With one last push and the sound of a metal door slamming behind him, Ryan was in a cell.

  He scrambled to his feet, adrenaline still flooding his system, and looked around. What he saw made his stomach drop.

  The bed was just a pile of moldy straw on the floor, shoved into the corner. In the opposite corner sat a wooden bucket, and he could only guess what it was used for. The smell alone confirmed his suspicions—a mix of stale urine and damp rot that made his nose wrinkle.

  It happened so fast. One minute he was in his room, the next he was being manhandled by a cat in a feathered hat.

  "Okay. Okay," he muttered, pacing the small space. He rubbed his arm where Juno had grabbed him; he was pretty sure there’d be a bruise there tomorrow. "What the fuck?" he called out, his voice echoing slightly off the wet stone walls.

  He kicked the stone wall, wincing as pain shot up his toe. "You can't just summon someone and throw them in the dungeon! I didn't sign up for this!"

  He looked at the iron bars of his cell door. They were thick, rusted in spots but solid. Beyond them, the corridor was pitch black, save for a single dying torch sputtering on the wall far away.

  Ryan slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the cold floor. He buried his face in his hands. This wasn't a game. There was no pause button. No restart. Just him, a bucket, and a pile of straw.

  He patted himself down frantically. He was still wearing his clothes from Earth—jeans, a t-shirt, and his sneakers. He checked his pockets. His wallet, his keys, and his smartphone were all still there.

  He pulled out his wallet and opened it. Ten dollars. He stared at the Hamilton bill. In this world, his money was useless. He looked at the wooden bucket in the corner, then back at the ten bucks.

  "Okay, okay," he muttered, shoving the wallet away. "At best, this is just... toilet paper now."

  He leaned his head back against the cold stone. "Okay, think. It's like one of those isekai stories I read, right? I mean, walking, talking animal people? Kings and knights and mages and summoning heroes?" He took a shaky breath. "So, I gotta have a system, right?"

  He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating hard. He waved his hand in the air, trying to summon a menu screen like the ram had done with the slate.

  "System," he said aloud, his voice trembling slightly. "Status. Menu. Interface."

  Nothing happened.

  He opened his eyes. Just dark, damp stone walls.

  "System?" he tried again, louder this time. "Help? Hello?"

  The silence of the dungeon was the only answer.

  Time dragged on in the darkness, marked only by the slow drip of water somewhere in the distance. Ryan had stopped pacing and was sitting on his pile of straw, his knees pulled up to his chest, when he heard footsteps approaching outside his cell.

  He held his breath, pressing his back against the cold wall. Two shadowy figures paused near the bars.

  "...yeah, and the summoning hero was a total bust," one voice whispered, carrying clearly in the quiet dungeon. "I heard the King is planning to get rid of him before the Church finds out."

  Ryan froze, his blood turning to ice.

  "Get rid of him?" a second, deeper voice grunted. "How?"

  "They need time to set up the fire pit," the first guard replied, lowering his voice further. "You know, to get rid of the evidence. Can't have the Church finding out the great ritual summoned a useless toy-maker. It's a disgrace to the gods."

  Ryan’s heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure they could hear it. They're going to kill me. The misunderstanding wasn't just an insult anymore; it was a death sentence.

  "What the fuck," he whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. He wasn't just waiting for rescue or a chance to explain. He was on death row.

  The reality of the situation crashed down on him like a ton of bricks. The guards hadn't been talking about a simple execution. They were talking about a spectacle.

  "Burn me..." Ryan whispered, his voice barely audible. "They're going to burn me at the stake."

  He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering violently despite the damp, stale air of the cell. In the stories, the hero always escaped at the last second. A secret tunnel, a sudden rescue, a magic burst of power. But he didn't have any of that. He had ten dollars and a smartphone that couldn't get a signal.

  "I'm the 'evidence,'" he muttered, staring at the stone floor. "And the King is going to light a match to wipe the slate clean."

  Panic began to claw at the back of his throat. He looked around the tiny cell again—the straw, the bucket, the iron bars. It was a coffin, not a prison. If he didn't figure something out—and fast—he was going to end up as nothing more than a pile of ash and a footnote in a history book nobody would ever read.

  He scrambled to the small, narrow window set high in the wall. It was barely more than a slit, but it was something. Looking out, he saw it was night, a light rain falling against the dark sky. The water slicked the stone frame, and in the dim moonlight, he spotted it—rust.

  Thick, flaking orange corrosion covered the middle of the bars, the result of years of neglect and the damp dungeon air.

  "I'm not just going to wait to die," Ryan growled, the fear shifting into a desperate, burning rage.

  He reached up, grabbing the middle bar with both hands. The metal was cold and rough against his palms. He planted his feet against the wall, bracing himself, and pulled.

  "Come on, damn it! Give!" he grunted through clenched teeth.

  He pulled so hard the veins in his neck stood out. He used his legs, pushing against the wall for leverage, his sneakers slipping slightly on the wet stone. The rust groaned, a metallic screech echoing in the cell, but the bar held firm.

