“Fireworks?” Alamsyah wheezed, his heart stuttering. “Is that what you call a public scene? Because you’re doing a fantastic job, Duke.”Ruan Sile didn’t pull back. The cold pressure of his hand against the wall felt like an anchor. “Don't pretend, Alamsyah. The clock is ticking.”“I’m really not following. Are you drunk? Did you spike your own punch?”Ruan Sile’s gaze sharpened, slicing through Alamsyah’s feigned confusion. “Go. Before I decide your presence here is a liability I can no longer tolerate.”Alamsyah didn’t need to be told twice. He backed away, his boots clicking erratically against the marble. He turned and bolted, his lungs burning as he shoved through the heavy velvet curtains and out into the biting night air.System, talk to me! What was that? How does he know about the midnight reset?A harsh, mechanical chime echoed in his skull.[Mission Alert: Survive the Intimacy Trial with Asrul Gani. Target: 100% synchronization. Reward: System Core Stability.]“Asrul? Now?

The heavy stone door shuddered under a blow that vibrated through the floorboards. Chairil didn’t move, his eyes locked on the darkening air where the walls were beginning to pixelate into static."He’s not waiting for an invitation," Chairil muttered, his voice devoid of his usual arrogance. "Go through the terrace. The Sacrifice Protocol isn't just a timer, Budi—it’s a homing beacon.""Wait, you’re just going to leave me?" Budi grabbed his jacket, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird."I’m the distraction. You’re the one who needs to survive the next hour." Chairil flicked his wrist, and a shimmering blue gust of wind threw the terrace doors open. "Move! Or the Duke will have your head on a platter before the bells even chime."Budi didn't wait. He vaulted over the railing, catching his breath as he hit the wet cobblestones of the inner courtyard. He didn't stop until he reached the bustling entrance of the Royal Banquet Hall, where the sounds of strings and laug

“Don’t move,” Levi hissed, his body a solid, immovable wall against Basra’s.The heavy, rhythmic tread of boots crunched on the gravel just inches away. Basra held his breath, his pulse thundering against the damp stone of the maze wall. Levi’s hand was still laced through his, fingers clamped with a possessive strength that felt less like protection and more like a warning.“Check the north perimeter!” a guard shouted, his voice muffled by the thick, evergreen hedges. “The Duke wants that rat found before the bells finish tolling.”“Understood. If he’s still on the grounds, he’s not getting out alive.”The voices receded, fading into the rustle of the night wind. Levi didn’t let go. He leaned his forehead against Basra’s, his breath hot and ragged.“Close one,” Basra whispered, his voice trembling despite his bravado. “How’s it feel to be an accessory to a high-profile escape?”“It feels like a massive headache,” Levi muttered, his gaze searching Basra’s face. “You’re shaking. Is it

The void didn’t feel like death; it felt like a corrupted hard drive.Basra slammed into the cold, marble floor of a room he didn’t recognize, his limbs feeling like lead weights. The air tasted of ozone and ancient, pressed flowers. His vision stuttered, flashing red error codes across his retinas.“Still breathing, then?”The voice was like silk dragged over gravel. Basra pushed himself up, his hands shaking so violently he almost slipped. Across the room, perched on a throne of floating, ink-stained scrolls, sat a man with silver hair and eyes that glowed with a sickening, stagnant gold.“Archmage Orion,” Basra wheezed, clutching his chest where the mark pulsed like a dying star. “I’m guessing you weren’t expecting a house call.”Orion didn’t move, his fingers lazily tracing the air. “I’’m expecting the world to shatter, Basra. You’re just the tremor that signaled it was coming.”“Yeah, well, keep the drama for the theater. I need a fix. Now.”Orion chuckled, a sound that made Basr

The plaza was a gauntlet of steel. Basra sprinted, his boots carving tracks into the cobblestones as he dived into the narrow, dark mouth of the Royal Crypt. He slammed the iron gate shut, his breath hitching in his chest.“0.01 percent? I’ve survived worse odds at a tavern on a Tuesday,” Basra panted, his hands trembling as he fumbled for his torch.“You’re talking to yourself again, aren't you?”Basra spun, his torchlight catching a figure seated on a stone sarcophagus. It wasn't a guard. It was an ethereal, faded projection—an echo. It looked exactly like him, but its eyes were hollow.“Who the hell are you? A ghost?” Basra asked, his voice cracking.“I’m the last draft,” the echo replied, its voice like dry leaves. “Look at the wall, Basra. Don’t look at me. Look at the ledger.”Basra turned, his heart thumping a violent rhythm against his ribs. The walls were covered in thousands of charcoal tally marks, layered over decades of dates. Beneath them, stacks of leather-bound journal