Before anyone can react, the Manticore lunges at Alan and Esta.

  “Watch your back!” Finn shouts, summoning twigs to slow the beast. But the creature is faster. It shreds the twigs with terrifying ease, as if they were mere paper.

  Lucille barely blocks its strike with her dagger, but the force numbs her arms. Fangs graze her skin, and blood seeps through her sleeve.

  Esta and Alan scramble to fall back while Finn summons more magic. The air crackles with tension.

  The beast’s unscathed eyes lock onto Patrick, who is still bound on the ground. It opens its maw wide.

  Patrick’s eyes widen in sheer terror. “No! No!” His screams rise in pitch, morphing into gurgled wails before being swallowed by the sound of crunching bones.

  There is no time for grief; survival comes first. The beast lifts its head from Patrick’s lifeless body, bloodshot eyes locking onto them, unleashing a guttural groan that promises vengeance.

  “We need to leave. Now!” Lucille shouts. With Patrick gone and only one close-combat fighter left, their chances of victory are slim.

  Finn, however, refuses to budge. “You lot go ahead!”

  “Are you insane?! You can’t fight it alone!” Lucille protests.

  He smirks. “I have a trick up my sleeve. One I can’t use with others around.”

  Lucille hesitates before nodding. “Stay alive! Promise me you’ll meet us for a drink!”

  “See you soon.” Finn waves as they vanish in a teleportation flash.

  Now, he stands alone.

  “Just you and me,” he murmurs, unfolding a card in his hand.

  The Manticore snarls.

  Finn casts a flash spell, then bolts towards the next floor. The beast, blinded for a moment, lets out a furious roar before giving chase.

  An old trick never gets old as long as it works.

  Finn isn’t a runner, but years of survival have taught him how to conserve energy. He weaves through tunnels, using tight spaces to slow his pursuer.

  The Manticore’s bloodshot eyes remain locked on him, saliva and blood dripping from its maw.

  Finn hurls everything he has at the Manticore—twigs, water, fire, flashes of light—desperation fuelling his attacks. It dodges his novice spells with ease. Having learned from earlier encounters, it brushes off his minor spells and closes the distance relentlessly. The chase is a test of endurance—his magic against its raw power.

  He’s running out of options. His breath is ragged, his magic reserves stretched thin. He has no choice. This is it. He must use his last resort, consequences be damned.

  His fingers scrape against the stone walls as he sprints. In an instant, thick, jagged thorns burst from the surface, twisting and spearing towards the Manticore in pursuit.

  The creature snarls and skids to a halt, forced to acknowledge the threat. It dodges, snapping at the incoming vines, but they don’t stop. They writhe and lash, unrelenting, controlled solely by Finn’s will. They will only cease if he releases them, if his magic runs dry—or if he dies.

  Finn exhales sharply, his limbs trembling. The momentary reprieve is welcome, but pain sears through his magic veins. He’s pushing his limits, drawing more power from the magic vault than his body can handle in this confined space.

  But he can’t stop. If he lets up now, everything will have been for nothing.

  He clutches the transport stone in one hand while funnelling the last of his strength into the spell, directing the thorned tendrils towards the beast’s vital points. But it’s easier said than done. Despite its massive size, the Manticore is unnervingly quick, weaving through the attacks, searching for an opening. Its bloodshot eyes gleam with violent intent. This is a battle of endurance: Who will falter first, the predator or its prey?

  Then, agony lances through Finn’s chest. A sickening taste of iron fills his mouth as blood gushes from his lips. His vision wavers, and in that instant, the vines falter.

  The Manticore doesn’t hesitate. It shoots fire from its maw and tears through the burned thorns with its claws and fangs, lunging straight for him.

  Finn reacts instinctively. He forces the vines to wrap around its hind legs, reaching for fire magic to bind it just long enough to activate the transport stone. His fingers tighten around the stone—

  A blur of darkness streaks across his vision.

  A deafening crash echoes through the tunnel as something slams the Manticore into the wall, leaving a gaping crater in the stone.

  The beast roars in fury, rolling onto its feet, but it doesn’t get a chance to recover or shoot another fireball. The black figure descends upon it with unrelenting force, pummelling it into the ground. Again. And again. And again. The tunnel shakes with the sheer brutality of the assault. Blood sprays across the wall, the floor, the ceiling. The Manticore barely has time to snarl before it is reduced to little more than a battered, twitching mess.

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  Finn’s breath catches. Cold sweat trickles down his spine.

  This thing—whoever or whatever it is—just saved him.

  But that doesn’t mean he’s safe.

  If this being could do that to a Manticore… what could it do to him?

  He doesn’t care, and he doesn't need to find out. Without hesitation, he activates the transport stone—

  But something snatches it from his grasp.

  A small, soft hand.

  Finn’s heart stops.

  A worn, ragged black colour dog-shaped plushie holds the stone in both its stubby little paws.

  A plushie?

  …What the hell?

  Finn isn’t sure if it’s the sheer absurdity of a soft toy floating before him or the crushing exhaustion finally taking its toll, causing his vision to blur.

