Date: 23rd July 2026
Location: Lecture Hall 4B / The Crimson Velvet Pub (Vlad's Territory)
Time: 02:00 PM BST
If there is anything genuinely more painful than dying 999 times, it is sitting through a mandatory "Introduction to Thermodynamics" lecture given by a man who actually thinks entropy is just general disorder.
He completely missed the screaming, mathematical inevitability of the universe actively collapsing into a cold, zero-energy void.
I sat slouching in the back row of Lecture Hall 4B, my chin resting heavily on my palm. I was watching Professor Halloway sweat profusely.
He was a deeply nervous man. He was the exact kind of academic who wore tightly knotted bowties to visually compensate for a complete lack of personality. Every single time he looked up at the back row, he stuttered.
Why? Because three days ago, during a dull Q&A session, I had accidentally asked him if he had properly considered the variable impact of non-Euclidean geometry on the heat death of a closed system.
I genuinely didn't mean to do it. I was just incredibly bored, and a tiny fraction of my 999 INT accidentally leaked out.
Since that moment, he looked at me exactly like I was a highly unstable, unexploded bomb casually wrapped in a cheap Primark hoodie.
I shifted uncomfortably in my hard plastic seat.
The terrible sludge from the university cafeteria was currently working its way through my digestive system with the ruthless efficiency of a particle accelerator.
I stood up.
The entire lecture hall instantly went dead silent.
Professor Halloway completely froze mid-sentence. His white chalk hovered trembling over an equation that was, frankly, academically embarrassing.
He looked up at me with genuine, unadulterated terror.
"M-Mr. Pryce?" Halloway squeaked. "Do... do you have a formal objection to my explanation of the Second Law?"
He swallowed hard. "I... I can consult the textbooks! We can do a peer review!"
The entire class slowly turned around to look at me. They were eagerly expecting another brutal intellectual execution. They were waiting for me to pull out a whiteboard and mathematically disprove gravity.
"No, Professor," I said, blinking slowly. "I just really need to use the toilet."
I grabbed my bag. "The cafeteria coffee is currently engaging in a severe kinetic dispute with my bladder."
"Oh," Halloway exhaled loudly. He looked exactly like a man who had just narrowly survived a military firing squad.
"Yes. Of course. Please. Take your time." He waved me off frantically. "Don't... don't feel the need to rush back."
I walked out of the hall, shaking my head in mild disbelief.
["You actively terrorize them simply by existing, Pryce."]
Eliza's voice buzzed sharply in my earpiece, dripping with pure aristocratic delight.
["The poor, pathetic man genuinely thought you were about to violently dismantle his entire tenure with a single, complex variable."]
["It is quite cruel, really, but I absolutely love it."]
"I'm not actively trying to be cruel, Eliza," I muttered, walking down the empty, echoing corridor.
"I'm just a tired man out of time desperately trying to relieve himself."
I pushed open the heavy door to the men's toilets. "It's a very Schrödinger's Cat situation right now. Until I actually enter the stall, my dignity is simultaneously both intact and entirely nonexistent."
["Speaking of nonexistent dignity."]
Eliza continued smoothly, slightly shifting the audio feed in my ear.
["Your silent bodyguard and the loud little one have officially arrived at Vlad's establishment."]
["I am actively patching you into the local audio feed now."]
["It seems Dexter is currently engaged in what he calmly calls a 'light warm-up', and what Vlad currently calls 'fighting for his bloody life'."]
[LOCATION SHIFT: THE CRIMSON VELVET PUB]
[TIME: 30 MINUTES EARLIER]
To the completely untrained, civilian eye, The Crimson Velvet was just a sad relic of a bygone era.
Hidden down a damp, narrow side street in South London, it looked exactly like a place where depressed Victorian vampires went to complain about the rising price of blood.
It featured dark, polished mahogany wood. There were heavy velvet curtains that smelled faintly of centuries-old dust and expensive cologne. The lighting was so incredibly dim you practically needed military night vision just to read the drinks menu.
But to the actual Underworld, this place was Vlad's Domain.
Vlad or "The Barista", as he absolutely hated being called was a man of terrifying elegance.
He wore a bespoke three-piece suit that easily cost more than my entire university tuition. His silver hair was slicked back with dangerous, mathematical precision.
He was a retired, highly lethal instructor of the Grimora Arts. It was a brutal combat style that focused entirely on turning the fragile human body into a kinetic guillotine.
And right now, Vlad was sweating profusely.
Clang. Thud. Whoosh.
In the dead centre of the empty pub, with the heavy wooden tables pushed aside, a brutal duel was taking place.
Vlad was moving like a terrifying blur of silver and black. His hands were striking with the blinding precision of a desert viper. He was targeting vital pressure points with lethal intent.
Opposite him was Dexter.
Dexter was casually wearing his oversized, cheap grey tracksuit. He looked exactly like a man mildly annoyed by swatting away summer flies.
