I pulled onto the exit ramp, leaving Highway 70 behind me.

To my left, loomed the onramp to the infamous Highway 69—a road that didn't appear on my GPS but was marked with eerie, rusted signs warning travelers of "BEWARE OF DUNGEON!", "Warning: death", "temporal looping" and "reality distortions."

Someone spray painted "BeWare of DoGgEon" at the base of one of the rusted signs with a lopsided imprint of a dog paw which made me smile.

Route 69 wasn't just a road; it was a dungeon disguised as infrastructure, one that had claimed countless unwary travelers over the decades who thought they were taking a shortcut.

I parked my car at the highway's edge, well clear of the actual pavement past the rusted signs.

The edge of the dungeon lacked the usual ticket-selling infrastructure. According to the net chatter this dungeon really didn't like things being built on its edge and sent out a high level Magnetic Lynx monster in a blue vest who dismantled anything and everything that tried to commercialize the place.

The government attempted to fence the dungeon in the 60s, but the Lynx pried the fence posts out of the ground, simply absorbing the metal into its body. The report stated that it fired metal shards through the construction crew at supersonic speed, reducing humans to blood puddles and obliterating the excavators. Afterwards, everyone gave up on highway 69 as even gas stations and ticket stations built within a few kilometers away from the dungeon got obliterated by the invincible, truly monstrous dungeon Sentinel, forevermore tagged as "the Butcher of Delvers".

I was taking a bit of a risk parking here, as according to historic documents the lynx sometimes destroyed parked cars too, but I decided that it was worth it. Given my current condition—beaten, bruised, and sporting more claw marks than a scratching post—I could use some healing before the cuts become infected.

I looked at the field adjacent to the highway. I knew that dungeons changed the surrounding environment—all that entropic dust and magical residue that clung to adventurers' boots as they exited affected the local flora and fauna.

Dungeon-adjacent plants often mutated in strange ways, absorbing ambient mana and developing new properties. Some turned poisonous, others explosive, but a select few developed healing attributes. The older the dungeon, the more magical shit grew around it and highway 69 was pretty damn old.

The only problem now was examining the plant life at the edge of highway's dimensional boundary while staying out of it.

Since this was a REALLY old dungeon this also meant that it was incredibly reactive.

Now it was just a matter of figuring out what triggered it.

I picked up a small rock and tossed it toward the pavement. Nothing happened. The rock landed with a dull thud and just sat there, looking disappointingly ordinary.

"Alright, Highway dungeon, let's see what makes you tick," I announced to the empty air. According to veteran dungeon crawlers, dungeons had personalities—some responded to movement, others to sound, and a select few to specific words or phrases.

I cleared my throat. "Your asphalt looks cheap," I called out.

Nothing.

"Your lane markings are faded and pathetic!"

Still nothing.

I stepped closer to the boundary, my boots crunching on gravel. "Hey, 69! Nice number. Very mature. What are you, twelve?"

The air remained undisturbed. Not even a shimmer.

"Your potholes are so big, they've got their own postal codes!"

Nothing. This was getting frustrating.

"You call yourself a dungeon? My grandmother's knitting circle is scarier than you!"

The wind whistled through the nearby trees, but Highway 69 remained unimpressed.

"I've seen better road design from a drunk toddler with a crayon!"

I was running out of insults. Time to get creative.

"You're so old, your monsters probably collect social security! The Magnetic Lynx probably needs a walker by now!"

Was it my imagination, or did the air tremble slightly?

I pressed on.

"That Lynx of yours? Heard she wears a blue vest because she failed the interview at the Superstore! Couldn't even get a greeter position!"

A definite ripple disturbed the air about fifteen feet ahead of me. I was onto something.

"Hey, Magnetic Lynx! I bet you're just a cute kitty cat with some refrigerator magnets stuck to you! Ooooh, so scary!"

The ripple intensified, and I could now clearly see where reality ended and the dungeon began—a wavy, transparent barrier that shimmered like heat waves rising from hot pavement.

Perfect. I memorized where the barrier wobbled and started to walk along the edge, occasionally making comments about how lame the magnetic Lynx was to make sure I didn't step into the dungeon by accident.

"Right. Let's see what Highway 69 has to offer besides certain death," I murmured, looking at the wild field below my feet.

My careful inspection determined that the vegetation was clearly not your standard roadside weeds. Some plants pulsed with faint luminescence; others seemed to shift position when I wasn't looking directly at them. A few appeared to be... breathing? Yep. Hard pass on those.

