Quinn finally stepped through the massive stone threshold and into the Glade. The adrenaline that had been keeping his legs moving began to ebb away, replaced by a crushing wave of fatigue. Minho led him to a small clearing near the center of the camp, gesturing toward the grass with a grunt.
"Sit. Stay here," Minho commanded, his voice tight with exhaustion and lingering suspicion. "I need to report this. Don't move, or the boys will have more than a few questions for you."
Minho signaled two of the larger boys to keep an eye on him and then jogged off toward a wooden structure. Quinn collapsed onto the ground, his lungs burning. He let out a long, shaky breath, leaning back against a crate. The running had pushed his untrained body to its absolute limit.
As he rested, his mind began to whirl.
Why am I in Maze Runner? he wondered. Shouldn't the First Nightmare be set in one of the realms belonging to the Shadow Slave timeline? He tried to piece it together. In the lore of Shadow Slave, the Nightmare Spell consumed countless worlds, building its trials upon the ruins of failed civilizations. Could Maze Runner have been a real world in this multiverse? Or was it possible that because both Shadow Slave and Maze Runner were fiction in his original world, the "Half-Creator" had blurred the lines?
The more Quinn thought about it, the more his head throbbed. The logic of fiction-within-fiction-within-reality was a rabbit hole that led nowhere but a migraine. Finally, he shook his head, forcing the thoughts away.
"Power first," he whispered to himself. "I can't even touch the surface of my abilities yet. No point running around looking for answers when I'm still a mundane human. Get strong, find out later."
He exhaled, leaning his head back. "Sometimes, not knowing anything is a blessing."
Then, he remembered where he was. This was a Nightmare. In Shadow Slave, that meant there was a system. Quinn closed his eyes, focusing inward, searching for that familiar flicker of the Spell's interface. After a moment of concentration, a shimmering screen manifested in the darkness of his mind.
Status Profile
Name: Quinn
True Name: —
Rank: Aspirant
Sefirot: Sefirah Castle [Locked]
Memories: —
Echoes: —
Attributes: * [Uniqueness of Door]
[Fated]
[Mark of the Wanderer]
Aspect: None
Quinn's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He stared at the text, his heart skipping a beat.
"Holy shit!"
The guards standing nearby jumped, their hands flying to the makeshift weapons at their belts as they spun around to face him. Quinn realized immediately that he had reacted too loudly. He quickly wiped the shock from his face and pointed at the ground near his foot.
"Ah... sorry! I just saw a massive fire ant. It was huge! It really startled me. Sorry, guys, nothing to see here."
The guards looked at each other, then back at Quinn with expressions of pure annoyance. One of them muttered something about "shanks being crazier every month" before they turned back to their posts.
Quinn clamped his mouth shut, forcing himself to relax. He turned his attention back to the screen, his mind racing. He understood [Fated]—that was the double-edged sword that brought both greatness and misery. But Sefirah Castle and the Uniqueness of Door?
I think I know why I'm here, he thought. The fundamental nature of the "Door" is space-time travel. Since he lacked the strength to control it, the Uniqueness must have reacted to the Nightmare Spell, tossing him into a trial that balanced his current power level. If it hadn't, it might have accidentally sent him into something impossible—like Warhammer 40k—where he would have died in seconds.
He tried to "read" the details of the [Uniqueness of Door], but most of it was obscured by a grey fog. Only one line remained clear:
You know all potion formulas of the Door Pathway. When you are in proximity to an ingredient required for your next sequence, you will know.
Well, that's better than I could ever ask for, he thought, a spark of hope lighting up in his chest. No need to hunt for recipes or guess at rituals. The path was literally mapped out for him.
Finally, he looked at the last attribute.
[Mark of the Wanderer]:
Your soul bears the faint imprint of a boundless traveler. You are naturally resistant to the feeling of being trapped, and your mind instinctively seeks a way out of any enclosure.
Quinn suppressed a smirk. "Sweet. So I'm basically built to run out of any fight or chain that puts me in danger. All hail the cowardly trial."
Just as he was finishing his analysis, the sound of footsteps on the grass caught his attention. He looked up to see a small group of people approaching him from across the Glade. Leading them was a tall, dark-skinned boy with an air of authority that surpassed even Minho's.
The leaders of the Glade had arrived.