Bulldrome struck Alastor before he completed the transformation.
The arena disappeared beneath pain.
One moment, he was lowering himself into a Great Jaggi stance.
The next, a tusk caught him beneath the ribs and lifted his feet from the sand.
Alastor flew.
He struck the ground shoulder-first, rolled twice, and stopped against the stone wall.
The Great Jaggi scales vanished from his legs.
He tried to breathe.
His chest refused.
Across the arena, Bulldrome skidded through the sand and turned.
The Great Maccao remained near its gate.
It balanced on its muscular tail, watching Alastor struggle.
Waiting.
Assessing.
Alastor recognized the behavior.
Monster Hunter had taught him what both creatures could do.
Bulldrome attacked in direct, violent charges.
Its size and aggression made a Bullfango look reasonable by comparison.
Great Maccao relied on balance, sudden leaps, and powerful kicks delivered from its tail.
He knew their patterns.
That knowledge had once come with a screen between them.
It had never included the sensation of a tusk passing close enough to tear his clothes.
Bulldrome lowered its head.
Alastor forced air into his lungs.
“Right.”
The monster charged.
Great Jaggi legs formed beneath him.
His calves lengthened.
His feet changed, toes digging into the sand as muscles shifted around the new bones.
Alastor jumped sideways.
Too far.
The altered legs launched him across several yards.
His upper body twisted behind his hips, and he struck the ground on one hand.
The Great Maccao attacked before he recovered.
Alastor saw the kick coming.
He reached for Arzuros.
Fur spread over his right arm.
Muscle thickened, and curved claws pushed from his fingers.
He raised the transformed limb.
Great Maccao’s foot struck it.
The arm held.
His human shoulder did not.
Pain tore through the joint.
Alastor screamed.
The Arzuros transformation collapsed.
Great Maccao landed lightly and retreated.
Bulldrome was already turning.
Alastor clutched his shoulder.
Great Jaggi legs.
Arzuros arm.
Two useful parts.
Two different bodies.
The legs wanted him leaning forward, balanced for a Bird Wyvern’s quick changes in direction.
The arm placed too much weight above that balance and expected a Fanged Beast’s thicker shoulder, broader chest, and heavier spine behind it.
Makarov had warned him.
Porlyusica had warned him more loudly.
The arena didn’t care.
Bulldrome charged again.
Alastor reached for Nargacuga’s eyes.
The change arrived more quickly than the others.
His pupils narrowed.
The arena sharpened.
Individual grains of sand became visible beneath Bulldrome’s hooves.
Alastor saw the muscles shift beneath its hide before its direction changed.
Great Maccao became a collection of small warnings.
A tightening leg.
A lifted crest.
A tail pressing deeper into the ground.
Too much information entered his mind at once.
Alastor moved.
He slipped past Bulldrome.
Great Maccao leapt.
Alastor ducked beneath its first kick and saw the second coming from behind him.
His mind understood the movement.
His body could not follow quickly enough.
The kick struck his back.
He hit the sand.
The enhanced vision remained.
Bulldrome turned.
Great Maccao landed.
Both movements left traces in Alastor’s sight, images overlapping one another as his human mind failed to discard what had already happened.
He saw three Bulldromes.
Two Great Maccaos.
The iron gates doubled.
Pain gathered behind his eyes.
He tried to dismiss the transformation.
It resisted.
Not because Nargacuga was fighting him.
Because his fear had decided the eyes were necessary.
Bulldrome charged.
Alastor moved toward the wrong image.
The real monster hit him.
The arena shattered.
Alastor woke screaming.
Zestial caught his shoulders before he rolled from the bed.
“Alastor.”
The arena remained around him.
Stone walls overlapped the storage room.
Iron gates stood behind his brother.
Something large charged through Zestial’s body.
Alastor struck at it.
Zestial caught his wrist.
“It’s me.”
“Move!”
“There’s nothing here.”
Scout jumped onto Alastor’s chest.
“Close your eyes.”
Alastor stared through him.
The Palico’s movements left three overlapping shapes.
“Close them,” Scout repeated.
Alastor squeezed his eyes shut.
Darkness did not help.
