The city thinned out around us as we followed Quetzalcoatl south, away from Babel and the bustling heart of Orario. We left behind the familiar sounds of hawkers selling their wares and adventurers bragging about their latest conquests. The packed buildings gave way to scattered homes with garden plots. The cobblestone streets turned to packed dirt roads.
"How far is this place exactly?" Rumi asked, her ears swiveling back and forth nervously. "I thought gods lived in the city center."
"Most do," Quetzalcoatl replied without turning around. "They like to be where the action is. Where people can see them. I prefer..." She paused, gazing at the horizon. "Space to breathe."
We walked in silence for another twenty minutes. The last buildings of the outer city fell away behind us. A gentle hill rose ahead, blocking our view of whatever lay beyond.
"Almost there, mis pequeños!" Quetzalcoatl's mood brightened as we approached the hill's crest. "Welcome to mi casa!"
She spread her arms wide as we reached the top, revealing what waited on the other side.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
It wasn't a house. It wasn't even a manor.
A massive step-pyramid dominated the landscape, rising three steep tiers from the grassy plain. Dark volcanic stone formed its core, with what looked like polished jade inlaid in intricate patterns across its surface. The lowest tier alone was easily fifty yards wide.
The structure was adorned with carvings—feathered serpents coiled around the corners, their bodies flowing upward toward the summit. Great stone jaguar heads snarled from each of the tiers. And everywhere, stylized sun symbols blazed in what appeared to be actual gold.
"This is... your house?" Rumi whispered, her crimson eyes huge.
"¡Sí! The Teocalli del Sol. Temple of the Sun!" Quetzalcoatl beamed with genuine pride. "Come, come!"
This place…. this was power made manifest. History and culture compressed into physical form. A declaration carved in stone: I am ancient. I was worshiped when your ancestors were still figuring out how to make fire. Remember your place.
In my past life, I'd been proud of my penthouse apartment with its infinity pool and helicopter pad. This made that look like a child's sandcastle.
"Close your mouth, snow-top. You'll catch flies," Rumi muttered.
I snapped my jaw shut, annoyed that my amazement had been so obvious.
As we approached the pyramid, I noticed a single, massive doorway carved into its base. No fancy doors, no ornate entrance—just a yawning rectangular passage that led into darkness.
Quetzalcoatl led us up a steep flight of stone steps to the entrance. Up close, I could appreciate the scale of the place. The doorway alone was fifteen feet tall, cut from a single slab of obsidian so dark it seemed to absorb light.
"You live here... alone?" I asked.
"For now," she said softly, then pushed against the massive stone door.
It swung inward with impossible ease. Either it was perfectly balanced on some hidden mechanism, or her divine strength made fifty tons of stone feel like a screen door.
Cool air rushed out to greet us, carrying the scent of dust and stillness—the unmistakable smell of a space that had remained undisturbed for too long.
"Mind the step," she said, gesturing us inside.
We entered, and I immediately stopped short.
We stood at the edge of a great hall—a cavernous space that seemed to rise the full height of the pyramid. The walls soared upward, meeting in shadows far above our heads. Narrow slits cut into the stone at precise angles allowed thin beams of sunlight to pierce the gloom, illuminating drifting motes of dust that danced in the still air.
The hall felt both empty and full at the same time—empty of people, but saturated with a weight that pressed on my chest. The acoustics were strange; our footsteps echoed with a hollow resonance that seemed to multiply, as if the ghosts of a hundred other feet were walking alongside us.
But it was what stood in the center of the hall that turned my blood cold.
Six stone plinths, arranged in a perfect circle. Each stood waist-high, carved from gleaming black obsidian that reflected no light. And atop each plinth lay a single weapon.
A massive war axe on the first, its double-headed blade gleaming with a bluish tint.
A slender spear on the second, its shaft wrapped in leather that had cracked with age.
A pair of curved daggers on the third, their surfaces etched with runes I couldn't read.
A bow on the fourth, unstrung but clearly crafted from some exotic bone or horn.
A staff on the fifth, topped with what looked like a dried, crystallized flower.
And on the sixth, a sword with a blade that somehow caught and held the thin beams of light, making it glow as if lit from within.
These weren't trophies or decorations. The way they were displayed, the silence that surrounded them... these were memorials.
"My children," Quetzalcoatl said quietly, confirming my suspicion. All the manic energy had drained from her voice. She stood before the plinths, her shoulders slightly hunched as if bearing an invisible weight. "My Familia."
Rumi's ears drooped low against her head. "What... happened to them?"
Quetzalcoatl didn't answer immediately. She walked to the circle of plinths and traced her fingers over the shaft of the spear, a gesture so gentle it might have been a caress against a loved one's cheek.
"Two years ago, there was a joint expedition. My Familia and the Astraea Familia." Her voice was monotone, reciting facts that had been repeated so many times they'd lost their emotional edge. "We reached the 41st floor. Something went wrong. A passage that shouldn't have been there. A trap that shouldn't have existed."