I knelt down and began a methodical process of snipping small samples from different plants with my pocket knife, then pressing them gently against a particularly nasty bruise on my forearm.

"Ow." A cluster of red fern-like growth made the bruise sting worse.

"Nope." A patch of yellow moss did absolutely nothing.

"Seriously?" Some purple vines actually made the skin around my bruise turn an alarming shade of green. I quickly wiped it off.

For twenty minutes, I continued this scientific approach of "poke myself with weird plants and see what happens," steadily building a small pile of rejects. Just as I was about to give up, I found a patch of blue-tinted grass growing beneath a gnarled bush. Among the grass were tiny flowers, no larger than my pinky nail, with petals so intensely blue they almost hurt to look at.

I snipped a flower and pressed it against my bruise. A subtle cooling sensation spread across my skin, and the throbbing pain dulled slightly.

"Jackpot," I grinned, carefully gathering a handful of the grass and flowers.

Sitting cross-legged in the field, I laid out my harvest and activated my Syntropic Fusion skill. A faint silver glow emanated from my fingertips—weak and pathetic compared to the spectacular light shows my brother could produce, but it was something.

I began weaving the plants together, channeling what little mana I had into the construction. The grass became more pliable under my influence, almost eager to be shaped, while the flowers seemed to pulse with a gentle warmth as I incorporated them into the pattern.

As I tied off the final knot, completing the bracelet, a silver notification appeared in my vision:

[Congratulations! You have created: Basic Healing Bracelet (Poor Quality)] [Effect: Regenerates 0.5% Health per hour] [Duration: 4 hours, 14 minutes, 37 seconds... 36 seconds... 35 seconds...] [At least you didn't accidentally weave in those poisonous red ferns this time. Progress!]

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered, slipping the bracelet onto my wrist. Immediately, a subtle warmth spread up my arm, and the throbbing pain in my ribs dulled slightly. Not miraculous, but better than nothing.

I checked my Syntropic Fusion skill, which had gone from 17% to 5% after the bracelet's creation. Great, it would take weeks to reload my skill to make another bracelet. Add that to my Reconstitution at a whopping 0% and Depictomancy at 4%, and I was truly a force to be reckoned with. Watch out, world!

I made another snide comment about the lynx's blue vest to make sure I didn't accidentally step into the dungeon as I started walking back to my car. "Probably has 'Assistant Manager' written on it in crayon..."

"I'll have you know it says 'Floor Supervisor' in permanent marker," came a voice from my left side.

I flinched and slowly turned and nearly had a heart attack at what I saw. A prad lynx girl made from rusted metal stood there, staring at me with multiple unblinking eyes made from car beam lights. The rusted metal plates that formed her body shifted slightly as she tilted her head, examining me.

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She was wearing an incredibly raggedy blue vest that had seen better days. A 'Floor Supervisor' was indeed written with a marker on a grimy-looking Superstore ID tag.

She raised a hand, and I heard the unmistakable hum of an electromagnet powering up inside her palm.

I gulped, preparing for instant death.

"Nice top," she uttered into the silence. "I don't recall you entering or surviving my dungeon though."

I wasn't sure what to say, sweating madly.

The magnet in her hand hummed dangerously, and my car lurched slightly in response. I realized she could plow me into a pancake with my own vehicle in the blink of an eye.

"So," the Lynx said, her metal jaw groaning when she moved it. "Are you back for revenge, human?"

"Revenge?" I blinked in confusion. "Why?"

"I killed your pack, human," the Magnetic Lynx said matter-of-factly. The light from her headlamp eyes intensified, casting harsh shadows across the ground between us.

"Pack? What pack? I don't have a pack," I denied, trying to keep my voice steady despite the pure, undiluted terror creeping up my spine.

Was this dungeon monster mad? Did she confuse me for some other human delver?

She tilted her head again, metal scraping against metal, seemingly reading my thoughts. "Humans do look alike to me, but I remember your tree-soul quite clearly. If you're back to kill me for what I did, then you obviously suck at preparing." Her rusted tail swished behind her, raining tiny rusted shavings in its wake.

"Umm… I haven't been here before," I insisted. "I don't know you."

"You don't wish to fight me to the death then?" Her headlamp eyes dimmed slightly. "What's with the insults then?"

