3:00 AM
Ruho's eyes opened to darkness and pain. Not the all-consuming agony of broken bones—he'd experienced that already and this was different. This was a deeper, wronger kind of pain. The kind that suggested his body had finally reached its absolute limit and was filing for bankruptcy.
"RUHO!" Seria's voice cut through the fog in his brain, high-pitched with panic. "Oh thank the divine pantheon, you're awake! Are you okay? Can you hear me? Say something!"
"Nngh," Ruho managed, which was about the most eloquent response he could produce. His mouth tasted like dirt and blood. His head felt like someone was using it as a drum. Everything hurt in ways he didn't have words for.
"Let me check his vitals," Azirel said, his voice taking on that clinical tone he used when reading files. There was a pause, presumably while he pulled up whatever divine medical chart tracked Ruho's physical condition. "Okay, so, uh. This is not great."
"What's wrong with him?" Seria asked urgently.
"Well, let's see," Azirel began, and Ruho could hear him scrolling through data. "Torn ACL in his right leg—that's the ligament that stabilizes the knee, completely shredded. Severe ankle sprain on the same leg, possibly a fracture, hard to tell without better imaging. Bruised ribs, again, because apparently those just keep getting re-injured. Mild concussion from face-planting onto solid rock. Dehydration. Malnutrition. Muscle fatigue so severe his legs are basically non-functional right now. And—oh, this is interesting—he's currently running on what I would classify as a near-lethal dose of adrenaline."
"Near-lethal?!" Seria's voice went up another octave.
"Yeah, his adrenal glands have been dumping emergency hormones into his system for the past hour-plus of running from the Gigantosuchus," Azirel explained. "His body is basically in full fight-or-flight crisis mode. Heart rate is through the roof, blood pressure is dangerously elevated, and he's probably experiencing tunnel vision, auditory exclusion, and reduced pain sensitivity—which is the only reason he made it this far without passing out from the ACL tear."
"So he should be dead," Vexor's deep voice observed calmly.
"Oh, absolutely," Azirel agreed. "By all reasonable medical standards, he should have collapsed and died somewhere around the forty-minute mark of that uphill chase. The fact that he made it all the way to the plateau is honestly miraculous. Well, miraculous or just really good survival instincts. Hard to say."
Ruho tried to process this information. His brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. "M'not dead though," he slurred.
"No, you're not dead!" Seria said, her relief palpable. "You're alive! You made it! You found flat land!"
"Yay me," Ruho mumbled. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Pain lanced through his skull—the concussion making itself known—and his vision swam. He fell back against the rock, gasping.
"Don't try to move too much," Seria urged. "You're in really bad shape. You need medical attention immediately."
"Can you... potion?" Ruho asked, his words coming out broken and scattered. His brain knew what he wanted to say but his mouth wasn't cooperating.
"I'll get you a healing potion," Azirel promised. "But first—and I know this is going to sound bad—you need to place your mansion."
Ruho's eyes, which had started to drift closed again, snapped open. "What?"
"The mansion," Vexor's voice reminded him. "You completed the challenge. You found suitable flat land. But I need you to designate the exact placement location before I can begin construction. It's part of the magical contract."
"Are you KIDDING me?!" Seria exploded. "He's dying! He has a torn ACL and a concussion and you want him to do PAPERWORK?!"
"It's not paperwork, it's spatial designation," Vexor said calmly. "And it will only take a moment. Ruho simply needs to indicate where he wants the structure to appear. Then I can begin construction and he can receive his healing potion."
Ruho laughed. It came out as a wheeze that turned into a cough that made his ribs scream. "Of course. Of course that's how this works. Why would anything be easy?"
He tried to move his legs. Tried to stand up so he could properly look around and pick a good spot for his mansion. His legs didn't respond. At all. He could see them—his cargo pants were torn and muddy, one leg soaked with what was probably blood from the ankle injury—but they felt distant. Disconnected. Like they belonged to someone else.
"Azirel," Ruho said slowly, fear creeping into his voice. "I can't feel my legs."
"That's the adrenaline crash combined with the ACL tear and severe muscle fatigue," Azirel explained. "Your nervous system is basically overloaded. The feeling will come back once you're healed, but right now your lower body is pretty much offline."
"Can't... can't stand," Ruho said.
"You don't need to stand," Vexor assured him. "Just tell me where you want the mansion. Point if you can, or simply describe the location relative to your current position."
Ruho lay on his back, staring up at the two moons, and tried to think. He was in the middle of a plateau. Forty square kilometers of flat rock. He could put the mansion anywhere. He should probably think strategically about this. Consider things like wind direction and sun exposure and access to water and—
"Two feet in front of me," Ruho said. "Just... right there. Two feet forward."
"Are you certain?" Vexor asked. "You haven't surveyed the full plateau. There may be more advantageous locations—"
"Two. Feet. Forward," Ruho repeated. "I don't care. I just want walls and a roof and a floor that isn't rocks. Put it there."
"As you wish," Vexor said.
There was a sound like thunder combined with the ringing of massive bells. The air in front of Ruho shimmered, and then reality seemed to fold in on itself. Stone rose from the ground—not built, not constructed, just manifested. Walls appeared, solid and thick. Towers grew upward like time-lapse footage of plants growing. A roof materialized, slate tiles arranging themselves in perfect rows.
