Thump. Thump. Thump. Luge's heartbeat roared louder than steam turbines. Four cryptic symbols burned in his vision: [Potential: 100.6%] [Offense: 0.53] [Defense: 0.32] [Evasion: 0.41]. The numbers taunted him.
"Well?" Gehr pawed the lambskin map. "Where's the loot?"
"In the Fourteen-Armed Spider Queen Museum," Luge deadpanned. "We can grab breakfast there tomorrow."
The hound's ear twitched. "The place where Professor Phil unleashed that curse?"
"The same." Luge's grip tightened. Last year's disaster flashed through his implant – fleeing scholars, collapsing ruins, Phil's smug grin as occult energy devoured his rivals. Now he understood: the professor hadn't outsmarted the traps. He'd cheated with forbidden power.
The archive plunged into darkness.
"GHOSTS?!" Gehr scrambled under a desk.
"Oil ran out." Luge snorted. "Gil's 'safety measure.'" He marched into the hallway. "WAKE THE BARON! I FOUND SOMETHING EXPLOSIVE!"
By dawn, Baron Moore's lawyers were racing to claim the museum's land rights. Anvis bid Luge farewell at the gates, all pearly smiles and zero mention of returning the agate.
A plain carriage rattled up. Lilith emerged, golden curls catching sunlight. "Leaving so soon, Master Luge?"
Anvis tripped over his own charm. "He's just–"
"–grateful for the ride." Luge slid into the cab before Gehr could lick Lilith's gloves.
"She's into you," the hound whispered.
"Even you noticed?" Luge peeked outside. Anvis was still pratfalling through conversation, oblivious as Lilith's gaze lingered on the departing carriage. "That boy needs spectacles."
The driver – Mitty, Lilith's stone-faced bodyguard – cracked her knuckles. "Pipe down, brat."
Luge leaned out the window. "Heard you lost to some dark-haired upstart! Teach me your combat arts and I'll avenge–"
Mitty's whip snapped an inch from his nose. "SHUT. IT."