Hungry eyes, burning with a feverish intensity, watched the ritual circle blaze to life. It was the third time this week the interlopers had invaded their territory, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the cloying sweetness of incense.

  A sacrifice, bound and gagged, lay trembling on the cold stone altar at the circle's center, a stark testament to the desperation that fueled this unholy rite. This time, they would push the boundaries, delve into the darkest corners of arcane knowledge. This time, the portal would open. The spell would succeed. And most importantly, Aaron Nyl would receive his class.

  Gods be damned, he thought, the phrase echoing hollowly in the cavernous chamber. Clad in crimson robes, the rich fabric laced with intricate gold embroidery that shimmered in the flickering torchlight, Aaron observed the three dozen mages meticulously channeling mana within the circle's glowing confines.

  Each rune, painstakingly etched into the stone floor, had been doubled, tripled even, their intricate patterns overlapping like a maddening puzzle. This redundancy was a desperate measure, a brute-force attempt to ensure the catalysts activated.

  Twice before, the ritual had failed. Twice before, the carefully constructed energies had dissipated like smoke, leaving behind only the bitter taste of disappointment and the gnawing suspicion of some unseen interference. Whatever had thwarted them before, whatever malevolent force had resisted their will, would surely be overwhelmed by the sheer power they were about to unleash.

  Human sacrifices, in these precarious situations, almost always guaranteed success. Aaron had initially hesitated, a flicker of respect for his brother staying his hand. But two failures later, that respect had withered, desiccated by the relentless winds of frustration.

  The initial annoyance had curdled into a simmering rage, a burning need to prove his superiority, to seize the power that was rightfully his. He had endured years of condescending pity. Now, the time for patience was over. The ritual would work. Sacrifices be damned. Weak sensibilities be damned. Aaron would ascend, and no one, not even the gods themselves, would stand in his way.

  The air crackled with raw magical energy. The mages, their faces contorted in concentration, chanted in unison, their voices rising in a crescendo that vibrated through the very bones of the chamber. The runes pulsed with an eerie light, their glow intensifying until the circle seemed to hum with barely contained power.

  The sacrifice on the altar trembled, its eyes wide with terror, but its muffled cries were lost in the growing din. Aaron watched, his own heart pounding in anticipation, his gaze fixed on the point in the center of the circle where the portal would manifest. This time, he knew, this time it would be different. This time, he would claim his destiny.

  The runes flared with an eerie luminescence, pulsating like veins beneath the skin of a slumbering giant. The air crackled with raw power, a palpable tension that made the hairs on the back of Aaron’s neck stand on end.

  Inside the inner circle, the cultist, eyes glazed with fervent madness, plunged the obsidian dagger through the heart of the bound man. A guttural gasp escaped the victim’s lips, cut short as the cultist collapsed beside him, the life draining from both bodies in a crimson tide. The unleashed power surged, a torrent of raw magical energy too volatile for any mortal vessel to contain.

  Aaron, his face a mask of manic glee, watched as the outer circle of runes ignited. A triumphant shout ripped from his throat. It was working! The catalysts had finally made contact, completing the intricate circuit. But the surge of light, instead of building into the sustained resonance he craved, flickered and died, like a candle snuffed by a sudden gust.

  “No!” he shrieked, the word raw with frustration and desperation. He lashed out, his voice a whip cracking across the backs of the cowering acolytes huddled around the perimeter. “More mana! I demand more!” He could feel it, the power tantalizingly close, just within his grasp.

  But, as with the two previous attempts, the spell sputtered and failed, leaving Aaron drowning in a sea of bitter disappointment and mounting dread. Around him, the price of his ambition lay scattered on the cold stone: over thirty cultists, their lives sacrificed in vain.

  The first failure he had dismissed as a simple oversight, a miscalculation in the complex ritual. The second, a frustrating but ultimately forgivable mistake. This third failure, however, was a harbinger of something far more ominous. There would be consequences, he knew. His masters, those shadowy figures who commanded the unseen places, would not be pleased. Their wrath would be terrible.

  But before he faced their judgment, Aaron vowed he would have his own vengeance. The intricate tracing spell he had woven into the very fabric of the ritual formation had revealed the source of his frustration. It pointed, like an accusing finger, to the location of whatever entity was leeching the death energy he had so meticulously spread throughout the city. Someone, or something, was interfering with his grand design, siphoning off the power he needed to fuel his ritual.

