The first rule of survival in a collapsing world controlled by an insane Tower? Always assume that someone — or something — wants you dead.

  The second rule? When in doubt, smile like an idiot and keep walking. Confidence confuses predators. And idiots, too.

  The rain had eased up, but the sky remained an ugly, boiling gray. I was marching toward the nearest town, "Vestigar," a ragged stain on the landscape, with my newly acquired talking katana strapped across my back.

  She still hadn't shut up.

  "You realize you're carrying me upside down, right?"

  "Proper blade etiquette is important, even for swindlers like you."

  "Noted," I muttered, flipping her with an exaggerated twirl. "Happy now, Princess Ginsu?"

  "Slightly," she purred. "But you still smell like wet dog and bad decisions."

  The path twisted downhill, and the town came into full view — crumbling towers, haphazard barricades, suspicious figures patrolling the streets. Honestly, it looked like a place that had given up on hope a long time ago... my kind of people.

  I was barely fifty meters from the outer wall when a guard in patchwork armor raised a crossbow and yelled, "HALT!"

  I stopped immediately, throwing both hands into the air in the universal sign for please don't shoot me yet.

  "State your business!" the guard barked.

  Thinking fast, I slipped into my most harmless grin. "Looking for a drink, a bath, and possibly a new identity."

  Silence. Then the guard snorted. "Another idiot wanderer. Great. Open the gate!"

  The heavy iron doors groaned open, and I was waved inside. The second I stepped through, the smell hit me: mud, sweat, old blood, and... something suspiciously like burned toast.

  Vestigar was alive in the way a cockroach is alive after a nuclear blast. Markets bustled with desperate traders hawking questionable goods. Mercenaries loitered on street corners. Shifty kids darted between alleys. The air crackled with tension.

  In short: home sweet home.

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  As I wandered deeper into town, a small commotion caught my eye — a street performance. A crowd had gathered around a rickety stage where a man in bright, mismatched clothes juggled knives while standing atop a barrel. The knives were on fire. The barrel was rolling.

  It was glorious chaos.

  "You should recruit him," my katana suggested.

  "Recruit a clown?" I whispered.

  "Survivors come in many forms, idiot."

  Before I could reply, the performer slipped, launching one flaming knife into the crowd — directly at a very large, very angry-looking mercenary.

  The mercenary batted the knife aside with a growl and stormed toward the stage, fists clenched.

  The performer, still teetering on his barrel, locked eyes with me.

  It was a look of pure, panicked genius.

  And because I am a terrible person, I winked at him.

  He took that as all the encouragement he needed.

  "HELP! I'M BEING ATTACKED BY A KNOWN CRIMINAL!" he shrieked, pointing dramatically at the mercenary.

  The crowd gasped. Whispers rippled outward. The mercenary's face turned the color of a bruised tomato.

  And before anyone could process what was happening, town guards swarmed in, tackling the poor brute to the ground.

  The performer leapt off his barrel, landed in a bow, and somehow ended up right next to me, grinning like a fox who just set a chicken coop on fire.

  "Name's Felix," he said, offering a hand.

  "...You are insane," I said, shaking it.

  "Only on Thursdays," Felix replied.

  Today was Tuesday.

  Wonderful.

  We ended up sharing a meal at a filthy tavern called "The Broken Boot." The kind of place where the floorboards creaked suspiciously and the ale tasted like regret.

  Felix regaled me with tales of his exploits — con jobs, fake treasure maps, elaborate fake identities. The man was a one-man disaster.

  Naturally, I liked him immediately.

  "You're not from around here," he said between mouthfuls of stew that looked more like swamp water.

  "Neither are you," I countered.

  We traded wary grins.

  An unspoken agreement formed: We were both creatures of chaos. Best to stick together.

  "Recruit him," the katana urged again.

  I sighed internally. Fine. I'd been planning to recruit allies anyway. Might as well start with someone who could juggle knives while running from angry mobs.

  "Alright, Felix," I said. "How would you like to join a venture that's guaranteed to make you rich, powerful, and slightly wanted across every kingdom?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Sounds dangerously vague. I'm in."

  I liked this guy.

  Later, as night fell, I rented the cheapest room at the inn. It smelled like mold and despair, but it had a window and a lock, which was good enough.

  I sprawled on the lumpy bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling.

  The katana leaned against the wall, humming a tune suspiciously similar to a death march.

  Felix had promised to meet me tomorrow with "some friends," which could either mean new allies or imminent betrayal.

  Honestly, I was fine with either.

  I needed chaos.

  I needed options.

  And most of all... I needed to get stronger.

  Because somewhere, up there in the Tower's endless levels, the real players were moving their pieces.

  And if I didn't keep up, I'd be crushed like an ant under a boot.

  Not that I'd let them, of course.

  I smiled lazily into the darkness.

  Tomorrow would be interesting.

  It always was.