  "Just break!" he screamed silently in his head, sweat mixing with the rainwater dripping down his arms. He didn't care about the pain in his shoulders or the skin scraping off his hands. He wasn't going to be kindling for a fire pit. He was getting out.

  The rusted metal groaned one last time, a high-pitched screech that pierced the quiet of the dungeon.

  SNAP.

  Ryan was sent flying backward as the bar gave way. He landed hard on the stone floor, the impact driving the air right out of his lungs.

  "Oof!" he wheezed, curling into a ball as he gasped for breath that wouldn't come. His back throbbed, but the adrenaline drowned out the pain.

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  "Wait—what was that noise?" a voice echoed from the corridor. "They heard him."

  Panic, pure and electric, surged through him. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the spinning in his head. He had to move. Survival panic was the only thing driving him forward.

  He lunged for the window, grabbing the remaining bars. He climbed them like a monkey, his sneakers slipping on the slick iron. He squeezed himself through the gap where the middle bar used to be, the stone frame scraping his chest and tearing his shirt.

  "The person is escaping!" one of the guards yelled, his voice booming down the hall.

  The jingling sound of hurried keys rang out, metallic and frantic. Ryan pushed with everything he had, his feet scrabbling against the wet wall until—

  With a wet slide, he tumbled out of the window and onto the cool, wet grass outside.

  He hit the ground rolling and scrambled up instantly. He didn't look back. He ran into the night, the rain plastering his hair to his face, as the sound of armor clanking and shouting guards faded behind him. He was free, but he had no idea where he was going.

  He just ran.

  No plan. No destination. He didn't even know if he'd survive the night. Branches whipped past his face, tearing at his skin, but he didn't stop. He plunged into the woods, the dark shadows swallowing him whole.

  His lungs were burning, every breath a ragged gasp of cold air, but he didn't stop. The rain soaked him instantly, plastering his clothes to his body, weighing him down, but the sheer terror of being burned alive fueled his legs. He stumbled over roots, scrambled through mud, and kept going, putting as much distance between himself and that castle as possible.

  Behind him, the shouts of the guards faded, replaced by the eerie silence of the forest and the sound of his own frantic heartbeat. He ran until his legs gave out, collapsing against the trunk of a massive tree, gasping for air in the pitch black.

  He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, a primal instinct screaming at him a split second before the sound reached his ears.

  He dove to the muddy ground without thinking.

  SHING!

  A flash of silver arced through the air, slicing exactly where his neck had been just a heartbeat ago. The blade hissed as it cut the rain, missing his skin by a fraction of an inch.

  Ryan rolled over, scrambling backward through the wet leaves, and looked up.

  Juno stood there. The cat was silhouetted against the dark sky, his feathered hat gone, his mustache drooping slightly from the rain. He was breathing hard, mostly from running after him, but his eyes were locked onto Ryan with predatory focus. The thin blade in his hand gleamed in the moonlight.

  "You thought you had escaped?" Juno purred, his voice low and deadly, stepping over the root Ryan had just tripped on. "Guess again. You'll end with steel... then fire."

  Ryan scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rain. He was cornered. The guards behind him, a deadly knight in front of him, and miles of dark woods all around. He had nowhere to go.

  "Get back here!" Juno snarled, his voice cutting through the rain. "I'm not done with you!"

  But Ryan wasn't listening to someone who had just tried to take his head off.

  He spun around, scrambling away from the silver flash of that blade. He bolted into the dense underbrush, ignoring the thorns tearing at his jeans and the low branches slapping his face. He didn't care about direction; he didn't care about noise. He just needed to put distance between himself and that knife.

  He crashed through the foliage, his lungs screaming, his sneakers slipping in the mud. Behind him, he heard Juno cursing, the sound of heavy boots splashing through puddles. The cat was fast, unnaturally fast, but the woods were thick and dark. Ryan had size and desperation on his side.

  He hurdled a rotting log, not looking back once. If he stopped, he was dead. If he hesitated, he’d be dragged back to that fire pit. So he ran, pushing his body past the point of exhaustion, deeper into the unknown forest.

  "What to do? What to do?" Ryan's mind screamed, racing as fast as his pounding heart. "I'm just a college student!"

  He could feel his energy reserve petering out, his lungs burning like he'd inhaled fire. He tripped, gasping, the air knocked out of him as he landed in the muddy ground, splashing in the growing puddle. He was dragging himself backward, panic seizing his throat.

  "I got you now," Juno sneered, looming over him. The cat raised his blade, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He didn't see Ryan's hand scrambling in the mud.

  Ryan grabbed a fistful of sludge. He didn't think; he just acted.

  He threw it.

  The mud splatted directly into Juno's face. The cat recoiled with a yowl, dropping his blade as he frantically rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear the gritty dirt from his sight.

  "Argh! My eyes!"

