Chapter 342: Status Report: 295 SP, One Angry Goth Girl, And A Very Suspicious Message

The bus lurched as it turned off the main highway onto the access road that led to the Atoll ferry terminal. Evening traffic clogged the streets, delivery drones crisscrossing overhead like metal locusts carrying packages to the wealthy districts. Somewhere in the distance, a Gate alarm wailed, but it wasn’t our concern. Other teams, other problems.

I pulled up my status screen, more out of habit than necessity.

The SP counter sat at 295. Not bad for a day’s work. The dungeon clear had generated a decent chunk of passive income, plus whatever bonus I’d get when the official mission report processed. Not enough for another mythical pull, but enough to save toward the next opportunity.

The system notification about Skylar’s bond rank still pulsed in the corner of my vision. Level 5: Dependent. I dismissed it with a thought.

One problem at a time.

The ferry ride stretched out before us, all dark water and distant lights bleeding together like watercolors in the rain. The low hum of the engines created a white noise that swallowed conversation, leaving us suspended in a cocoon of exhausted silence.

No one spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

Monica had fallen into an actual sleep somewhere around the halfway point, her precious fern tilting dangerously to one side before Emi reached over with gentle hands and steadied the pot.

Jacob remained frozen in place, staring at absolutely nothing with the thousand-yard stare of a man who’d seen something his brain was still trying to process.

Skylar, meanwhile, had apparently discovered the secret to enlightenment in the pattern of water stains on the ferry’s ceiling tiles, because she hadn’t moved her gaze in twenty minutes.

Natalia stayed pressed against my side, warm and solid and impossibly, tangibly real in a way that made my chest tighten.

I let myself rest my head against her shoulder. Just for a moment.

"You’re tired," she observed quietly, her voice barely audible over the engine’s drone.

"I’m always tired."

"More than usual." It wasn’t a question. She could read me too well now, knew all the micro-expressions I couldn’t quite hide when I was running on fumes.

"Killed a building-sized tree monster today," I pointed out, keeping my voice equally low. "Watched it try to murder my entire team. Nearly got strangled by vines. I think I’m allowed to be a little worn out."

Her fingers found mine under the edge of her jacket, hidden from view of anyone who might glance our way. The touch was brief, electric, grounding. She squeezed once, hard enough that I felt it in my bones, then let go just as quickly.

"Rest," she said, and there was something in her voice that made it less of a suggestion and more of a command. "I’ll wake you when we dock."

I wanted to argue. A king doesn’t rest while his subjects might need him, doesn’t show weakness, doesn’t let his guard slip for even a moment. A proper manipulator stays alert, stays aware, never lets his consciousness drift when there are pieces still moving on the board. There were still things to plan, angles to work, the ever-present question of how to manage the growing complexity of my court without everything collapsing into chaos.

But God, I was so damn tired.

My eyes were already drifting shut before I’d even made the conscious decision to let them.

When I opened them again, we were pulling up to Onyx House.

The dormitory looked even worse than I remembered in the evening light. Peeling paint. Crooked shutters. Someone had left a training dummy on the lawn, its straw-stuffed head caved in from what looked like a significant number of punches. The grass needed mowing. The windows needed cleaning. The whole place screamed "underfunded disaster zone."

In the distance, the Argent Sentinel dormitory gleamed like a promise. All clean lines and polished surfaces, its lights already twinkling in the gathering dusk like a particularly smug constellation.

I hated that building.

Carmen was waiting on the front steps, because of course she was. She’d sprawled across the top step like a particularly lazy cat, one hand wrapped around a bottle of something amber that definitely wasn’t tea, the other holding a synth-cigarette that sent curls of blue smoke into the evening air. Her eyepatch caught the light as she turned to watch the bus pull up.

"Well, well," she drawled as we stumbled off the transport one by one. "The puppies didn’t die. I’d say I’m proud, but that would require me to have invested emotionally in any of you."

She took a long drag from her cigarette.

"There’s pizza inside. It’s cold. Hikari already ate three slices." A pause. "Four. Five. She’s working on her sixth. Might want to hurry if you want any."

A collective groan rose from the team. But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the thousand-yard stares and the trembling hands, I heard relief. We’d made it home.

Monica shuffled past Carmen without a word, her fern clutched protectively against her chest. Jacob followed, nearly tripping over the training dummy in his zombie-like state. Emi bounced through the door with slightly too much energy, already calling out to whoever might be in the kitchen.

Skylar paused at the top of the steps. For one moment, her eyes met mine.

Something flickered there. Something raw. Something hungry.

Then she pulled her hood lower and vanished inside.

Natalia lingered, watching me watching her.

"Tonight," she said quietly. "You promised."

"I remember."

"Good." She leaned in, pressed a kiss against my jaw that was somewhere between affection and warning, then followed the others inside.

I was the last one off the bus.

The driver gave me a tired nod before pulling away, leaving me alone in the fading light. The engine noise faded. The world went quiet.

I turned and looked back at the empty seats. At the scattered protein bar wrappers Emi had handed out during the ride. At the med-kit she’d forgotten on the seat in her rush to check on the pizza situation.

First mission complete. No casualties. No permanent trauma, or at least no new permanent trauma. By any reasonable metric, we’d won.

So why did it feel like we’d just painted targets on our backs?

I grabbed the med-kit and tucked it under my arm. Emi would panic if she woke up tomorrow and couldn’t find it. Probably start reorganizing something else. Maybe the entire kitchen.

My phone buzzed.

I pulled it out. Unknown number. Three words glowing on the screen.

"The Gardener watches."

I stared at the message. Read it twice. Three times.

Then I deleted it.