As I approached the registration office, my mind drifted back to the Magnetic Lynx's words. Tree-soul. What had she meant by that? Had she somehow glimpsed something in my aura, my essence? Or was it just the rambling of a dungeon monster who'd mistaken me for someone else?

In my dreams, I often saw myself as something rooted yet reaching skyward—stubborn, multiplying, growing despite adversity. Not flashy like my brother's pyrokinesis, but enduring. Persistent. Was that what she'd sensed?

I'd heard stories of powerful dungeon entities developing a sixth sense for the nature of those who came to their domains. Some could supposedly see future possibilities, or the core of a person's being. But why would the Lynx think she'd killed my "pack"? I'd never even been to Highway Sixty-Nine before today. Maybe the Lynx would kill the bikers in the future and rid me of the magic mark? That seemed like the least insane explanation that would solve my problem for free.

Lost in these thoughts, I pushed open the door to the registration office and stepped into a surprisingly plush waiting area. The walls were adorned with photographs of Ferguson High's delving teams holding various trophies aloft, interspersed with portraits of stern-looking raptors in expensive suits. The Strand family gallery, no doubt.

A bored-looking white fox pradavarian secretary glanced up from her desk, her nose wrinkling instantly.

"Can I help you?" she asked, making no effort to hide her distaste.

"I'm here to register," I said, approaching her desk. "Alec Foster. My grandfather is Daniel Foster."

She tapped something into her computer, her claws clicking against the keys.

"Foster... Foster... Ah, here we are. New transfer, senior year." She looked me up and down with barely concealed disdain. "The principal wanted to meet with all new transfers personally. Particularly... unique cases such as yourself."

She gestured to a door labeled "Principal Kerberos" in gold lettering.

"He's expecting you," she said, though I hadn't seen her make any calls or send any messages.

I nodded my thanks and approached the heavy oak door. Before I could knock, a deep voice rumbled from within.

"Enter."

The office beyond was spacious and immaculate, dominated by a massive desk carved from a single slab of redwood. Behind it sat possibly the oldest dog pradavarian I'd ever seen—a mastiff with deep wrinkles crisscrossing his jowly face and silver fur so faded it was almost white. He wore a perfectly tailored suit that somehow managed to look both ancient and timeless, with a school pin on his lapel.

"Mr. Foster," he said, his voice surprisingly strong for his apparent age. "Please, sit."

I lowered myself into the chair opposite his desk, trying not to wince as my bruised body protested.

"I am Principal Kerberos," the old dog continued, studying me with eyes that seemed too sharp, too aware for his withered frame. "Welcome to Ferguson High."

"Thank you, sir," I replied automatically.

Something about him set my teeth on edge. It wasn't just the typical pradavarian intimidation factor—this was something deeper, more primal. A presence that seemed to fill the room, pressing against my consciousness like a physical weight.

His eyes flashed silver briefly—not the usual identification scan, but something more... invasive. I felt a slight pressure behind my eyes, as if something was gently probing at the edges of my mind.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting indeed."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "What's interesting, sir?"

He smiled, revealing teeth that looked too sharp, too numerous for a normal mastiff's mouth.

"Your... resilience, Mr. Foster. Most humans in your condition would be in the hospital, not sitting in my office discussing enrollment."

A chill ran down my spine. I hadn't told him about the biker gang or my injuries. My hood was back up, concealing the worst of the damage to my face.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I said carefully.

"Oh, I think you do." He leaned forward, and I could have sworn his eyes briefly flickered from brown to a deep, burning amber. "I can smell your injuries, Mr. Foster."

"What about them?" I asked.

"You're not curled up in a ball and crying," he pointed out.

"Should I be?" I squinted at him.

"Yes. Far too many of your nerves are sliced right through," he said. "Yet you persist."

"I've been hurt before," I shrugged. "Half of my nerves and my sense of smell were fried by my brother's spellchain experiment on me a few months ago."

"Yes," he nodded. "There is a lot of damage there. Far too much for a… human body to handle. You shouldn't be walking at all right now."

I squinted at him.

"Yes," he mused. "I believe you have... unique potential."

"I wouldn't call Level 3 with barely functioning skills 'unique potential,'" I said dryly.

Principal Kerberos tilted his head, reminding me suddenly of the Magnetic Lynx's similar gesture. "Numbers and percentages rarely tell the whole story, young man. The system isn't real, you know."

"What?" I blinked.

"She's not real," he stood abruptly, his movements smooth and limber, completely at odds with his apparent age as he walked to a large window overlooking the campus. "A limitless entropy wave masquarading as something that pretends to evaluate reality. You really shouldn't trust her… or her fellow Numbers."

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I had no idea what he was ranting about.

"Ferguson High was founded on principles of excellence and tradition," he said, his back to me. "The Strand family has long ensured that our facilities and faculty are the best money can buy. But money cannot buy true potential. True... determination of deep delving."

He turned to face me again, and I could have sworn his shadow on the wall behind him didn't quite match his shape—it seemed larger, more bestial, with what looked like three distinct outlines overlapping. A thing with three heads covered in spikes.

I blinked and the shadow snapped together into one.

"I will place you in the Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum, Mr. Foster," he said.

I blinked in surprise. Advanced Dungeoneering was typically reserved for delvers with proven combat skills and useful talents—raptor femme territory, essentially. A human with my level had no business even approaching that class.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I believe that you have potential," the Principal answered. "Potential that must be bathed in infinite hellfire for it to… bloom. Yes, you'll do nicely. I believe that you have what it takes to be in Advanced Dungeoneering."

I blinked at him.

"I can smell her on you, you know," he said. "Rust, metal attraction and death. The Unstoppable Butcher of Delvers, we call her."