  Ryan didn't hesitate. His hand brushed against a heavy rock on the ground. He snatched it up, ignoring the slick surface. He lunged forward, swinging with every ounce of strength he had left.

  CRACK.

  The rock connected hard with the side of the cat's head. Juno's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the wet ground with a heavy thud, motionless.

  Ryan stood there, panting, the bloody rock still clutched in his hand, staring down at the fallen knight. He did it. He actually won.

  Ryan was about to turn and run again, his survival instincts screaming at him to put as much distance between himself and the unconscious knight as possible.

  But then, a wash of blue-green light flooded his vision. It wasn't a reflection of the moon or the rain. It was a translucent interface, hovering right in front of his eyes.

  [SYSTEM ACTIVATED]

  [Puppet Candidate Found]

  [Do you want to bind?]

  Ryan froze, his heart skipping a beat. The rock in his hand felt suddenly very light. He looked down at Juno’s unconscious form—the mustache, the wet velvet, the thin blade lying in the mud. This wasn't just a guard; this was a knight. A killer.

  And the system was asking him if he wanted to make it his.

  "Bind..." Ryan whispered, staring at the prompt. He looked back at the dark woods, then at the cat. If he ran, Juno would wake up and hunt him down. If he stayed...

  "Bind," he said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline shaking his hands.

  Golden threads burst from Ryan's fingertips, glowing with an eerie intensity in the dark forest. He watched in disbelief, unable to look away. They didn't hurt coming out of his finger—he just watched.

  The threads snaked their way toward the knight, moving like they had a mind of their own. They reached Juno's prone form and started to insert themselves into him, passing effortlessly through his wet fur and skin.

  Ryan gasped as a strange sensation washed over him. He could feel them. They weren't just wriggling around his limbs; they were overlapping with Juno's neural system. He felt the connection sizzle up from the tips of the cat's toes to his razor-sharp claws, all the way to the top of his head.

  Then, the threads tightened around Juno's heart. Ryan felt a heavy thud in his own chest—thump—followed immediately by a corresponding thud in Juno's. With every beat, Ryan felt his control over the cat solidify. It wasn't just magic; it was possession. Absolute, terrifying control.

  Ryan just sat on a nearby boulder, looking down at Juno's still form. The cat was breathing, steady and rhythmic, but he wasn't waking up. It was unsettling, seeing the arrogant knight rendered so helpless.

  As Ryan focused on him, the menu shifted, organizing the data into a clean, glowing list.

  Name: Ryan Vernon

  Class: Puppet Master

  Level: 1

  Puppets: 1/1

  There was more, a breakdown of his own stats. It looked like he had been assigned points based on who he was back on Earth.

  Charisma: 7 (Highest)

  Intelligence: 5

  Strength: 2

  Dexterity: 3

  Perception: 2

  Wisdom: 3

  Constitution: 3

  Ryan let out a dry laugh. "Charisma 7? I guess that explains why I could talk my way out of parking tickets, but it sucks for fighting."

  He looked at the rest. Strength 2? Constitution 3? No wonder his lungs burned and his arms felt like jelly after that short run. He was physically pathetic. But looking down at Juno—the knight, the killer—Ryan realized it didn't matter. He didn't need to be strong. He just needed to be the one holding the strings.

  Looking at the cat lying on the grond ryan realed he could also pull up his puppet stages also

  A new window materialized in the air, hovering over the knight's prone form. Ryan leaned forward, studying the glowing text with fascination.

  Name: Jonathan Silverpaw (Juno)

  Class: Blade Dancer

  Level: 12

  Stats:

  Dexterity: 36

  Strength: 11

  Perception: 18

  Wisdom: 14

  Constitution: 17

  Intelligence: 24

  Charisma: 25

  skills

  Fluid Stance (Passive) — Movement speed increased by 25%. Dodge chance increased against attacks perceived before impact.

  Precision Strike (Active) — Concentrated attack that bypasses a portion of enemy armor. Scales with Dexterity.

  Flowing Counter (Active) — When successfully dodging an attack, can immediately counter with a reduced-cooldown strike.

  Blade Waltz (Ultimate) — A rapid series of strikes that targets multiple weak points in quick succession. Each successful hit increases the speed of the next. Cooldown scales with Intelligence.

  Ryan let out a low whistle. "Thirty-six Dexterity? You're a speed build." He scanned the rest of the numbers, his mind already working as it did back in Heroes of the Realm. High Intelligence and Charisma, too. This wasn't just some grunt guard; this was an elite unit. A captain, maybe. Someone built for leadership and lightning-fast combat.

  He's a Dex main with leadership potential, Ryan thought, the gamer part of his brain shifting into overdrive. High Perception means he can track. High Charisma means he can command troops. And that Dexterity...

  "You're wasted as a dungeon guard," Ryan muttered. "You're a specialized unit. An assassin or a frontline skirmisher."

  Ryan was already calculating. He had just taken a Level 12 Blade Dancer and made him his puppet. The weakest class had just stolen one of the strongest early-game units.