The rest of the rift was a repetitive, gray cycle. Every chamber followed the same geological rhythm of cold stone and glowing fungus, and the enemies within were just as predictable. Now that I had a partner that would listen to me instinctively, the danger felt distant, almost mechanical. It was really, really simple.

  My mana kobold was a silent, smoky mirror of the things we were killing. Thanks to the talent I had imprinted, it was actually stronger than the living versions. It would lunge from the shadows, pinning a target to the ground with a strength that didn't tire. It would hold the creature still, forcing its chest upward, presenting the kill for me. I would step in, thrust the knife into the heart, and then the neck.

  Each room was dealt with in the same manner. Part of it was my own efficiency, but mostly it was because every kobold fought with the exact same pattern. They were like clockwork toys wound up and set loose in a cave.

  Strike high. Strike low. Attempt to grapple. Bite if the grapple lands.

  It was a never-ending loop. They didn't learn. They didn't adapt. They exclusively fought the same way, over and over, until the rhythm of their deaths became as steady as the dripping water. By the third room, the fear that had been clawing at my throat started to settle into a cold, hard boredom. I didn't even need the mana kobold's assistance anymore.

  I would wait for the lunge, grab their right arm, and pull them into my space. The momentum did half the work. I would twist, bringing my blade up in a sharp, practiced arc. I'd push the knife through the right temple, feeling the resistance of the bone give way to the soft heat beneath. Then I would unsheathe the knife from its grisly scabbard and move to the next.

  My movements were becoming fluid, stripped of the wasted energy that comes from hesitation. I was starting to understand what the Manager meant by the anatomy being a weapon. I didn't need a sword. I just needed to know where the machine broke.

  But as I stepped over the latest pile of dissolving gray ash, the air changed. The sweet smell of the sugar-water in my throat felt cloying as a new scent replaced it. It was heavy, like wet fur and old, rotting meat. The heavy thuds from deeper in the cave weren't just echoes anymore. They were vibrations I could feel in my teeth.

  The final chamber opened up into a massive cathedral of stone, the ceiling lost in a shroud of thick, hanging mist. In the center of the cavern, illuminated by a forest of towering, pale-blue mushrooms, stood the idol of the Rift.

  It was a black bull, its coat as dark and obsidian as the starless nights I remember from the gutters. It stood over two kobolds that were hunched on their knees, their heads bowed in a ritualistic display of reverence. According to the packet, these attendants spent their lives in prayer to their living god, but the bull didn't seem to care for their worship.

  The beast had two heads, each crown adorned with jagged, obsidian horns. As it turned toward me, I saw their eyes. One set burned with a brilliant, emerald green; the other glowed with a cold, piercing silver. It was beautiful in a terrifying, primal way. It was also enormous, its muscular frame rippling with a power that made the air feel heavy.

  The moment it noticed me, there was no warning. It didn't bellow. It simply gored through its two attendants, its horns tossing their small bodies aside like discarded rags, and lowered its heads to charge.

  I felt the ground shake as it thundered toward me. Luckily, my hyper-observant focus kicked in before my fear could. I noticed immediately that the beast was charging in a dead straight line, its momentum too great for it to adjust its path once committed. I threw myself to the left, rolling across the damp grit of the cave floor.

  The bull didn't even attempt to veer. It slammed into the far wall with a bone-jarring impact that sent a shower of dust and stone shards raining down from the ceiling.

  I scrambled to my feet, my mind racing. Could it not turn well? Was it a physical limitation of having two heads, or did it simply want to overpower the threat to the Rift with pure, overwhelming force?

  Then I saw what had actually happened. My mana kobold was gone. It had tried to intercept the charge, and the sheer kinetic energy of the bull had caused my summon to dissipate instantly upon impact. Without the resistance of the kobold to slow it down, the bull had simply continued its trajectory until it met the stone.

  I looked at the beast as it shook its heads, the green and silver eyes flashing with a renewed fury. It was fast, and it was strong, but it was predictable. It was just another rhythm.

  "Think, Wren," I whispered to myself, drawing a fresh throwing knife from my belt. "It's just a bigger clock."

  The bull was a mountain of muscle and rage, but as I moved, I realized it was a mountain that only knew how to move forward.

  I kept my main knife sheathed. The weight of it against my thigh was a comfort, but I knew that if I drew it now, I’d be tempted to get close, and getting close to those horns was a death sentence. Instead, I stayed light on the balls of my feet, mimicking the dodging drills the Manager had forced me to do until my legs burned.

  The bull pivoted, its hooves carving deep grooves into the cavern floor. The silver eyes pulsed with light, and it launched again. I didn't just jump; I waited until the very last second, watching the tension in its haunches. I dived to the right, feeling the rush of wind as the black mass thundered past.

  Before it could even hit the wall, I reached into my harness and flicked a throwing knife. It was a snap of the wrist, a move practiced in the silence of my room. The blade hissed through the air and buried itself in the bull's flank.

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  It didn't stop the beast, but it made it scream. A dual-toned bellow that echoed off the high ceiling.

  I didn't stay still. I moved, circling the chamber, keeping the towering blue mushrooms between us whenever possible. Every time it charged, I was somewhere else. Duck, dodge, dive. I was a ghost in an overcoat. I noticed that the green eyes seemed to track my movement with a predatory focus, while the silver eyes glowed brighter whenever it began its sprint.

  I threw another knife. This one caught it in the shoulder. The bull was starting to look like a pincushion, but these weren't killing blows. They were tests. I was measuring its turn radius, the way its weight shifted when it missed, and how long it took for its heads to clear the fog of impact.