"Um," I swallowed hard. "I was just trying to see where the dungeon's boundary was. I needed to make a healing bracelet without accidentally stepping into your territory." I held up my wrist, displaying the poor-quality bracelet I'd crafted. "See? I'm just passing by and trying to heal up. Not here for revenge or anything."

The Lynx contemplated this, her metal frame creaking as she leaned in closer to examine me. "Hrmmm. You look the same as before… but a bit more clueless and beat up. Perhaps you lost or sold your memories to the Supercenter." She straightened up, the electromagnet in her palm powering down. "Fine. Come back when you remember me, if you wish to punish me for what I did."

With that, she took two steps backward, the air around her shimmering as she crossed back into the dungeon's domain. Just before she disappeared entirely, she added, "And for the record, I passed her interview with flying colors."

Then she was gone, leaving me alone with my functioning but slightly magnetized car and the unsettling feeling that I'd just avoided death by the narrowest of margins.

I returned to my car, the countdown timer for my shoddy healing bracelet ticking away in the corner of my vision. With a sigh, I turned the key, and my loyal Tempest chugged back to life.

Time to face Ferguson.

The road leading into town was almost suspiciously beautiful—a winding path through a verdant valley with cascading waterfalls and majestic mountains rising on either side. It was the kind of landscape that usually appeared on postcards with "Wish You Were Here!" plastered across them in garish font.

"Bet they spent a fortune terraforming this," I muttered, eyeing a particularly perfect waterfall that cast five rainbows above itself. "Nothing says 'we're better than you' like custom scenery on your access road."

As I rounded a bend, the road disappeared into the mouth of a massive tunnel carved directly into the mountainside. Above the entrance, an ornate sign proclaimed: "Welcome to Ferguson: Where Dreams Take Flight and Pradavarians Thrive!"

In smaller text below: "Humans Welcome! [With Valid Identification and Purpose of Visit.]"

"How generous," I snorted. "They let us breathe their air as long as we have the proper paperwork."

The tunnel entrance was heavily fortified—black obelisks covered in celesteel runework, multiple layers of barrier shields that shimmered across the entrance, and multiple layers of massive, extra-thick magisteel blast doors ready to slam shut at a moment's notice. A checkpoint booth jutted from the tunnel wall, staffed by a serious-looking German Shepherd pradavarian in a green ranger's uniform covered in defensive runes.

I pulled up to the booth, rolling down my window and trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Not that I could look threatening if I tried—bloodied, bruised, and driving a car that predated most modern conveniences.

"Identification and purpose of visit," the dog barked, not bothering with pleasantries.

I handed over my driver's license and SUSA passport. "I'm... uh... enrolling at Ferguson High. My grandfather lives here."

The shepherd's nose twitched, and his expression soured. "Step out of the vehicle, please."

"Is there a problem?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Out. Now."

I complied, painfully extracting myself from the driver's seat. The shepherd circled me, sniffing audibly, his lip curling in disgust.

"You've been claimed," he stated flatly.

"Not willingly," I protested. "Look, I was attacked by a gang—"

"Silence." He raised a paw, and a glowing rune appeared in the air between us. "Place your hand on the truth rune."

I hesitantly pressed my palm against the floating symbol. It felt warm and tingly, like touching a staticky TV screen.

"State your full name, level and purpose in Ferguson."

"Alec Benoit Foster," I said, feeling the rune vibrate against my palm. "Level Three. I'm here to attend Ferguson High School."

"Where are you planning to stay?"

"My grandfather's farm. Daniel James Foster–he lives at the North edge of town."

The rune flashed green.

"Did you willingly submit to being claimed by the pradavarian gang known as the Skid Marks?"

"No," I answered firmly. "They attacked me at a gas station, beat me up, and marked me against my will."

Another green flash.

The shepherd's expression softened marginally. He whistled sharply, and two more dogs emerged from the checkpoint—a bloodhound and a beagle, both wearing similar uniforms.

"Check him," the shepherd ordered. "He's been forcibly claimed by the Skid Marks."

The bloodhound circled me, sniffing methodically, while the beagle waved what looked like a handheld magitek scanner across my entire body.

"We're scanning you for obedience hexes and deep tracking tags," the beagle explained. "Captain Adler's Binder is a devious mage."

Nothing like being treated like a lost Amazon package. I thought as the hound smacked my sides with the evaluation wand.

The bloodhound finished his inspection. "No active magical traces beyond the claim mark and that..." he gestured vaguely at my wrist, "...whatever that attempt at a healing bracelet is."

