Cain opened his eyes.
For half a second, he expected pain.
After having a mountain collapse on him while something the size of a fortress tried to tear him apart, a little pain was to be expected.
Instead, there was none.
The cave was empty.
The smoke was gone.
The collapsing stones were gone.
The storm was gone, too. The roar that had filled his skull like a second heartbeat had vanished so completely that the silence felt wrong, like pressure equalizing too fast.
He sucked in a breath.
The air was clean and cool.
They were all standing.
There were no injuries. Their clothes were damp but intact.
Their shed blood was gone.
Their bruises were gone.
Bill had been halfway crushed by a tentacle the size of a siege engine, but he stood upright, blinking like he’d just woken from a nap.
Cain looked down at his hands.
His mana pool felt… stable.
That was the part that scared him.
The foxkin sat on a fallen stone nearby, legs tucked neatly beneath her, her tail swaying lazily behind her like none of this was worth standing up for. She watched them with open curiosity, head tilted, ears twitching as if she were listening to something only she could hear.
“You all died,” she said cheerfully. “Good thing it wasn’t real.”
Rikta made a small, strangled sound.
Takkar swore under his breath.
Bill looked down at himself and then up again, visibly confused. “I did?”
“You forgot the ‘e’,” the foxkin pointed out. “Right between the ‘i’ and the ‘d’.”
She smiled, but her words didn’t land like a joke.
Rikta tilted her head. “Iedid?”
Cain covered his face with a palm. His stomach twisted as his mind replayed the last clear moment he remembered—the collapse, the fall, the endless darkness…
“That wasn’t an illusion,” he said slowly.
The foxkin’s smile widened by a hair. “Correct.”
“It wasn’t a dream, either.”
“Correct.”
“And you didn’t pull us out before it happened.”
She laughed softly at that, tail flicking once. “Oh no. That would’ve been rude.”
Cain stared at her.
“You let us die.”
“I let the story reach its conclusion,” she corrected. “Then I chose which version mattered.”
A cold shiver ran down Cain’s spine.
Before he could respond, the system asserted itself, notifying him of the outcome:
=You have defeated (1) Voskeg Kraken=
=You gain 100 skill points=
=Current skill points: 108.93=
=Level up! (x5) Multi-Fireball is now Rank 30/- =
=Level up! (x2) Flickerflame is now Rank 17/100 =
=Level up! (x2) Enhanced Fire Magic is now Rank 10/100=
=Level up! (x3) Ignite is now rank 16/100=
=Level up! Emberheart is now Rank 5/100=
=Level up! Execute+2 is now Rank 4/100=
=Level up! Oath of Ash is now Rank 5/100=
It was dead, and the system awarded the kill to him.
But what were those numbers?
100 skill points?!
What kind of apocalyptic beast was that thing?
“What the fuck…” Cain cursed.
The foxkin watched him with open delight.
“Oh,” she said softly. “That’s exactly the right question.”
Cain lowered his hand slowly.
The system notifications hung in his vision like an accusation, the numbers too large to feel real. He dismissed them with a thought, but the weight of them lingered. 100 skill points didn’t come from ordinary monsters. That kind of reward came from monsters that people wrote warnings about instead of strategies.
He looked around again, slower this time.
The cave was still the same shape, with fractured stone and deep grooves where tentacles had torn free chunks of rock. There was just no rubble, scorch marks, or collapsed ceiling.
“If it wasn’t real, then why did the system reward me for the kill?”
The foxkin hummed, her tail flicking once behind her. “That’s not mutually exclusive.”
“It burned and bled,” he pressed. “My skills leveled up by fighting it.”
“You watched a version burn,” she replied lightly. “You were very thorough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She tilted her head. “But it’s not a lie.”
Behind him, Rikta shifted, hugging her arms to herself. “So.. did we die or not?”
“Yes,” the foxkin said immediately.
Rikta paled. “But we’re—”
“Yes,” she repeated, nodding. “And also yes.”
Bill scratched the side of his head. “That feels like cheating.”
The foxkin’s ears twitched. “It usually does.”
Cain stepped forward, boots scraping softly against stone. “Did you interfere with the system?”
She looked genuinely surprised. “Oh, heavens no. I don’t have echelomancy.”
“Then how did it decide the kill was mine?”
Her smile softened. “Because it was.”
His brow furrowed. “But you’re the one who changed the outcome.”
“I didn’t change that,” she said. “You hurt it. You cornered it. You forced an end where the kraken could die naturally. The echelomancy system rewards conclusions.”
Cain looked past her, toward the cave wall where the kraken’s tentacles had once been embedded like part of the mountain itself. “Then why undo it?”
She followed his gaze. “Because you needed to see what happens if you don’t stop at the appropriate time.”
Something in her tone made his shoulders tense.
“You’re saying we’re going to die,” he concluded.
She didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she hopped down from the stone with a light, almost playful movement and padded toward the cave entrance.
‘When did we get back to the cave entrance?’
