The moment Evil Bert hit the floor, the spell snapped.

  Harlada sucked in a sharp breath as control slammed back into her body. Her knees buckled, and she barely caught herself before falling. Leo staggered beside her, limbs tingling painfully as sensation rushed back all at once.

  “Ugh,” Leo groaned. “I hate that one.”

  Harlada flexed her fingers, then her shoulders. Everything moved. Everything hurt. “He’s down?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes,” Bert said. “Very down.”

  They all turned.

  Bloodied Bert stood over the fallen body, chest heaving, blood dripping freely now that the adrenaline had nowhere left to go. At his feet lay the magical axe.

  He bent down.

  Picked it up.

  The axe vanished as it left the ground—then reappeared in his grip.

  Bloodied Bert’s eyes widened.

  “Ohhh,” he breathed, giving it an experimental swing.

  It blinked again. Reappeared in his other hand.

  He laughed.

  A small, delighted sound.

  “That is so cool.”

  No one spoke.

  Bert’s smile didn’t come.

  Harlada shifted her stance slightly, staff half-raised despite herself. Leo’s hand twitched, already calculating angles, distances—escape routes.

  Bloodied Bert threw the axe lightly into the air.

  It returned.

  He giggled.

  A second passed.

  Then another.

  “…Bert?” Bert said carefully.

  Bloodied Bert looked at him.

  For just a heartbeat too long, his grip tightened.

  Harlada held her breath.

  Then Bloodied Bert blinked.

  His shoulders slumped, some of the wild edge draining out of him.

  “Oh. Right.”

  He stepped forward and held the axe out, handle first.

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  “Yours,” he said.

  Bert took it slowly. “You sure?”

  Bloodied Bert nodded. “Ofcourse, I am not a thief”

  Leo gasped for air opened his mouth, “Well technically.”

  “We are rogues.” The two Berts flamed at him. “That is different.”

  The tension broke, not cleanly, but enough.

  They stood there then.

  Four figures in a ruined corridor. One dead version of Bert at their feet. Blood on the walls. Broken spells still hanging in the air.

  No countdown.

  No pulse.

  No instruction.

  Leo rubbed his temples. “So… what now?”

  Harlada looked at the two Berts. At the blood. At the silence.

  “I don’t think the Maze knows either,” she said.

  The maze pulsed once short.

  Only one group can progress.

  ***

  Silence lingered as they looted the bodies of the fallen party.

  No one rushed it.

  Coins were gathered. Gear sorted. Anything still humming faintly with magic was nudged aside and evaluated at a careful distance. The corridor felt less hostile now—not safe, but no longer actively angry.

  Bloodied Bert was given his share.

  He weighed the coins in his hand, turned them once, then nodded.

  “Fair,” he said.

  That was all.

  He looked up, eyes clearer than before, the berserker edge dulled into something steadier.

  “Shall we go to the puzzle room?” he asked.

  Leo hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Yes. At least there we can split the loot properly. Count coins. Think.”

  “And argue,” Bert added helpfully.

  “Strategize,” Leo corrected.

  “Argue,” Bert insisted.

  Harlada snorted softly but didn’t disagree.

  They gathered what remained, shouldered their packs, and started down the corridor together—four figures now, instead of three.

  No one mentioned how strange that felt.

  ***

  They walked in a loose line toward the puzzle room, the Maze quiet around them in a way that felt temporary.

  Bloodied Bert broke the silence.

  “We could all berserk,” he said.

  The others slowed.

  “All of you?” Harlada asked.

  He nodded. “Me. Our Leo. Our Harlada. Different triggers, same result. Pain. Fear. Loss.” He flexed his hands absently. “Once it started, it didn’t stop.”

  “That’s a nightmare setup,” Leo muttered.

  “It was,” Bloodied Bert agreed.

  He kept walking. “They promised cooperation. Said we’d work together. Share routes. Split enemies.” His jaw tightened. “Said it was smarter.”

  Bert winced. “Let me guess.”

  “They waited,” Bloodied Bert said. “Until we were already split. Until one of us was down.” He exhaled sharply. “Then they pushed us. Provoked us. Turned it into a slaughter.”

  Harlada’s grip on her staff tightened. “And you?”

  “They left me,” he said. “Thought I was dead.”

  The words landed heavier than expected.

  “I woke up alone,” Bloodied Bert continued. “Bleeding. Half-crazed. No potions. No party.” He snorted softly. “Guess they figured the Maze would finish the job.”

  “But they didn’t progress,” Leo said slowly.

  “No,” Bloodied Bert replied. “They didn’t want to.”

  All three looked at him.

  “They stayed,” he said. “Same level. Same chambers. Same tricks. Farming parties. Setting traps.” His mouth twisted. “Winning without moving forward.”

  Bert frowned. “So they weren’t stuck.”

  “No,” Bloodied Bert said. “They chose it.”

  Silence followed them the rest of the way.

  The puzzle room loomed ahead, familiar and unchanged.

  And for the first time, the idea that the Maze could be exploited—not escaped, not beaten, but used—settled uncomfortably between them.

  None of them liked that thought.

  But none of them could ignore it either.