Red lines moved behind his eyelids.
His stomach turned.
“Breathe with me,” Zestial said.
Alastor tried.
The first breath came too quickly.
Zestial slowed his own breathing until Alastor matched it.
In.
Hold.
Out.
The arena began to recede.
The gates disappeared first.
Then the walls.
Bulldrome’s hooves continued striking the floor for several seconds after the monster was gone.
Alastor opened his eyes.
The room remained blurred, but there was only one Zestial now.
Scout sat on his chest with both paws planted firmly against his shirt.
“How long?” Alastor asked.
“Seven minutes,” Scout said.
“It was longer.”
“Not here.”
Zestial examined his face.
“Your eyes are red.”
“Nargacuga.”
“I guessed.”
Alastor tried to sit.
Pain traveled through his right shoulder.
He stopped.
Zestial noticed.
“You aren’t physically injured.”
“Tell that to the shoulder.”
Scout pressed carefully along the joint.
Alastor flinched.
“The muscles contracted as though they were supporting the transformed limb,” Scout said.
“The joint may not be displaced, but the strain is real.”
Zestial pulled on his boots.
“We’re getting Makarov and Porlyusica.”
Alastor covered his face.
“In the morning.”
“Now.”
“Z—”
“You attacked me because you thought a monster was standing inside me.”
Alastor lowered his hands.
Zestial’s wrist had begun reddening where he had blocked the strike.
The argument died.
Makarov listened to their account in Porlyusica’s workroom. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Porlyusica did not listen quietly.
“You used two unrelated transformations simultaneously.”
“For about three seconds.”
“That is three seconds too long.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it before.”
“I suspected it before.”
Porlyusica struck the table with a wooden spoon.
Alastor flinched.
She pointed the spoon at him.
“There is the difference between knowledge and intelligence.”
Makarov stood near the door with Alastor’s notebook open in one hand.
Zestial had recorded everything during the walk.
Duration of the mindscape.
Monsters encountered.
Transformations attempted.
Pain after waking.
Visual disturbances.
Alastor looked toward his brother.
“You write quickly when betraying me.”
“You nearly dislocated your shoulder while asleep.”
“Nearly.”
Porlyusica raised the spoon.
Alastor looked away.
She leaned close to examine his eyes.
“Follow my finger.”
He did.
The finger left an afterimage.
Alastor blinked.
“Again.”
Porlyusica moved it in the opposite direction.
His left eye followed.
The right lagged.
“What do you see?”
“One finger.”
She waited.
“Two briefly.”
“How briefly?”
“Less than a second.”
“That’s not brief enough.”
She placed a hand against the side of his face and examined his pupils in the lamplight.
Alastor recoiled.
“Too bright.”
Porlyusica immediately lowered the flame.
Makarov’s expression hardened.
“What happened?”
“His pupils are responding unevenly.
The muscles around the eyes are strained, and his brain is continuing to process motion after it has stopped.”
Zestial looked at Alastor.
“From seven minutes?”
“From moments of using an organ his body does not possess.”
Alastor frowned.
“They’re still my eyes.”
“No,” Porlyusica said.
“That’s the problem.”
The room became quiet.
She straightened.
“Your magic is not merely improving your vision.
It is forcing human tissue to imitate part of another creature’s sensory structure.”
“But I didn’t transform the whole head.”
“Which may make it worse.
A powerful predator does not see with its eyes alone.
Its brain, inner ear, neck, spine, and muscles develop together.
You took one piece and demanded that a child’s nervous system interpret it.”
Scout’s tail lowered.
“Nargacuga is an ambush predator,” he said.
“It tracks movement in darkness and attacks with explosive speed.
Its senses support reflexes Alastor does not have.”
Makarov heard the Palico’s serious meows and looked toward Zestial.
“He says the eyes belong to a body designed to process what they detect,” Zestial summarized.
“I heard him,” Alastor said.
“I was explaining it to Master.”
“Oh.”
Makarov turned a page in the notebook.
“That brings us to the larger question.
Why could Alastor access any part of Nargacuga before earning it in the arena?”
No one answered immediately.
Great Jaggi made sense.