He blinked and realized that they had returned to the starting point before he realized it.
Outside, gray light filtered in—calm, overcast, almost gentle. There was no wind or rain. The mountain loomed the same as it had before they entered, jagged and indifferent.
She stopped just short of the threshold.
“You learn,” she said at least. “And then you run out of places to stand.”
Cain turned that over slowly, comparing it to the information Nick had gathered from Kelsey.
“Are you the teacher, or the mountain?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“Correct.”
“…”
Takkar crossed his arms. “So what now? Are we done here?”
The foxkin glanced back at them. “That depends.”
Cain felt a familiar irritation rise. “On what?”
“On whether you think that was the problem.”
He stared at her. “Oh, I know it wasn’t the problem. If every expedition into Voskeg failed because of the kraken, then there would be accounts of the kraken from people who respawn.”
He stepped past her and out into the open air.
“And I’m sure the kraken itself is likely unrelated to the weather phenomenon we experienced.”
The world didn’t resist him.
That, more than anything else so far, unsettled him.
He expected pressure. Heat. Some invisible line he couldn’t cross. Instead, the mountain accepted his presence once again without comment. The path ahead snaked upward along a narrow ridge, half-erased by time.
He crouched and ran a hand over the ground.
“Cain?” Rikta asked.
He stood. “We keep moving.”
The foxkin’s ears perked up. “Oh?”
He met her gaze. “Unless you’re saying we can’t?”
She studied him for a long moment, eyes bright with something indecipherable. “No. You can.”
That somehow wasn’t reassuring.
They set out again, the cave receding behind them. The climb resumed at a steadier pace than before, the slope less treacherous, the air thinner but manageable.
Nothing attacked them.
Nothing happened.
Tension grew as time passed.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Then another.
The path forked.
Cain frowned. He was certain—absolutely certain—that the fork hadn’t been there when they first approached. The left branch dipped downward toward a shadowed cleft, while the right continued along the ridge, narrower but more direct.
He glanced back.
The foxkin was smiling faintly, watching him.
“Which way?” Rikta asked.
Cain scanned both paths. The left felt… quiet. The right felt thin and empty.
With almost no information to go on, he made his choice.
They took the right.
The moment his foot crossed the invisible boundary between paths, he felt an unfamiliar pulse that made his vision blur for half a heartbeat.
“What was that?” Lorian whispered, clutching his head.
Cain shook it off. “Who knows?”
The ridge narrowed, stone falling away on either side into mist-shrouded depths. The sky above remained overcast, but the light shifted strangely, shadows stretching in directions that didn’t match the sun’s direction.
After another ten minutes, Cain stopped dead.
He could see their own footprints ahead of them, fresh and unmistakable, leading away around a bend that should not have connected back to where they were standing.
Bill blinked. “Did we turn around?”
“No,” Cain said quietly.
The foxkin leaned forward, peering at the prints. “That’s early.”
Cain straightened slowly. “Early for what?”
She looked up at him. “The mountain seems interested in you. It’s asking a question.”
A cold weight settled in his chest.
Cain looked down at the footprints again.
It was a common story element.
The looping path—proof of motion without progress, effort without distance.
What question was the mountain asking him?
He crouched and dragged two fingers through one of the prints, smearing it slightly.
“These footprints are wrong,” Rikta said quietly, stepping closer.
Cain glanced back at her. “How so?”
She hesitated, searching for the words. “They’re too perfect. When people walk, they leave inconsistencies. Things like ‘weight shifts’, ‘hesitation’, or ‘fatigue’. She pointed to a print near the edge of the ridge. “That one should be deeper on the outside. Bill favors his left.”
Bill looked down at his feet. “I do?”
“Yes,” she said automatically. Then she frowned. “But for some reason, you didn’t for these footprints.”
Takkar shifted uneasily. “So what, the mountain’s copying us?”
The foxkin hummed behind them. “Mimicking is such a hard word.”
“I said ‘copying’, though,” Takkar protested.
Cain straightened slowly.
“This isn’t a loop,” he said. “It’s a reconstruction.”
The foxkin’s tail flicked once, pleased.
Rikta’s eyes widened as the thought clicked into place. “It’s replaying us.”
“Not exactly,” Cain replied. “Otherwise, there wouldn’t be inconsistencies. It might be more accurate to say it’s ‘predicting’ us.”
Lorian swallowed. “That’s worse. Predictions imply intelligence.”
Cain turned and walked back along the ridge, retracing their steps toward the fork. The air felt unchanged, but the longer he walked, the more unease he felt.
The mountain wasn’t pushing them back.
They reached the fork again.
Cain stopped.
The left path still dipped into shadow. The right still climbed toward the ridge.
Nothing had changed.
Rikta pondered for a moment. “This seems like faecraft,” she said. “I think this is… anchoring.”
Cain looked at her sharply. “Explain.”