She moved to the war axe, her fingers hovering just above its blade.
"The Juggernaut appeared. A monster born from the Dungeon's rage when too many of its children are slaughtered. It hunts adventurers specifically."
Rumi gasped softly. Even with my limited knowledge of this world, I understood the significance. The Dungeon was supposed to spawn monsters randomly. The idea that it could create something specifically to hunt adventurers was... unsettling.
"My six children stood their ground. They formed a line so the others could retreat." Quetzalcoatl's voice cracked slightly. "The Astraea Familia tried their best to assist. None of them returned. One girl from Astraea's group survived."
The silence that followed her words was absolute. No wind disturbed the dust. No birds called outside. Even our breathing seemed muted in respect for the dead.
"Last year, I thought I was ready to rebuild. To find new children." She turned to us, her emerald eyes shining with unshed tears. "But every candidate... I couldn't feel it. The spark. The fire I needed."
She gestured around the vast, empty hall. "So this place has remained a tomb. A temple to memory rather than a home."
I didn't know what to say. What could anyone say? The scale of her loss was beyond my comprehension.
"Come," she said, breaking the heavy silence. "Let me show you the rest."
She led us through a doorway at the far end of the memorial hall. The atmosphere changed immediately. We entered what was clearly the living quarters—a sprawling series of rooms that wrapped around one side of the pyramid's first tier.
The kitchen was immaculate—gleaming countertops, polished copper cookware hanging from hooks, clay pots filled with what looked like spices and dried herbs. This was a space that saw regular use.
But when we moved into the adjoining dining area, everything changed. A massive wooden table dominated the room, big enough for at least twelve people. Couches and comfortable-looking chairs were arranged in conversational groups around a central hearth. The furniture was high-quality, made from rich, dark woods and covered in colorful woven fabrics.
And everything—every surface, every cushion, every decorative object—was covered in a thin, uniform layer of dust.
Rumi sneezed, the sound explosively loud in the silent room.
"Sorry," she mumbled, rubbing her nose.
"No need to apologize, conejita." Quetzalcoatl smiled faintly. "Dust means life has been absent too long."
She gestured toward one of the couches. "Please, sit. Rest. I will prepare some refreshments."
I hesitated, oddly reluctant to disturb the dust. It felt like desecration somehow—like smudging the perfectly preserved fingerprints of the dead.
But Quetzalcoatl's smile was encouraging, almost pleading. This was important to her. So I sat, creating a Rome-shaped void in the dust that had settled on the couch cushions. Rumi perched on the edge beside me, clearly sharing my discomfort.
Quetzalcoatl disappeared into the kitchen. We heard the clatter of dishes, the sound of water running.
"This is fucked up," Rumi whispered, keeping her voice low. "We shouldn't be here. This place is... it's not right."
I couldn't disagree. The Teocalli del Sol felt like a perfectly preserved crime scene, with us as the first intruders to cross the police tape.
"At least we know why she hasn't taken any new Familia members," I whispered back. "She's been frozen in time. Stuck in her grief."
"And why does she suddenly want us?" Rumi's ears twitched nervously. "What changed today?"
Before I could answer, Quetzalcoatl returned, carrying a tray with three cups of some steaming beverage and a plate of simple biscuits. She set it on a low table in front of us, creating another disruption in the dust.
"Hot chocolate," she said, gesturing to the cups. "Made the true way, with chilis and cinnamon."
She settled onto a chair across from us, dust billowing up around her. For a long moment, none of us spoke. The silence of the great, empty house pressed down like a physical weight.
Quetzalcoatl's eyes fixed on me with unsettling intensity. Her earlier playfulness had vanished completely, replaced by something ancient and searching. I felt like a specimen under a microscope, every layer of my being peeled back and examined.
"You know," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper, "the gods can see things mortals cannot."
I took a sip of the hot chocolate to hide my suddenly dry mouth. The liquid was rich and complex, with a spicy heat that built slowly at the back of my throat.
"What kinds of things?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Souls. The essence of a person. Their fire." Her gaze never wavered. "In thousands of years, I've seen all kinds. Bright flames, steady embers, flickering candles."
She leaned forward slightly. "But you, chico... your soul burns like nothing I've ever seen. A blue inferno so hot it threatens to consume itself. So bright it hurts to look at directly."
I fought to keep my expression neutral, but my heart hammered against my ribs. How much could she see? Could she detect Juno's influence? My previous life? My true purpose here?
"I'm just a guy looking to be an adventurer," I said, working to keep my voice steady.
"No," she shook her head slowly. "No, you are not 'just' anything."
The silence stretched between us, taut and vibrating with unasked questions. The dust motes danced in the thin beams of light. Rumi shifted uncomfortably beside me.
When Quetzalcoatl spoke again, her voice had changed. It trembled slightly, laden with something that sounded almost like hope.
"Tell me, chico... you with the white hair and the eyes of a storm..." She leaned forward, her fingers gripping the arms of her chair so tightly I heard the wood creak.
"Does the name 'Alfia' mean anything to you?"