I groan without really knowing why, just because my brain decided that enough was enough, that I'd had my fair share of random blackouts and incomprehensible strokes of bad luck, like my body had activated some kind of "critical crash mode" worthy of an old version of Windows on caffeine.
My face is pressed against cold, clammy stone, and something vaguely slimy is tickling my left ear—a residue of drool or a slimy mushroom—I don't want to check, I don't want to know, I just want this day to be canceled.
I try to move, but my muscles protest in unison, like a badly tuned orchestra of pain, and it takes a second attempt to manage to roll onto my back, in a slow and pathetic tumble that makes me feel like a drunk seal washed up on a radioactive shore.
I groan again, because seriously, even gravity seems to have developed a personal grudge against me.
I open my eyes with difficulty, one first, then the other, and I resign myself to the fact that everything hurts, even in places I didn't know existed or would've preferred to leave shrouded in mystery.
The ceiling of the labyrinth stares back at me with its eternal mold, glowing mushrooms and brownish slime streaks reeking of ancient humidity, and I gradually realize that I don't even remember how I ended up here.
It takes me a few moments to piece together fragments of memory—my blurry reflection, the sudden airborne lift, the ceiling that didn't exactly welcome me with open arms, and the mental flash confirming what I'd half-suspected: I have wings.
Fucking wings. On my back. And not glamorous angel wings—no, warm, pulsing, living things, like organic extensions I never asked for that activate whenever they feel like it.
I sit up slowly, groaning with each joint that pops, feeling my spine protest at every movement, and I silently swear to kick Senpai's ass at the first opportunity for letting me drop (literally) without so much as a warning.
I stagger forward into the corridor, wings folded, steps unsteady, and mood lower than a goblin's morale on antidepressants.
Then, after a few steps, the voice of my favorite virtual roommate finally speaks up, as serene as ever, like nothing unusual had just happened.
[ Directive update: the Aberrant Stratum was originally designated as a training area. ]
I raise an eyebrow, half sarcastic, half jaded. "Oh, so you finally decided to talk to me? Missed me?"
[ Current bodily adaptation shows unexpected divergence. The presence of active dorsal appendages alters mobility parameters. ]
I roll my eyes, even though no one can see it.
"You mean my wings, Senpai. The word you refuse to say. It's not Voldemort, you can say it."
[ This configuration is suboptimal for underground training. ]
"No shit? You're telling me flying through stalactite-infested tunnels isn't ideal for aerial practice? Wow, I never would've guessed…"
[ Recommendation: temporarily exit the Labyrinth. Objective: racial trait stabilization and testing in open environment. ]
I freeze, my gaze blanking for a second like my brain needs a reboot to fully process what I just heard.
"Wait… you want me to go out? Like, to the surface? Where there's sky, people, smart monsters, and probably even more things that want me dead?"
[ Exit authorized via secondary route. Reason: abnormal development. Tracking suspended in current stratum. ]
I remain frozen, the echo of his words bouncing in my head like an announcement too absurd to be real. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across my face. A nervous, lopsided smile, half-laugh, half-existential crisis.
"Holy shit… I'm gonna get out of the Labyrinth."
And instead of panicking, I laugh. Because of course. Because why not. Because this is me, and even logic has given up on me.
[ By the way, definition not found. Please specify: who is "Voldemort"? ]
I blink. Once. Twice. Then I sigh, exasperated.
"Seriously, you've got access to my memories, but not Harry Potter? That should be in the most basic package a system downloads, honestly."
[ No file named "Harry Potter" in priority databases. Relevant? ]
"Relevant? That's like asking if breathing is relevant. Voldemort is the noseless bald villain who scares everyone in a teen saga."
[ Analysis: entity with strong emotional resonance, symbol of a collective taboo, associated with avoided names. Similar to certain Administrators in the former System. ]
I stop, mouth slightly open.
"…Wait. Did you seriously just compare Voldemort to the Administrators?"
[ Rough comparison. Voldemort appears less dangerous. ]
"And I'm the crazy one…"
I sigh, crack my shoulders, then my wings—and yeah, it's become routine now, like stretching when you wake up, except if I mess it up, I might crash into a wall.
One step at a time, I start climbing the galleries, toward the upper strata. And after a while… well, I get tired of walking.
