Zephyr pressed himself tighter against the crumbling brick wall, his back scraping against its jagged edges as he fought to steady his ragged breaths.
His lungs burned with every inhale, his chest heaving like he'd just sprinted through a deathmatch with no respawn.
Years hunched over keyboards and interfaces had left him woefully unprepared for this kind of cardio, and his trembling legs were a brutal reminder of that fact.
The stolen cloak clung to his shoulders, damp and heavy, its musty scent mixing with the sour tang of his own sweat.
He dared a glance around the corner, his gray eyes scanning the alley with the cautious precision of a cornered animal.
No sign of the spiked-club thug or his sneering cronies.
No echo of heavy boots pounding the cobblestones. Just the slick, rain-dappled street, littered with scattered jellybeans that glowed faintly under the eerie light of the floating lanterns.
Wait. Jellybeans?
One landed in his outstretched palm, soft and warm, its blue surface shimmering with an unnatural luminescence, like a tiny star plucked from a corrupted sky.
Zephyr stared at it, his brow furrowing as a flicker of unease twisted in his gut.
He flicked it over his shoulder, the candy bouncing off the cobblestones with a faint plink.
"Yup," he muttered, his voice low and strained, "definitely losing my damn mind."
With a wary glance at the empty alley, he pushed against the worn wooden door beside him, its surface splintered and weathered by years of neglect.
It creaked open with a groan, as if reluctant to admit him, and a wave of warm, flickering light spilled out, wrapping him in the smoky aroma of grilled meat, soot, and spilled ale—a stark contrast to the alley's reek of oil and impending violence.
The tavern was a chaotic mosaic of life, its air thick with the hum of hushed conversations and the clink of mugs.
Oil lanterns swung gently from the rafters, their flames casting dancing shadows alongside enchanted glass bulbs that pulsed with soft, multicolored light.
Adventurers in tattered cloaks and mismatched armor crowded around battered wooden tables, their faces etched with exhaustion and defiance.
One man, sporting half a suit of dented plate armor but no pants, nursed a frothy drink with the solemnity of a philosopher.
Across the room, a woman with a pet ferret curled asleep in her hood idly flipped a dagger between her fingers.
At another table, a trio of dwarves with soot-streaked beards argued passionately about mana conversion ratios, punctuating their debate with hearty shots of something that smelled like liquid fire.
Zephyr slipped into a shadowed corner booth, the damp cloak still draped over his shoulders like a shroud.
His breath fogged faintly in the warm air as he sank into the worn bench, the wood creaking under his weight.
His hands, still trembling from the chase, rested on the scarred tabletop, his fingers tracing the carved initials of long-gone patrons.
"Ironspire," he muttered under his breath, the word foreign and heavy on his tongue. "What is this place?"
"A dump with delusions of grandeur," GlitchWitch answered, her sprite flickering into existence like a corrupted browser pop-up.
Her neon-purple hair glitched in and out of focus as she hovered above the table, leaving a trail of sparkling static in her wake.
"City of steam, soot, and system bugs, cobbled together by the Iron Council back when they thought they could tame chaos with bureaucracy. Spoiler alert. it's a flaming mess."
Zephyr kept his voice low, his eyes flicking to the nearby tables to ensure no one was listening. "So this whole world runs on… what? You? This CosmoCore thing?"
"Oh, honey, I'm just the snarky interface," GlitchWitch purred, twirling midair with a flourish that scattered more glitchy sparkles across the booth.
"CosmoCore's the System. Capital S. It's the backbone of this reality—power flow, quests, skill trees, loot drops, social ranks, you name it. Think dystopian fantasy with a side of corporate micromanagement."
Zephyr leaned back, dragging a hand down his face, his fingers smearing the grime that clung to his skin. "So, what, reality got modded by a sadistic game dev with a twisted sense of humor?"
"Pretty much," she said, her grin sharpening. "And lately? The code's been unraveling faster than your esports career. Bugs everywhere. Glitches galore. Total chaos."
He frowned, his gaze drifting to the tavern counter, where a jellybean had just thunked softly onto the polished wood.
The bartender—a square-jawed woman with a missing eye and arms like forged steel—didn't even blink.
She just swept it off with a rag, her face etched with weary resignation.
"Second time this week," she grumbled, her voice carrying a hint of exasperation.
Across the room, a grizzled patron shook his mug upside down, glaring at the cascade of multicolored candies that spilled out.
"I ordered ale, not bloody jelly!" he growled, slamming the mug down.
"Blame the Surge!" another voice muttered from the shadows, bitter and resigned.
Zephyr's ears pricked up, his attention snapping back to GlitchWitch.
"Surge?" he asked, his voice low but urgent.
"Glitch Surge," she replied, her usual sarcasm giving way to a rare note of seriousness. Her sprite flickered, her neon eyes narrowing as she leaned closer.
"Unstable pulses ripping through the System. They mess with reality—candy rain's the least of it. Last week, some poor sap's sword turned into a singing fish mid-duel. Week before that, a whole marketplace started floating. It's like the System's throwing a tantrum, and Ironspire's ground zero."
Zephyr glanced around the tavern, his pulse quickening as he took in the patrons' weary expressions.
No one seemed shocked by the candy or the complaints—just annoyed, like this was another Tuesday in a world gone haywire.
The realization settled over him like a cold weight: this wasn't a one-off bug.
The world itself was breaking.
A nearby table of adventurers murmured in low, tense tones, their words drifting to his ears like fragments of a puzzle.
"…Iron Council's got no clue what's causing it…"
"…Heard it started in the Old Cogs district, near the abandoned forges…"
"…That last Surge burned down a smithy and flipped gravity on three floors. People were crawling on ceilings, screaming…"
Zephyr sat up straighter, his mind racing as the pieces began to click.
The CosmoCore was fracturing, spitting out glitches that warped reality. And somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, he'd been dragged into the middle of it.
Then came the ding, sharp and intrusive, like a notification from a game he couldn't pause.
[QUEST RECEIVED]
System Directive: Locate the Broken Cog
Objective: Unknown
Reward: Not dying. Probably.
Status: Active
Zephyr stared at the glowing interface hovering before him, its text pulsing with an almost mocking urgency.
He blinked, his mouth going dry. "Not dying. Probably?"
"I thought it'd be motivational," GlitchWitch said with a shrug, her sprite folding its arms behind its glitching wings.
"Look, you want to go home, fix the System, or stop getting hunted by mana-thugs with a grudge? Start with the Broken Cog. It's your ticket to answers. Or, y'know, sit here and sulk. I'm sure nothing horrible will happen if you stall forever."
Zephyr exhaled slowly, his breath trembling as he tilted his head back, his gaze fixing on the flickering lanterns above.
Their light wavered, casting eerie shadows that seemed to pulse in time with his racing heart.
The weight of it all—the glitching world, the cryptic quest, the relentless chaos—pressed down on him like a server crash he couldn't escape.
"Right," he muttered, his voice flat but laced with a grim resolve.
"Welcome to the bugfest."