The new room was a square with four pillars and a floor that looked clean enough to perform surgery on. Which meant, of course, that it was going to lie to me.

The lie appeared as thin, shimmering lines in the air. The word 'No,' stitched into the very fabric of the space, so faint you only noticed it after you bumped into one and the room tutted at you like a disappointed aunt.

Valeria hummed, a bright, dangerous sound. "How many invisible fences can we poke before it writes us a ticket?"

"Let's not find out," I said. "Read first."

Julius stood by the door, his hands behind his back, a level surface in a deceptive room. "Stop trying to buy the space at retail," he said, his voice calm. "Use what refuses to move."

"Use the holes."

"Use the parts of the room that aren't trying to impress you," he corrected. "Questions first. Answers later."

I set myself in a short guard, tip quiet, breath steady. The first cut I offered wasn't clever. It simply arrived in a gap that the room hadn't bothered to advertise, because boring thieves don't sell tickets. The edge went through like a letter sliding into a slot. The room, annoyed, shifted the seams. New 'no' lines knitted themselves into the old ones, closing the gap.

Fine. I didn't chase the holes. I made my own line inevitable by owning the beat right before it—not with speed, not with a glare, but with the sort of quiet presence that makes starting a fight feel like a social mistake. Stillness that bends choices.

"Better," Julius said. "Now, angle."

A thumb-width turn of Valeria's edge. Hips stacked without opinion. Suddenly, the path the room wanted me to take became a hallway with a chair inexplicably placed in it. My blade liked the new, awkward path. The floor, robbed of its little conspiracy, sulked. The pillars tried to help, their surfaces shimmering with hostile intent. I slid a thin shadow wedge over my left shoulder. Erebus obliged. The pillar minding that shoulder forgot its big idea and went back to being simple architecture.

Then the range started doing tricks. The square compressed and stretched like taffy pulled by invisible hands. My job was to not make range a job. I let my stance do the math: knee over toe, hip over ankle, my spine refusing to audition for heroics. Lightning Step did its work in my ankle, not my thigh. Grey laid paper-thin seams where my feet already planned to be; I used them as if they had always been there.

"Add water," Julius said.

I drew an Aegir lattice across the tiles—four quiet currents, three subtle delays, and one soft drumbeat of pressure underneath. It was a promise to the floor that it wouldn't be allowed to steal my momentum, nor offer it where it didn't belong. My steps landed honest. The room's attempt to skim my energy found nothing to skim.

Then the horizon left. The walls stayed, but the sense of "forward" packed a bag and went on holiday. It's a trick that makes steady people walk like drunk giraffes. I put Lucent Harmony under my ribs and let my own breath declare which way was forward. I wrote a simple Edict on the air: This step is forward. The world had to agree. Two pages of Grey flattened into the air at an ugly angle only I would love, and I didn't teleport; I just made a corner where the world thought there should have been a curve. My feet behaved.

The room, mildly insulted, turned sweet. It opened a perfect, glowing lane, clean all the way to the far corner. I ignored it. Free lanes always carry invoices with small print and late fees.

"Remove, don't steal," Julius reminded me. "Erase their right to start in your circle."

I did it by pre-occupying the pre-beat, that little half-moment where people write checks their hands can't cash. I didn't push. I was simply there first, in a way that made starting a fight feel unwise. An imaginary swordsman in my mind flinched and then pretended he hadn't. My blade didn't care about his dignity.

The square produced a net of hard 'no' lines, a mesh designed to punish any follow-through. The old me would have stolen a half-beat to get through it. The new me didn't owe the net a conversation. I walked into a line the net didn't admit existed, because it was too boring to advertise. The net adjusted, found nothing dramatic to bite, and remembered it was just a collection of strings.

Valeria cackled, entirely without shame. "You just heckled geometry into submission."

"Only a little," I said.

Julius finally moved. He didn't swing. He simply denied me a start by existing in a place I hadn't yet assigned any value to. I began to begin; he removed the idea. I adjusted; he removed the apology. I went smaller; he let me have it. "Now," he said. "Keep the range. No lunges. No heroics. Keep them close enough to be useful and far enough not to matter."

The spar began. I threaded Lightning Step into Grey seams and found the lazy band of distance that best fit my hands. The square tried to yank me deeper into a trap. The Aegir lattice underfoot declined on my behalf. I didn't owe the room my reach.

We closed with a painfully honest exercise: walking a circle with Valeria's edge an inch from a pillar, never touching it. The pillar did nothing wrong. I did not add any wrongness. When we finished, the pillar looked pleased with itself, which is not a sentence I expected to think today.

"That's enough," Julius said at last. "You're building a habit of not asking the world to clap for you."

"It was never a great audience anyway."

"It was," he said dryly. "You just can't afford the tickets anymore."

The door at the far end of the room printed the words PLEASE PROCEED. I didn't bow to it. Doors like that get ideas.

At the threshold, I felt them again: distant, cold, bright—the Gates of Transcendence, like mountain peaks on a studio-clear day. Not calling. Just existing. The good kind of pressure.

Valeria bumped my thumb. "We will look good on that climb."

"Only if we bring snacks," I said.

Erebus, mercifully on brand: 'Proceed.'

Julius's silence wasn't empty; it was approval on a budget. He didn't clap either. He just stayed, which for a man like him meant: keep going, don't show off, and don't trip on the way out.

We stepped through. The polite square went back to being a polite square for someone else who needed to learn that 'no' is just furniture with a good lawyer. My shoulders had one less speech to give. My feet had one more boring habit. Somewhere above, the film of Lust thinned along an edge, and the bones of Order showed through like a blueprint under cheap paint.

Somewhere ahead, a balcony remembered how to be a balcony. Fine. One room at a time. One honest step after the other. And if the floor tried to help, I would thank it, forgive it, and politely decline.

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