  “I should es…” His voice trails off as the plushie tilts its head, and behind it, the black figure—stenched with the Manticore’s blood—floats towards him.

  A desperate wish grips him. Let this be a dream. Let him wake up in his bed, safe and sound.

  Darkness swallows his thoughts.

  Rustle… rustle.

  A faint shuffling sound drifts into his consciousness.

  Finn stirs but keeps his eyes shut. His mind is sluggish, his whole body aching. He has no idea where he is or what’s happening.

  He’s sitting on a haystack, slumped against a wall. A rancid stench assaults his nose from the left, mingling with the sounds of movement—shifting, scraping, an occasional clatter.

  Instinct tells him to stay still. To wait. Maybe whatever is rummaging nearby will lose interest and move on.

  Then the smell thickens. It’s right in front of him, seeping into his breath.

  His stomach churns.

  Before he can stop himself, his eyes snap open—just in time to see something grotesque being shoved towards his mouth.

  Finn jerks back in horror, slamming his head against the wall.

  Not my head again!

  Tears well up in his eyes as he blinks rapidly, vision swimming. Through the blur, he sees the black figure holding out a clump of raw, bloody meat. The plushie floats silently beside it, watching.

  It was trying to feed him.

  Finn’s stomach twists in revulsion. He scrambles to his feet, stumbling backwards as far as the cramped space allows, hands raised in a weak attempt at defence.

  “Wh-what… Who are you?!”

  The plushie remains eerily quiet, while the black figure advances, still holding the meat.

  “S-Stay where you are!” Finn’s voice cracks as he throws out a trembling hand, palm facing down.

  Magicless. Defenceless. Completely at their mercy.

  The black figure doesn’t seem affected by his feeble command, but the swirling shadows atop its form tilt to the side—just like the plushie had done before he blacked out.

  To Finn’s relief, it actually stops, though he doubts it’s because of his intimidation. More likely, it’s confused by his frantic reaction.

  He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to assess the situation. The room's layout is similar to the others in the maze: spacious, littered with haystacks, planks, and crates. The only visible exit is blocked by debris. Aside from the plushie and the shadowy figure—if they even count as living beings—there’s no one else.

  The small magic vault hidden in his sleeve is depleted. Worse, his magic vaults and bags are missing. No weapons, no supplies. Nothing useful.

  I’m doomed.

  Yet, despite everything, they haven’t attacked him. They… stare.

  Or at least, the plushie does. Finn isn’t sure if the black figure even has a face.

  They don’t seem hostile. But then again, what if they’re just keeping him alive for later? Feeding him now so they can fatten him up?

  A shiver crawls down his spine. He shakes his head, reigning in his spiralling thoughts. No, that doesn’t make sense. Predators don’t raise livestock. At least, he’s never heard of it… yet.

  Slowly, he lowers his hand. His gaze flickers to the black figure, still holding out the raw meat. Hesitantly, Finn gestures—pointing at the meat, then at the black figure, then miming eating.

  It tilts its head again, as if processing his gesture. Then, without a word, it turns away and picks up a few sticks from the ground.

  A moment later, it shoves both the sticks and the meat into Finn’s hands.

  Finn blinks.

  Wait… these are skewers.

  Realisation strikes. His jaw drops.

  “So it was you! You took the skewers while we were sleeping?!”

  The black figure ‘stares’ at him blankly before tilting its head. Again.

  Finn groans. “No use arguing with you… Do you want me to cook the meat?”

  He mimics flames rising from his palm.

  At last, the black figure seems to understand. The swirling shadows shift, pressing downward in a motion that resembles a nod.

  Finn exhales in relief. So, they just want me to cook the meat.

  That, he can do.

  Except… he has no fire.

  His magic vault is gone, which means no fire spells. But if he doesn’t cook the meat, will the black figure get angry?

  He decides to prepare everything first. He clears a space in the centre, piling hay for kindling while pushing the rest aside to prevent an accidental fire. When he tries to skewer the meat, he quickly realises it’s too tough and gives up, instead fashioning a makeshift grill by laying planks across the kindling.

  Everything is set. All that’s missing is fire.

  Finn glances at his two… companions? Captors? He points at the haystack, then mimics fire again.

  The black figure doesn’t hesitate. It raises a ‘hand’—and shoots a burst of flame.

  Finn barely jumps away in time before his trousers catch fire.

  “Oi! Watch it!” He pats his leg frantically.

  But his mind is already racing. It can control fire? That means it’s at least A-rank. No… It tore through an A-rank predator like paper. Could it be even stronger?

  But then… why hasn’t it attacked him?

  And if it isn’t a predator, then what is it?

  Finn stares at the black figure and the plushie, who both watch him in eerie silence.

  His thoughts start running wild again, but the weight of their gazes quickly snaps him back to the present.

  Clearing his throat, he sets the meat over the fire, resting it between the planks.

  While waiting for it to cook, he decides to do something—communication.

  Time goes by quickly, and another new year is almost here. Happy New Year! I hope we all have a wonderful year ahead, and that the hurdles, mistakes, and struggles of the past become nutrients that nourish and enrich our lives.