So I try a little jump.
Just to see.
…
Result: I hit the ceiling in two seconds.
"Ow. Note to self: aim lower than your enthusiasm."
But I don't give up. I'm stubborn. And probably a bit stupid too. So I try again.
Small wing flap. Thrust. Flight control? Uh… yeah, no.
I bounce off a wall, slip on some moss, do an involuntary triple flip, then end up wrapped around a stone pillar like a giant sock.
But I laugh. I laugh because it's stupid, because it hurts, and because I haven't laughed in a while without faking it. It feels good.
[ Dorsal muscle coordination unstable. Suggestion: moderation. ]
"I'm a flying Oni, Senpai, not a combat drone. Let me dream a little!"
I catch my breath, step back a few paces, and try to take off again. This time, I last three seconds. Then five. Then I stabilize a bit. Just enough to avoid crashing. It's not graceful yet, but it's not a total disaster either.
And for a moment, I fly.
Real flight.
The wind—or rather, the stale air of the labyrinth—slides over my skin. My wings beat at a rhythm I'm starting to understand, to tame.
I veer left, graze a stalactite, nearly smash my nose on a column—but I manage.
"I'm so gonna brag when I run into a harpy."
And without realizing it, I climb, I chart my course, I rise.
I almost felt like a goddess of the underground sky, until a disgusting noise came and ruined the mood.
A clack-clack-clack-clack-clack getting closer. Not footsteps, no. Hundreds of tiny dry, rapid impacts, like an army of chopsticks hammering the ground with desperate energy.
I turn my head.
And I see them.
A horde. Long, segmented, covered in shiny brown chitinous plates, with nightmare mandibles and emotionless eyes. Like giant centipedes—but the "I swallowed a demon before birth" version.
The first one crawls at absurd speed. The whole tunnel vibrates under its legs, and behind it, an entire colony is rushing in.
"No no no no NO."
I flap my wings frantically to gain altitude.
"Senpai! Tell me this is a hallucination!"
[ Elroe Ferect LV 7 - 10 ]
"Why me, goddammit?"
[ Hypothesis: you flew over a territory deemed sensitive. ]
They're getting closer. Too fast.
I launch into an aerial sprint, weaving between stalactites, almost crash into a column, recover just in time—but they're still there. More and more. Closer and closer.
I can feel their mandibles snapping at the air just meters from my legs.
My heart's exploding. My breath turns erratic. My flight destabilizes.
"I'm so sick of this world and its jet-propelled bugs!"
I take a sharp turn, dive into a spiraling upward tunnel. I need to climb. To get out.
Toward the light—or at least somewhere the walls aren't covered in turbo-roach wallpaper.
And ahead of me, a glow.
Not mushrooms. No.
A real light. White. Blinding. Not flickering like a dying nightlight.
I squint. Then squint harder. Then I get it: it's an exit. A real exit.
"HOLY SHIT IT'S THE EXIT!"
And I charge toward it.
I burst out of the rocky tunnel like a possessed champagne cork, propelled by panic, instinct, anything but grace.
And then—
FLASH.
My world explodes.
My eyes. God, my eyes.
"AAAAAH FUCK MY EYES MY EYES!"
I scream like someone just threw acid on my corneas. I slap my hands over my face, stagger, tumble into dust so dry it feels unreal.
The sun pierces my skull. I get a century-long migraine in two seconds. My wings retract automatically from the shock, and I crash into a patch of yellowed grass that stings and reeks of freedom.
And behind me—the sound.
CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK—
The Ferects are coming.
Then they stop.
A scraping noise. A sharp, metallic-like screech. And nothing.
I blink through my fingers, the world blurred by the light. But just enough to make out their grotesque silhouettes, clustered at the tunnel's entrance, hesitating to cross the line.
I smile. Nasty.
"Oh yeah? Don't like the sun, huh? Welcome to the club."
One of them takes a step too far. Its body shudders, cracks, and it immediately recoils, exoskeleton vibrating like a panicked alarm.
They retreat. Slowly. Like a carpet of cockroaches startled by the light.
And I stay there. Lying in the scratchy grass, face against the dirt, breath short.
Alive.
On the surface.
"...Fuck."