"The… Magnetic Lynx?"

"So you have truly seen her and survived," Principal Kerberos nodded. "What were you doing near Highway 69?"

"I was trying to map out the edge of the dungeon," I revealed. "So that I could make myself a basic healing bracelet without getting stuck inside the whole infinite time loop thing."

I shook the blue flower bracelet on my wrist.

"You tried to measure her borders, acquired an artifact, met her and lived? This alone is impossible Mr. Foster," the Principal breathed out. "Last time anyone's seen her was on October 24th, 1984. She destroyed a Gurrwolf corp van that was trying to survey the edge of the dungeon. Everyone inside was pulverised into a pulp except for a girl prad tech. The Lynx cut off her limbs but left her barely alive with a note."

"A… note?" I blinked.

"A note carved into her forehead, neck and chest," the Principal intoned. "'Do not fuck with us. Do not attempt to measure our borders. Do not try to build a fence around our domain. Do not try to sell entry tickets. We will permit small independent delver packs only. No larger than five. They will not survive. There is no reward here, no victory, only your death.'"

I swallowed, the hair on my neck standing up.

"So," the Principal said. "You're either a really talented liar tricking all of my senses, or you're someone extraordinarily lucky or good at dealing with high level dungeon monsters."

"Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum sounds like a terrible placement for level three," I said.

Principal Kerberos laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you'll surprise yourself, Mr. Foster. After all, you can't really die, can you?"

"My Reconstitution skill is at zero percent," I pointed out.

"Perhaps if you go deep enough into a dungeon you'll find a way to make it reload faster?" The principal shrugged. "I understand that your problem is your slow reload rate. The deeper levels are richer in mana. So what's it going to be, Mr. Foster? Are you going to grovel at my feet for a lesser schedule or show me what you're really capable of?"

"I'll take the advanced classes," I said finally.

Principal Kerberos nodded, seeming unsurprised by my decision. "Excellent. Classes begin tomorrow. Pick up your schedule from my secretary. Have a Good tomorrow, Mr. Foster. For today—enjoy our campus, make some friends."

"Right…" I muttered, thinking of my wonderful experience so far. "Friends."

The old dog ceased talking, turning away from me to the window.

I felt that my interview was over and shuffled out of the office.

I glanced at the schedule that the secretary offered me after a few minutes of waiting.

Tomorrow's offerings were as follows:

Period 1: Advanced Dungeoneering - Prof. Ignis L. Fern Period 2: Applied Enchantment Theory - Prof. Willowbark K. Grim Period 3: Pradavarian History & Culture - Prof. Stonetalon A. Rosa Period 4: Lunch Period 5: Theoretical Dungeon Mechanics - TA Renfield Strand Period 6: Practical Survival Skills - Prof. Moonhowl O. Stein Period 7: Independent Study

Yep, that sounded like the Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum alright. The exact classes that my brother had that nobody sane would ever sign me up for. Maybe this was a conspiracy to rid Ferguson of an undesirable human. After all, people vanished and died in dungeons all the time.

Weirdly enough there were no other pages, just the schedule for tomorrow. I squinted at the paper. There was a barely visible hexagram on the corner of the paper with gold threads stretching across the innards of the paper. Ah, the schedule probably updated itself with each day in case a professor called in sick or something.

I made my way out of the administrative building, my mind reeling from the bizarre encounter with Principal Kerberos. Between his cryptic comments about "blooming in hellfire" and his insistence on placing me in the Advanced Dungeoneering curriculum, I was beginning to think everyone in this mountain town was slightly unhinged.

The hallway was mercifully empty as I headed toward the exit.

[School System Link Established]

[Ferguson High School Profile Created] [Status: Enrolled, Pending Orientation] [Warning: Claim Mark Detected. Resolution Required Within: 6 Days, 23 Hours, 42 Minutes] [Skill Assessment Scheduled: Tomorrow, Period 1. Prof. Ignis L. Fern] [You have (1) New Message from Ferguson High Administration]

A system notification flashed in my vision.

As I rounded the corner, my attention still fixed on the silver letters floating in front of my eyes, I collided with something solid and warm. The impact knocked me back a step and sent a fresh wave of pain through my already battered body.

"Watch where you're going, you idiot!" A voice snarled.

I looked up to find myself face-to-chest with a rather tall female pradavarian specimen. A raptor—because of course it was—with gleaming emerald feathers accented with peacock-style violet dots that seemed to shimmer in the fluorescent lighting. Her athletic build and curvy form was wrapped in a fitted track jacket bearing the Ferguson Firestorm logo. She was wearing the standard uniform skirt.

"What are you even doing in this building, trash-smelling human? The janitor's entrance is around the back."

"I'm just trying to leave," I said, raising my hands in a placating gesture. "So if you could just—"

"Did you just speak back at me?" Her amber eyes framed by yellow sclera narrowed dangerously, glinting with predatory focus, emerald feathers fluttering. "Get out of my way, human! I have places to be."

I should have stepped aside. Any sane person would have. But something about the day's accumulation of insults, beatings, and general dehumanization had worn my patience to a dangerous thinness.

So instead of moving, I simply stood there, looking up at her, my eyes meeting hers directly. A subtle challenge that no pradavarian could miss.

Her jaw dropped slightly, genuinely shocked at my audacity. We stood frozen for a heartbeat, her towering over me, our eyes locked in a standoff that even I knew was monumentally stupid.

"So you've chosen death," she growled, her voice dropping to a register that vibrated in my chest. Her claws extended with a soft snick sound, gleaming under the hallway lights. "Fine. I could go for some disemboweling today."

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