"We'll let you through," the shepherd decided, "but you should get that mark scrubbed asap."

He handed me an orange bracelet with a silver rune-marked rock in it. "This bracelet will disrupt the tracker and mute the Astral connection inside the town's ward, but it will only last 7 days. If you haven't removed the claim mark by then, you will be escorted from town by one of our rangers."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because Ferguson has a strict no-gang policy," he explained, eyes narrowing. "That mark on you is like a beacon in the Astral. Adler and her crew can track you, and more importantly, they can reach through that connection to influence you."

The bloodhound nodded gravely. "The longer you wear a gang mark, the stronger their hold becomes. It starts with simple communication and basic Voicecast orders, but eventually, a property mark like that can compel actions."

"Like what?"

"Like breaking into a shop or killing someone in town," the guard said. "Captain Adler used to live in Ferguson. It is possible that she holds a grudge against one or more of our residents."

I gulped. "Ummm, a gas station attendant said that they can help me remove the mark at the Hare Krishna temple."

"If you become one of their devotees, the higher level monks can help," the guard nodded. "But they will put their own mark on you, one that requires serious lifestyle and spiritual commitments."

"Like?"

"Joining Hare Krishna as a monk means rejecting sex, intoxication, gambling, etc. It requires… material ambition to fully dedicate your life to celibacy, chanting, spiritual study, and temple service under strict discipline," the beagle said, eyeing me up and down. "Not an easy path to undertake for someone so… young."

"Personal freedom? Gone. You follow strict routines and take orders from senior monks or gurus. Romantic relationships? You're done with dating, love, marriage. It's off the table. Modern culture—TV, movies, pop music, social media—gone. You'll be in a bubble of chanting, scripture, and service to the temple," the bloodhound said.

"I can go to school and live with my grandfather though?" I asked.

The bloodhound exchanged glances with his colleagues, then shook his head.

"Full monks can get complete removal, but it's an all-or-nothing commitment. The Hare Krishna don't do partial measures with their spiritual healing," he explained. "If you joined as a novice or part-time devotee, you might get some relief—maybe dampen the connection longer—but the mark would likely remain."

The shepherd nodded. "It's like trying to erase permanent marker with hand sanitizer instead of proper solvent. It fades but doesn't disappear. Full removal requires full devotion."

"So I couldn't go to school?" I asked.

"Not as a full monk, no," the beagle confirmed. "Their schedule is rigid—4:00 AM wake-up for meditation, then hours of chanting, study, and service throughout the day. No exceptions, even for teenagers."

"Are there any other options?"

The shepherd leaned against the booth. "There's always the medical option. The Ferguson Health Center can remove gang marks, but..."

"But what?"

"But it'll cost you about five thousand dollars or more," he finished. "Even if you report the mark as a crime that's been forced on you, the hospital won't cover the necessary spellwork. And the procedure has a few week long recovery period with daily magiceutical treatments."

I winced. Five thousand dollars might as well be five million with my current finances.

"Great," I muttered. "Any other options that don't involve bankrupting myself or becoming a celibate monk at eighteen?"

"Not really," the beagle shrugged. "That mark is pretty high level. I can't even tell what the unbinding condition is, but there's definitely one there. A temple evaluator or a doc would be able to tell you more."

The bloodhound's expression softened slightly. "Look, kid, our job is to keep Ferguson safe. That mark makes you a potential security risk. Talk to your grandfather—maybe he can help with the medical costs."

The shepherd handed back my IDs along with a small pamphlet titled "New Human Residents: Essential Information."

"You've got a week before the muting bracelet stops working within the town's ward," he reminded me. "After that, either the mark goes, or you do. Clear?"

"Crystal," I replied, tucking the pamphlet into my pocket. "Can't I get another bracelet in a week or something?"

"No," the guard replied. "That mark is a binding loop designed to grow stronger with time."

The beagle tapped something on a control panel, and the shimmering magitek barrier across the tunnel entrance rippled and parted.

"Welcome to Ferguson," the shepherd said, stamping my passport with just enough irony in his voice to make it clear how welcome I actually was. "Stay out of trouble, and good luck with that mark situation."

As I climbed back into my car, I couldn't help but feel like I'd just been granted a temporary visa to a foreign country that was already planning my deportation.

I nodded my thanks and returned to my car. The gates groaned open, revealing the tunnel's dark interior illuminated by softly glowing magitek lanterns and defensive runes.

A week to find a solution to a magical mark.

Just great.

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