"Block. Parry. Step," Dexter mumbled quietly, his dark eyes half-lidded. "Uncle Vlad, your left hip is severely lagging. Are you sitting down too much?"
"I... am... officially retired!" Vlad grunted angrily.
He launched a high-velocity, spinning kick aimed directly at Dexter's left temple.
Dexter didn't even bother to dodge. He just leaned his heavy head back exactly three centimetres. The sheer wind from the kinetic force of the kick ruffled his messy black hair.
"Sloppy," Dexter critiqued flatly. "My turn."
Dexter stepped smoothly forward. He didn't run. He didn't rush. He was simply, suddenly inside Vlad's guard.
He tapped Vlad squarely on the chest. It looked like a gentle, affectionate pat.
BOOM.
Vlad flew violently backward. He crashed into the solid mahogany bar with enough kinetic force to loudly rattle the incredibly expensive whiskey bottles on the shelves.
He slid down the polished wood, gasping desperately for air, clutching his bruised chest.
"You... you absolute monster," Vlad wheezed, shakily adjusting his silk tie. "That was the bloody 'Heart-Stopper' palm technique."
Vlad glared at him. "Where did you learn that? I certainly never taught you that. That is a strictly forbidden technique!"
Dexter scratched his head, looking genuinely confused. "I saw it in a comic once."
Dexter shrugged. "Figured out the basic physics. It's just simple vibration control. Good cardio, though. Thanks for the warm-up workout, Uncle."
Vlad just stared at him from the floor.
To Dexter, this was a casual, relaxing Tuesday jog. To Vlad, he had just barely survived a close-quarters encounter with a biological siege engine.
Dexter was the true 'Cum Laude of Death'. A student who hadn't just graduated the assassin academy, he had violently rewritten the syllabus and eaten the bloody diploma.
"I genuinely hate you," Vlad whispered, slowly standing up and carefully brushing the dust off his ruined suit.
"You casually enter my pristine establishment, you violently assault the owner, and you have the audacity to call it 'cardio'."
Vlad scowled. "You are an absolute disrespect to the fine art of killing."
"I'm hungry," Tiffany chirped loudly from the corner leather booth.
She was sitting with her trainers up on the table, intensely playing on her Switch. She hadn't watched a single second of the brutal fight.
"Uncle Vlad, are you quite done getting bullied by Dex? I really want my Matcha now."
Vlad's hard, angular face instantly softened.
The lethal, cold-blooded assassin completely vanished, entirely replaced by a doting, wealthy uncle.
"Ah, Little One! Of course!" Vlad smiled warmly. "For you, only the finest ceremonial Matcha imported directly from Kyoto, perfectly churned into a rich gelato with just a hint of white chocolate."
He walked behind the polished bar, limping slightly on his left leg, and began to prepare the ice cream with the exact, meticulous care of a master chemist.
Dexter sat down heavily next to Tiffany, wiping a completely non-existent bead of sweat from his forehead.
"Water," Dexter grunted. "And coffee. Black. Very bitter."
Vlad aggressively slammed a cheap glass of cloudy tap water in front of Dexter.
"This is a high-end Pub, you uncultured philistine." Vlad glared at him. "We serve single-malt scotch, premium vodka distilled from the actual tears of widows, and fine wine older than your entire country."
"We absolutely do not serve 'Black Coffee' like some tragic roadside diner."
"The menu board clearly says 'Espresso'," Dexter pointed a thick finger at the chalkboard.
"That is strictly for paying customers!" Vlad snapped. "For you, I only have dirty dishwater."
"Fine," Dexter shrugged indifferently. "I'll gladly take the dishwater. Make it a double."
[LOCATION SHIFT: PRESENT TIME]
[MASON PRYCE ARRIVES]
I pushed open the heavy oak door of The Crimson Velvet.
The brass bell above the door didn't just ding; it tolled. It was a deep, highly resonant sound that perfectly signalled the arrival of a heavy soul.
The smell hit me instantly. Old, polished wood, expensive cigars, and the faint, unmistakable metallic scent of dried blood cleverly hidden under a lavender air freshener.
It was exactly the same as it was in 2036.
In the 742nd loop, this specific pub had been my primary tactical command centre. In the 800th loop, I had slowly bled to death on these very floorboards.
It felt exactly like coming home.
I walked in. My Aether-Cane tapped a steady, rhythmic click-clack on the wooden floorboards.
I was wearing my standard 'Student' disguise cheap jeans and a dark jacket but my posture was entirely wrong.
I wasn't walking like a curious student exploring a new, dark pub. I was walking like a seasoned regular who knew exactly which specific floorboard squeaked (the third one from the left) and deliberately avoided stepping on it.
Vlad was standing behind the bar, meticulously polishing a crystal glass.
He looked up, his silver eyes narrowing sharply. He saw a skinny, pale boy with a cane, but his honed assassin instincts were actively screaming 'Warning'.
"We're completely closed for private reflection," Vlad said smoothly. His voice was like dark velvet tightly wrapped around a sharp knife.
