone sharpened.

  "You will study your enemies like they're scripture. The battle-witch is a curse user. I want someone with holy magic to shut it down. She has a bodyguard who is very perceptive; you won't be able to ambush them, so you need to strike quickly and decisively. The Inventor may look big, but his muscles are for show, all but his mind. Overwhelm him and get in close; some will die in his traps, but that is something to work out amongst yourselves. It is a known casualty. Finally, leave the traitor for me. Amelia Tudor is to be publicly executed for her crimes in front of the Nation."

  He took a final step forward and placed one hand on the red-hued table.

  "By the time the sun sets again, we will own the tunnels they crawl through. And by the end of the month, the Earthbound will either kneel or rot."

  He turned and walked out the door without another word.