  My breathing was heavy, the sugar-water energy starting to plateau, but my mind was sharper than ever. I watched the blood. Real, dark blood trickle down its black hide. I watched the way it favored its left side after the third miss.

  It was a beast of the Rift, yes, but it followed the rules of the world. It had a center of gravity. It had a rhythm. And I was starting to learn the beat.

  ***

  The monitoring array hummed, the pale blue light of the rift-plates reflecting off the unyielding surface of my mask. On the screen, the boy was a blur of motion, a small shadow dancing around the thundering bulk of the two-headed beast. It was a chaotic display of agility, yet there was a cold, analytical precision to it that made the air in the observation room feel thin.

  “He’s observant,” Cindy remarked, her voice hushed as she tracked the fight. Her gaze didn't leave the spectral projection of the bull’s heavy, misses-by-an-inch charges.

  “Yes—I have noticed he tends to be—whenever he isn't distracted by the boredom of tedium,” I replied. I kept my posture rigid, my staff clicked softly against the floor. “I have also noted the boy can quickly categorize a conflict as a game—a pattern—or a puzzle to be solved. Frankly—I believe his lack of a proper childhood is manifesting as a survival mechanism. He does not see a monster—he sees a series of moving parts.”

  I leaned in closer to the display, my eyes narrowing at the way Wren released his steel.

  “Although—several lessons regarding the proper mechanics of a knife throw are in order. He is utilizing a two-spin method—which is needlessly complex for this range. He should be using a no-spin throw to ensure the point finds the flesh every time. He has been lucky thus far.”

  Cindy shook her head, a short, sharp motion of dismissal.

  “Don’t fix what isn't broken,” she countered, gesturing toward the bull’s bleeding flanks. “See how he has managed to injure it? His technique works—plain and simple.”

  “His—technique,” I repeated, the word tasting like bile in my mouth. “It is highly inefficient—which is to be expected of a gutter-born novice. However—I still expected him to instinctively find more optimal ways to utilize his tools.”

  “He is utilizing them,” Cindy said, her tone growing defensive. “Look at him. He is constantly moving, ducking, and weaving. He is using his small stature and his lack of weight to ensure he is never where the horns land. He has been avoiding the left side of that bull for the entire encounter, diving out of the way before the beast can even commit. I wonder…will the rift reward him for going hitless against the boss?”

  I turned my head slightly toward her, the blank, porcelain eyes of my mask catching the flicker of the enchantments.

  “You tell me—Cindy. Does the rift truly provide such boons?”

  “Yeah. It does,” she admitted, shifting her weight as she watched Wren roll beneath a savage swipe of an obsidian horn. “If you can manage a hitless run against a boss while still being at-tier, the rift can occasionally manifest a special item. It is a rarity.”

  She must have felt the weight of my silent scrutiny through the mask, because she quickly held up a hand in clarification.

  “No! Not a growth item or anything of that magnitude. That happens so rarely that it has only been recorded twice—and both instances involved delvers with specific talents designed to influence drop rates. I simply mean it can provide something unique—something tailored to the performance.”

  I looked back at the screen. The boy was breathing hard, his movements beginning to lose their initial snap, but he remained untouched. He was a speck of dust irritating a titan—and if Cindy was correct—the rift was starting to take notice of the ghost who refused to be hit.

  ***

  The rhythm changed.

  The bull skidded to a halt, its hooves kicking up a cloud of grit and pulverized stone. It didn't lower its heads for another charge. Instead, it stood perfectly still, the heavy huffing of its breath the only sound in the massive chamber. I stood my ground, my hands empty, watching the way the light from the mushrooms played off its obsidian hide.

  Then, the world seemed to ripple.

  I blinked, thinking my sugar-high was finally crashing and making my vision tear, but the reality was much worse. The single black mass of the bull began to pull apart like thick, dark taffy. The obsidian hide bled away, revealing two distinct forms where there had been one.

  The black bull was gone. In its place stood two smaller, yet equally lethal, mirrors of the original. One was a shimmering, metallic silver with hollow black eyes that looked like holes in reality. The other was a deep, mossy green, its eyes two voids of ink.

  I narrowed my eyes, my mind instantly cataloging the damage I’d already done. The silver bull had a pronounced limp on its right side. The green bull favored its left. They were the two halves of the whole, sharing the injuries I had inflicted during the first phase of the dance.

  They didn't give me time to appreciate the magic of it.

  Both bulls lowered their heads simultaneously. The silver one let out a sharp, metallic ring while the green one produced a low, guttural growl that felt like grinding stones. They didn't charge in a single line this time. They began to flank me, moving in a pincer movement that cut off my easy escape routes to the sides.

  "Two rhythms," I whispered, my heart hammering a new, frantic beat. "Just two patterns playing at once."

  I reached into my harness, but I didn't pull a knife. Not yet. I needed to see how they moved together. If they were connected, then tripping one might trip the other. If they were independent, I was in a lot more trouble than I’d planned for.

  The green bull launched first, its limp making its gait jagged and uneven. A split second later, the silver one followed, its hooves clicking against the stone like hailstones on a tin roof.

  I didn't dive this time. I waited. I stood right in the center of their converging paths, my eyes darting between the silver gleam and the green shadow. At the very last moment, I didn't roll—I jumped.

  I tucked my knees to my chest, feeling the heat of their massive bodies pass directly beneath me. The silver horns missed my boots by an inch. I landed hard, spinning on my heel to see them both crashing past where I had stood.

  They were faster apart, but the limp made them sloppy.

  I finally drew my main knife, the weight of the steel familiar and heavy in my hand. No more games with throwing knives. If I wanted to get out of here without a scratch, I had to stop dodging and start cutting.