  He would find them. He would hunt them down and make them pay for their interference. He would inflict upon them a suffering so profound that they would beg for the oblivion he had so carelessly dealt to his own followers. And, if he was truly blessed by the dark powers he served, he might even stumble upon something, some artifact or piece of arcane knowledge, that would appease his masters, perhaps even earn him a sliver of their dark favor.

  The thought of that possibility, of redemption in the eyes of his infernal lords, fueled his anger and hardened his resolve. He would not fail again. He could not afford to.

  ???????????

  A newfound sense of self settled within Sarah as she returned to Grower. The city, once a bewildering construct of monotonous architecture, now felt strangely familiar. The tower, a monolithic structure that resembled grandma's cottage, now seemed like home.

  It was a bizarre notion, considering the brevity of her stay. Had it truly only been five days? Or was it four? She grappled with the timeline, finally settling on five. Five days since she’d hurled herself onto that grenade in the grimy alleyway.

  A wave of worry, sharp and immediate, washed over her. Had her squad made it out? The image of their faces, etched in her memory, spurred a surge of hope. Surely backup had arrived. They had to have. Hope. It was a fragile thing, a flickering candle in the face of uncertainty, but Sarah clung to it with the tenacity of a survivor.

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  She pictured them back on Earth, recounting the tale of her sacrifice, their voices a mix of awe and grief. The thought brought a wry smile to her lips. Praising her dead arse. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

  It was remarkable, she mused, how easily she’d adapted to this alien world. Was it her military training? Adaptability was practically ingrained in their DNA. Or perhaps it was something deeper, a resilience forged in the crucible of her childhood.

  She’d been a nomad, bouncing from one foster home to another, a rootless existence that had finally found some semblance of stability with Carol. Carol had offered a sanctuary, a place where Sarah could finally breathe. Even that had been disrupted by her military career, the constant relocations from base to base.

  Yet, ironically, this instability had become her strength. It had taught her to find comfort in the unfamiliar, to build a home wherever she landed. It was a strange paradox, this sense of belonging in a world so utterly different from her own.

  The somewhat-medieval city, with its uniformed structures and horse-drawn carts, no longer felt threatening. It felt… Manageable. She navigated the bustling streets with a newfound confidence, her hood down, her senses heightened, absorbing the sights, sounds, and smells of this vibrant culture.

  Her initial disorientation had dissolved into a quiet fascination, a sense of wonder at the intricate tapestry of life unfolding before her eyes. This vibrant world, teeming with the strange and the marvelous, was no longer a foreign land; it was becoming her world.

  Sarah was weaving herself into its fabric, thread by thread, interaction by interaction. Each connection strengthened her sense of belonging, each coin earned by her tower cemented her roots.

  The allure of adventure, a siren song for any passionate heart, now resonated deeply within Sarah. She knew, with a certainty that thrilled her, that wonders lay hidden beyond the familiar, waiting to be discovered.

  But this world of vibrant beauty and untold potential also whispered tales of danger. The skies, once a canvas of serene blue, could be darkened by the shadows of flying reptilian firebreathers, creatures whose appetites were notoriously indiscriminate. And beyond these visible threats lurked a host of unseen perils, dangers that danced on the edges of her imagination, their forms shifting and unknown.

  Sarah arrived at her tower, the aroma of dinner – a fragrant, steaming stew, boxed up for her employees – in her hands. She bypassed the patiently waiting queue, earning a mixture of envious and resentful glances. Some of those present had witnessed similar individuals, those who had presumed upon their status, unceremoniously ejected. But Sarah was different. She didn't return to the street.

  "Who's my favourite... Receptionist?" Sarah's greeting faltered, the words catching in her throat. Before her stood the Immortal Receptionist, an incongruous figure in a fluffy squirrel costume. The hood framed a face that complimented the young body she inhabited, the blonde hair peeking out from beneath the furry fabric. An interesting choice of attire, to say the least.

  "Dinner is served," Sarah announced, deciding to forgo any comment on the receptionist's unusual outfit. She distributed the meals, one to Ariel, the other to her assistant, Melissa. A twelve-year-old child dressing up was hardly unusual. An Immortal Receptionist inhabiting the body of a twelve-year-old corpse while playing dress up, however… That was a thought best left unsaid.