She swallowed, fingers curling into the fabric at her sleeves. “Faecraft isn’t just illusions. That’s the cheap stuff. Real faecraft works on expectations and the shape of belief.” She gestured helplessly at the paths. “This thing—whatever it is—it’s maintaining a version of us that makes sense to it.”
Bill scratched his chin. “So it thinks we’re dumb enough to not notice a loop?”
Rikta winced. “No. This situation implies that it thinks we’re consistent. Or perhaps it’s testing our consistency.”
Silence settled.
Cain slowly nodded. “It’s assuming we’ll act the same way again.”
“Yes,” she said. “Because we already did.”
The foxkin clapped her hands softly. “Very good. You’re learning how to listen.”
Cain ignored her.
He turned back to the fork and crouched again, studying the ground between the two paths. The ridge itself was narrow but solid, stone worn smooth by centuries of wind. He placed one hand flat against it.
“What’s the rule?” he murmured.
Takkar frowned.
“Every anomaly should have one,” Cain said. “Everything in the universe follows rules and principles. We only call it an ‘anomaly’ because we don’t understand it yet.”
Rikta stepped forward beside him.
“If this challenge uses principles of faecraft like I’m thinking, then it isn’t tracking where we go, it’s tracking why.”
Cain looked up at her.
Her eyes were distant now, focused inward.
“When you use fallen faecraft to guide travelers,” she continued, “you don’t make paths. You make reasons. You shape the way people justify their choices. If they believe they chose freely, they’ll follow the thread you laid for them.”
“And if they don’t?” Cain asked.
She shrugged. “The spell failed, presumably. It can be hard to determine cause and effect when dealing with manipulation magic.”
Cain stood.
“So the takeaway is that the ‘loop’ will persist because our choices are being subconsciously guided.”
“Yes,” Rikta said. “We chose the right path because something about it made you choose it. Whether you felt the decision was arbitrary or not.”
The foxkin tilted her head. “Why do you always choose the right in labyrinths?”
“Why do you know that?” Cain asked. “Also, it’s a tried and true rule for maze exploration. Always turn the same direction until you can’t anymore.”
“I’ve never heard that rule before,” Takkar observed.
“Neither have I,” Bill said.
“Can’t say I’ve heard of it either,” Rikta added.
Cain sighed. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that we can’t break the loop by choosing differently. If I make any choices at all, I’m just being manipulated by the information I have and my inherent habits and biases. Mental manipulation is bullshit because it has no solutions.”
“So what do we do?” Lorian asked.
“We just make the choice invalid,” Cain said.
Rikta’s breath caught. “You’re saying we—”
“—break the game from the beginning,” Cain finished.
He turned and walked straight toward the fork.
Then he stopped.
And sat down.
Everyone froze.
“What are you doing?” Takkar hissed.
Cain planted himself squarely between the two paths, legs crossed, palms resting on his knees.
“Refusing,” he said.
The mountain did not react.
Rikta stared at him, heart pounding.
“That might not be enough,” she whispered. “It can still rationalize—”
“I know,” Cain said. “That’s where you come in.”
She flinched. “Me?”
He looked at her fully now. “You said faecraft is about intent. So change the intent. You’re a fallen faecrafter, right?”
Her hands trembled.
“I don’t have any tools or mediums,” she said. “And I’m not particularly advanced. I haven’t practiced in years…”
“I cannot express how much I do not care about your excuses,” Cain said. “Just do it.”
The foxkin’s ears perked up.
Rikta closed her eyes.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then she spoke.
“I didn’t choose a path,” she said. “I followed Cain.”
The words landed strangely, like they’d been dropped into still water.
The air rippled.
She swallowed and continued, her voice steadier now.
“I didn’t weigh any risks. I didn’t assess the terrain. I made no decisions.” Her hands clenched. “I let someone else decide for me because I had no faith in my own judgment.”
The ground shifted, like a misaligned page being nudged into place.
The foxkin leaned forward, eyes shining.
Rikta’s voice shook, but she didn’t stop.
“This choice doesn’t belong to me. It never did. So it can’t trap me.”
The footprints ahead blurred.
Cain felt it immediately—a pressure in his skull that he hadn’t sensed before eased.
Lorian gasped. “What is this…?”
The right-hand ridge no longer connected.
It simply… ended.
The left path remained.
But it was no longer shadowed.
Sunlight filtered down into the cleft, revealing stone steps worn unevenly, old and narrow, descending into the mountain’s interior.
Rikta sagged where she stood as the tension drained out of her.
Cain rose smoothly and offered her a hand.
“Well done,” he said.
She laughed weakly. “I hate this place.”
The foxkin smiled, satisfied.
“The mountain accepted your answer,” she said. “It couldn’t argue with your logic, so you may proceed.”
Cain looked down the revealed path.
“I suppose it has another question waiting for us?”
They stepped forward together.
Behind them, their footprints faded completely.
The loop was gone.
But it wasn’t only the loop that faded.
There was no path behind them.
Almost as if they arrived here from nowhere.
Project Knightfall 