Alastor had needed speed during the rebellion.
Arzuros had given him strength and protection.
Kulu-Ya-Ku offered dexterity, grip, and the instinct to use whatever was available.
Nargacuga belonged somewhere beyond those creatures.
A mature Nargacuga could kill the child currently sitting on Porlyusica’s table before he understood the fight had begun.
He could not wield its full strength.
He could not survive its speed.
He should not have been able to open that door.
Zestial looked toward the darkened window.
“Maybe he didn’t.”
Alastor frowned.
“I used the eyes.”
“You used something that resembles them.”
Porlyusica looked interested despite herself.
Zestial continued.
“His magic could not give him a complete Nargacuga form.
His bones, muscles, and magical reserves couldn’t withstand it.
But during the Tower, he needed to detect danger.”
“Guards in dark corridors,” Makarov said.
“Attacks from behind,” Zestial added.
“Movement before a strike.”
Alastor remembered the mines beneath the Tower.
Poor light.
Footsteps.
The sound of chains.
Learning which guard was approaching by the rhythm of his walk.
Waking whenever someone shifted near the door.
Always watching.
Always waiting.
Makarov’s gaze settled on him.
“Your magic responded to that need.”
“By reaching for Nargacuga?”
“Magic is not always concerned with what is appropriate,” Makarov said.
“It often follows emotion and necessity before reason.”
Porlyusica folded her arms.
“It could not construct the animal, so it imitated the smallest useful portion.”
Zestial nodded slowly.
“Not true Nargacuga eyes.
A reduced adaptation based on them.”
“An emergency imitation,” Makarov said.
Scout climbed onto the table.
“An awakening set.”
Everyone looked at him.
He continued.
“Some hunting disciplines begin with basic equipment selected to keep an inexperienced hunter alive.
Alastor’s magic may have done something similar.”
Great Jaggi for movement.
Kulu-Ya-Ku for grip and improvisation.
Arzuros for strength and protection.
A fragment of Nargacuga for perception.
Not a balanced representation of monster strength.
A collection of answers to immediate dangers.
Zestial repeated the explanation for Makarov.
The guild master considered it.
“The first forms were chosen by his magic because he could not choose for himself.”
“And the arena appeared now because he can,” Zestial said.
Alastor stared at his hands.
“So the first ones were free.”
Scout’s ears flattened.
“You paid for them in the Tower.”
Alastor stopped.
The room became quiet again.
Makarov closed the notebook.
“The original forms were not rewards.
They were survival responses.”
“And incomplete ones,” Porlyusica said.
“Do not mistake access for readiness.”
Alastor looked at her.
“The Nargacuga eyes are the clearest example.
Your magic handed you perception without the body required to survive it.
Every use risks headaches, loss of balance, visual confusion, muscle spasms, or unconsciousness.”
“Permanent damage?” Zestial asked.
Porlyusica did not soften the answer.
“If he continues forcing it, possibly.”
Alastor looked down.
“No more Nargacuga eyes.”
Alastor’s head rose.
“At all?”
“Not until Porlyusica clears you and we develop a safe method of conditioning the sense.”
“I need them in the arena.”
“You used them and lost.”
“I used them badly.”
“You used them because you were frightened,” Makarov said.
“Then the transformation refused to release.
Until you can end it by choice, it is not under control.”
Alastor wanted to argue.
The arena still lingered at the edge of his vision.
He remembered choosing the wrong Bulldrome.
He remembered striking at Zestial.
His resistance faded.
“No Nargacuga eyes,” he said.
“Your other forms remain restricted to one monster at a time,” Makarov continued.
“A Great Jaggi hybrid.
An Arzuros hybrid.
A Kulu-Ya-Ku hybrid.
No attaching pieces from different creatures.”
Alastor rubbed his shoulder.
“I understood that part.”
“The arena demonstrated it,” Porlyusica said.
“That was what the screaming meant.”
The spoon rose.
Alastor became quiet.
Zestial pulled the notebook closer.
“If Alastor has to fight inside the arena, he needs equipment.”
“You don’t know whether the arena permits one.”
“No,” Zestial admitted.