  With a muttered grumble about the sheer absurdity of not being able to teleport within her own tower, Sarah left Sebastian's dinner with him and ascended the winding staircase. Seriously, it was ridiculous. She was the owner, wasn't she?

  After a pleasant meal and conversation with Solus, Sarah busied herself with improvements. The upper floor expanded, her bathroom underwent yet another stylish renovation (a girl had to bathe in style, after all), and the second-floor challenge was decided and set. Finally, with her remaining souls, she managed to coax Solus down the corridor, repositioning him near the soothing murmur of the fountain, her soul reserves depleted.

  Relocating Solus proved a more stubborn task than she'd foreseen. The tower, she mused, was clearly attached to its eccentric decor. Still, she was mistress here. If she decreed Solus belonged by the fountain, then by the fountain he would reside. End of discussion. The door's relocation had, rather tidily, eliminated the corridor altogether.

  The second challenge was less demanding than the first. It was simpler to manage, and she could tweak its parameters at will, all without incurring any additional cost. Furthermore, it didn't require the Overseer's active participation. Coincidentally, since Melissa was employed by the tower, she was the only name on the list of available Overseers.

  Sarah would need to have a word with her after showing her to her newly assigned room. There were details to discuss, arrangements to be made and possibly a contract to amend. The tower was growing, evolving, and Sarah was determined to guide its growth with a firm and capable hand.

  After surveyed her newly renovated living space, a small smile playing on her lips. A wave of satisfaction washed over her. It wasn't much, yet, but it was hers.

  Her gaze drifted to the shelving beside her bed, a small alcove magically chilled and expanded beyond its apparent size. Inside, rows of neatly butchered meat hung, glistening invitingly. Good, she thought, at least one thing is going well.

  She could probably squeeze a few more cuts in, but a nagging question tickled the back of her mind. These runes, etched into the very fabric of the larder, were they limitless? She was still woefully ignorant of their true potential, and more importantly, their limitations. Research, she reminded herself. Proper research is paramount. She needed to delve into rune magic as soon as possible, a task that kept slipping down her ever-growing to-do list.

  With a sigh, Sarah turned away from the larder. Her supplies, while adequate for now, were a stark reminder of her limited resources. Everything she owned, beyond the meager collection of dusty tomes on her bookshelf, resided within the confines of her enchanted ring. It was a pocket dimension of sorts, a carefully curated space holding the essentials of her… Unconventional life.

  She mentally inventoried its contents. First and foremost was The Book of Souls, Azrael, its leather cover dark and worn smooth from frequent use. It was her constant companion, an aid in this strange new world, and key to upgrading her tower beyond its current humble state.

  Next came the Necromancer's Grimoire. Sarah shuddered slightly as she thought of it. Bound in what felt like human skin and whispering with an unsettling energy, it was a constant source of both power and unease.m. The grimoire was never to be removed from her ring; its dark influence was too unsettling, probably too dangerous to unleash upon the world.

  Then there was the Staff of Death. The Devil's Wood pulsed with a faint, chilling aura. It was a weapon of immense power, a tool of finality, and Sarah had to it hidden, away from prying eyes. The Necromancer's Robe, on the other hand, looked deceptively angelic, woven from shimmering moonlight and spun with an ethereal grace. But Sarah knew better. Beneath its celestial beauty lurked a darkness that mirrored the staff's.

  Beyond these items of significant arcane power, her ring held the mundane necessities of life. A change of clothes, the drab, green shirt and pants she had opted to swap for her robe. Her old service boots, battered and scarred from countless missions and a volatile death, were a testament to her past life, a life she was slowly but surely leaving behind.A surprisingly large number of skewers occupied a single slot of her ring. Sarah had a knack for buying more than needed, and these simple edibles were essential. A few cakes, magically preserved within and always at the ready, provided a much-needed sweet treat.

  Finally, there was growing collection of monster parts. Rabbit and Goblin ears mainly, but there was mile tail in there too, if only the one, waiting to be turned in to the appropriate guild. Sarah frowned. She’d spoken to Leo about it during his tour, he’d rattled off a list of guilds specializing in various monster types and another that handles them all for lower rates, but the details had slipped her mind.

  Another thing for the list, she thought, mentally adding it to the growing scroll of tasks that got bigger every time she had a moment to think. She really needed to find a better system for organizing her life, a system that didn't rely on her increasingly faulty memory.