"Unless you are here to deliver the fresh kegs, in which case, you are incredibly late."
I completely ignored him.
I walked straight to the mahogany bar, sliding smoothly onto the stool next to Dexter. I didn't look around. I didn't gawk at the expensive, antique decor.
I just casually leaned my heavy cane against the wood, placing it in the exact, worn groove where I knew it wouldn't slide.
"Who the hell are you?" Vlad whispered. His right hand drifted smoothly, invisibly toward the concealed shotgun mounted under the counter.
"I'm Mason. Dexter's friend from Uni." I offered a mild, unassuming smile. "Wow, nice place. Very... antique. Is this real wood?"
Vlad stared at me.
He didn't buy the innocent student act. Not for a single, bloody second.
But he couldn't actually prove anything. The boy sitting in front of him was physically frail. My VIT of 3.8 was much better, but it was still pathetic compared to Vlad's raw assassin build.
Yet, the frail boy sat with the absolute, terrifying comfort of a king lounging in his own throne room.
"Mason," Vlad repeated slowly, tasting the name. "The elusive 'Architect' that Tiffany absolutely won't shut up about."
"He generously pays for the kebabs," Tiffany mumbled from the booth. Her mouth was entirely full of green ice cream.
"He's valid, Uncle Vlad. He's also incredibly weird. Like, 'talks to himself' weird."
"I see," Vlad relaxed slightly. He pulled his hand away from the shotgun, though his eyes remained incredibly sharp.
"So, Mason the Architect. What can I possibly get for you? A carton of apple juice? Some warm milk?"
I looked down at the menu. I didn't need to read it. I already knew the secret menu. I knew the specific drinks Vlad only made for those who had truly seen the Abyss.
"I'll have the 'Whisky Black Pain'," I said casually, pointing at a random, blank line on the menu that definitely just said 'House Lager'.
"Neat. Absolutely no ice. And add a single drop of lemon oil."
The entire pub went dead silent.
Dexter completely stopped drinking his dishwater. Tiffany stopped eating her gelato.
Vlad's face went chalk-white.
'Whisky Black Pain' wasn't on the public menu. It wasn't even a real, physical drink in 2026 yet.
It was a highly specific cocktail Vlad would eventually invent in 2029 to deeply mourn the violent fall of London. A brutal mix of the darkest rye, obsidian-infused vodka, and a single drop of lemon to represent the bitter sourness of survival.
"I... I mean..." I stammered, instantly realizing I'd slipped up.
"I mean... uh... just a Diet Coke? Is Coke okay? Or is that too... mainstream for this place?"
Vlad leaned slowly over the counter. His pale face was mere inches from mine. He smelled strongly of expensive cologne and burnt gunpowder.
"You have a very strange, dark sense of humour, boy," Vlad whispered dangerously.
"Or you have a very, very good fortune teller on your payroll."
Vlad's eyes narrowed into slits. "That specific drink... is currently just a concept in my own head. I haven't even named it out loud yet."
"Lucky guess?" I squeaked, actually sweating now.
Vlad stared at me for a long, agonizing ten seconds.
Then, he suddenly let out a short, sharp, barking laugh.
"Lucky indeed," Vlad grinned. He turned around to grab a dusty, unlabelled bottle of black liquid from the top shelf.
"I actually like you, kid. You have the cold eyes of a man who is already dead."
He poured the dark, viscous liquid into a glass. "It strongly reminds me of myself."
He slid the glass across the polished wood toward me.
"On the house," Vlad said smoothly. "Welcome to The Crimson Velvet, Architect. Try not to die before you pay your bar tab."
I took the heavy glass. It smelled exactly like smoke and lost memories.
"Cheers," I whispered.
["Smooth, Pryce. Very smooth."]
Eliza cackled loudly in my ear.
["You casually walk in, order a highly specific drink from the bloody future, and almost get yourself shot."]
["Your social skills are truly a marvel of modern physics."]
["It is an absolute miracle you haven't been successfully assassinated yet."]
"Shut up, Eliza," I muttered.
I took a sip of the black liquid. It burned intensely. It was absolutely perfect.
"So," I turned to Dexter and Vlad. The harsh burn of the alcohol finally settled my erratic nerves.
"Now that we're all very good friends... let's talk about the 'Dungeon' hidden directly beneath our feet."
I looked directly into Vlad's eyes. "The World Council thinks I'm the one causing the massive entropy spikes across London."
I tapped my cane on the floorboards. "But we both know the real leak is bleeding out of your basement. You have a severe pest problem with the Shadow-Gate, Vlad."
Vlad completely stopped wiping the counter. The playful, doting uncle vibe instantly vanished. The cold-blooded assassin fully returned.
"And what makes you think you can handle it?" Vlad asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal whisper.
"I know absolutely everything, Uncle," I smiled.
The weight of the 999th loop gleamed darkly in my eyes. "I'm the bloke who wrote the bloody map."