“But his magic recognizes things associated with him.”
Alastor looked over.
Zestial turned to a blank page.
“If I make a weapon specifically for his transformations and bind it to his magical signature, the arena may recognize it as part of his permitted equipment.”
Porlyusica looked unimpressed.
“You are planning his return while I am explaining how easily he could damage his brain.”
“I am planning for when you clear him.”
“That could be months.”
“Then I have months to learn.”
That answer stopped her.
Not because she approved.
Because it was sensible enough to resist immediate dismissal.
Zestial began sketching.
The first shape was a short blade.
Then he erased it.
He drew a longer grip.
Erased that too.
Alastor leaned closer.
“What are you making?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Strong beginning.”
“It needs to work with multiple forms without forcing you to combine them.”
Zestial drew four hand shapes beside one another.
Human.
Great Jaggi.
Kulu-Ya-Ku.
Arzuros.
“The grip needs to accommodate different fingers and different strength.
It needs an emergency release so an expanding hand doesn’t become trapped.
The balance has to remain usable when your arms lengthen.”
Scout examined the page.
“Do not design one weapon to perform every task.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Zestial erased another line.
“I was considering it.”
“A hunter chooses a loadout before entering the field.”
Zestial’s pencil stopped.
Then he turned to a new page.
“Different weapons for different forms.”
Alastor’s interest grew.
“A Great Jaggi weapon?”
“Light.
Something that doesn’t interfere with movement.”
“Kulu?”
“A tool-capable weapon.
Strong grip, flexible use.”
“Arzuros?”
“Something built to survive the force you put through it.”
Alastor pointed toward his eyes.
“Nargacuga?”
“No.”
“That answer was fast.”
“You are prohibited from using it.”
“Eventually.”
Zestial hesitated.
“Eventually, something that doesn’t demand more sensory attention than you can handle.”
Makarov looked over the sketches.
“How does he bring a physical weapon into a mindscape?”
“He doesn’t,” Zestial said.
“The real weapon remains outside.
I use Requip principles to bind its pattern to him.
If his magic accepts the pattern, he should be able to summon a projection inside.”
“And if it breaks?”
“The projection records how it failed.
I repair the physical design and synchronize it again.”
Alastor smiled.
Porlyusica noticed.
“This is not permission to return.”
The smile weakened.
“I know.”
“No secret experiments.”
“I know.”
“No asking Gray to hit you while you test the grip.”
“I wasn’t going to do that.”
Zestial looked at him.
Alastor sighed.
“I hadn’t finished considering it.”
Makarov took the notebook from Zestial and wrote several lines beneath the sketches.
“What did you add?” Alastor asked.
“Conditions.”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
Zestial read them.
No arena entry without supervision of Alastor’s sleeping body.
No new transformation used outside controlled training.
No mixed hybrid forms.
No Nargacuga traits until medically cleared.
No weapon synchronization without Aldren inspecting the physical construction.
No arena weapons intended to compensate for a form Alastor could not safely control.
Alastor looked at the list.
“You enjoy rules too much.”
“They keep you alive.”
“You and everyone else keep saying that.”
“Because you keep requiring it.”
Porlyusica checked Alastor’s pupils again.
Their response had begun returning to normal.
She lowered the lamp further and placed a cold cloth over his eyes.
“You will remain here until morning.”
Alastor lay back.
“Can I sleep?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I need to know whether the arena pulls you back when you lose consciousness.”
That possibility removed what remained of his humor.
Zestial dragged a chair beside the table.
Scout settled near Alastor’s feet.
Makarov remained near the door.
Alastor listened to his brother’s pencil move across paper.
Different grips.
Different weights.
Weapons intended for bodies that did not remain the same.
Beyond the waking world, the arena waited.
Great Maccao.
Bulldrome.
Forms he had not earned.
Beyond them waited things far more dangerous than either.
Somewhere among those later gates, a complete Nargacuga waited too.
Not borrowed eyes.
Not an emergency imitation forced through a frightened child’s magic.
The real form.
Alastor was nowhere near ready to face it.
For the first time, possessing a fragment did not make him feel closer.
It showed him the distance left to cross.