The construction took maybe thirty seconds. When it was done, Ruho found himself staring at a castle.
Not a modern mansion. Not a house. A legitimate medieval castle, complete with crenellated walls, narrow windows, a heavy wooden door bound with iron, and two cylindrical towers flanking the main entrance. The whole structure was built from gray stone that looked like it had been quarried from the plateau itself, and it rose maybe three stories high at its tallest points.
"What," Ruho said flatly, "is that."
"Your mansion!" Vexor's voice was brimming with pride. "Thirty thousand square feet of prime residential space! I modeled it after the great fortress-residences of the medieval period—a perfect blend of defensive architecture and noble living quarters!"
"I asked for a mansion," Ruho said. "Not a castle."
"A castle IS a mansion," Vexor argued. "Merely a fortified one. This structure contains everything you requested—living space, sleeping quarters, facilities for food preparation and storage. It simply also includes defensive capabilities such as reinforced walls, arrow slits, and a gatehouse."
"I don't need arrow slits! I'm not fighting a siege! I just wanted a normal house!"
"This IS a normal house," Vexor insisted. "For nobility. For someone of standing and importance. I designed it based on the residences of great kingdom builders throughout history. This is what proper rulers live in."
"I'm not a ruler! I'm a dead guy with a torn ACL!"
"Not for much longer," Azirel cut in. A small glass bottle materialized in the air and dropped onto Ruho's chest. "One healing potion, as promised. This one's a mid-grade Gamma, should fix you right up."
Ruho grabbed the bottle with shaking hands, popped the cork, and drank the entire thing in three desperate gulps. The taste was somehow even worse than the last one—like drinking liquified rubber mixed with cough syrup and regret—but he forced it down.
The effect was immediate and horrible. His ACL stitched itself back together with a sensation like someone was sewing his knee from the inside. His ankle bones ground against each other as they realigned and fused. His ribs shifted, the bruises fading as blood vessels repaired themselves. The concussion resolved with a feeling like his brain was being squeezed and then released.
He screamed. Couldn't help it. The healing was almost as bad as the injuries had been.
And then it was over.
Ruho lay there, gasping, his body whole again but his mind still processing the trauma. He could feel his legs now. Could wiggle his toes. Could bend his knee without wanting to die.
"Better?" Seria asked gently.
"Define 'better,'" Ruho muttered. But he was already moving, rolling onto his side, pushing himself up to his hands and knees. His body protested but obeyed. He got one foot under him, then the other, and stood.
The castle loomed in front of him. His castle. His stupid medieval fortress castle that was apparently his new home.
"Eight bedrooms," Vexor was explaining, still proud. "Six full bathrooms with functioning plumbing—I installed a magical water circulation system that draws from underground springs. A great hall for entertaining. A kitchen with a working hearth. A library. A study. Storage rooms. Servants' quarters, though you currently have no servants. And of course, the towers provide excellent visibility of the surrounding area for security purposes."
"I don't care about security purposes," Ruho said, already limping toward the front door. "I don't care about entertaining. I just want a bed."
He reached the door—solid oak, easily eight feet tall, with iron hinges that probably weighed more than he did. He grabbed the handle and pulled. The door swung open with a deep creak that echoed across the plateau.
Inside was a grand entrance hall. Stone floors. Vaulted ceiling. Torches mounted on the walls that were somehow already lit, casting flickering shadows across tapestries that depicted battles Ruho had never heard of. A wide staircase led upward to the second floor.
"The master bedroom is on the second floor, third door on the right," Vexor said helpfully. "I included a four-poster bed with actual linens, multiple wardrobes, and—"
Ruho started climbing the stairs. His legs worked, but they were shaky. Each step required focus. The staircase seemed to go on forever, though it was probably only twenty steps. Stone. Everything was stone. His bare feet made soft padding sounds against the cold floor.
He reached the second floor. Found himself in a hallway lined with doors. Torches here too, burning with steady flames that cast dancing shadows. The ceiling was lower here—maybe eight feet instead of the entrance hall's fifteen—but still way higher than his old apartment.
Third door on the right. He could see it. Just had to make it there. Just had to—
His vision started to tunnel again. Not from adrenaline this time. Just exhaustion. Pure, absolute exhaustion.
He took one step forward. Then another. His hand reached out, touched the wall for support. The stone was cool against his palm.
"Ruho?" Seria's voice sounded distant. "Are you okay? You're almost there. Just a little further."
He took another step. His legs were shaking. His entire body was shaking. The healing potion had fixed the physical damage but it hadn't restored his energy. Hadn't given him back the sleep he'd lost or the calories he'd burned or the mental fortitude he'd expended just surviving the last twenty-four hours.
He made it three more steps down the hallway.
His vision went dark around the edges.
His legs gave out.
Ruho collapsed in the middle of the second-floor hallway of his stupid castle mansion, his body finally deciding it had had enough. The last thing he was aware of was the cool stone floor against his cheek and Seria's voice calling his name, sounding worried but far away.
Then nothing.
Just blessed, merciful unconsciousness.
And this time, he didn't dream at all.