After finishing off the last of the crab meat, Alonso strolled into the jungle, scouting out a good hiding spot. As long as he was away from the coast, tucked deep within the trees and concealed behind layers of broad leaves, it'd be as safe as it gets. Houston would manage the EM cloaking through the night to fend off any human—or rather, any Climber, he chuckled—who might be scouting nearby.

Soon, he found a suitable spot, stretched out, and called it a day.

"I said I'd lay low for a while, but what the fuck are you doing, Houston?"

Houston's thoughts were interrupted by the familiar, sharp-edged voice. Darius.

"Who else? I can't believe the absolute trash job you're doing out there. 'Grandpa Houston'—now that's fitting," Darius sneered, his voice laced with venom. The irritation was unmistakable, practically seething. "Pathetic, really. Watching you fumble like some washed-up tutor too soft to push his own damn protégé."

Houston sighed. "I don't have time for your critiques, Darius. I have more important things to handle."

"Oh, really? And what exactly are these oh-so-important tasks? Babysitting Alonso? Spoiling him like he's some clueless brat? If your grand plan is to drag him back to that deranged wreck who nearly botched the third white room, then bravo—you're absolutely nailing it," Darius sneered, each word laced with biting sarcasm.

Houston remained silent.

"What's that—thinking you'll just shut me up? Not a chance, old friend. Stage progress is climbing, and so am I. Won't be long before I'm in the game," Darius scoffed. "But the way you're coddling him, I might never get the chance. So listen up, you sentimental fool, because your approach is pathetic. You're handling Alonso like he's your favorite bratty teenager, letting him run wild, never pushing back on his reckless choices."

"I've said it before, Darius. Alonso makes his own decisions—I'm just here to—"

"'Support'? That's rich, Houston. Then stop interfering when he's screwing up! Or did I miss the part where he's supposed to be in control?" Darius's voice cut sharper than ever. "Answer me this, 'support': why'd you put 60% Overdrive when he was about to take that hit from the slingshot?"

Houston's frown deepened. "Because he'd have died if I hadn't stepped in. I couldn't just watch and—"

"No, you had to step in because he was reckless, stupid, because he's turning cocky and spoiled under your watch," Darius sneered. "Tell me, Houston—if Alonso's really running the show, why are you the one pulling Overdrive's strings? Why not let him manage it himself?"

Houston was growing exasperated. "What the hell are you even talking about, Darius? He—"

"He can't handle it himself? Oh, Houston. All that supposed scientific brilliance, yet you're the dumbest one of us." Darius let out a mock sigh. "Do you think anyone on regular Earth can run at 100 km/h?"

Houston blinked, taken aback, choosing to stay silent.

Darius chuckled darkly. "Of course not. But people still get around at those speeds every day. Planes, cars—how many drivers actually understand how their engines work?"

The realization began to dawn on Houston, but Darius continued, pressing his point. "Do they need to know the ins and outs of the engine to drive? Does the driver need to build the car to make it go?"

Houston processed the thought slowly, the implications sinking in. "No, they just… operate it."

"Ah, there we go. The driver only needs to know the basics—when to press the accelerator, when to brake. You're the copilot, Houston, but you're hogging the controls, fiddling with the gears and managing every system while leaving Alonso nothing but the wheel. How can you expect him to improve like that? He's not even really driving."

Houston felt a stab of regret. It made sense. "So… we need a way for Alonso to control Overdrive by himself. Establish some kind of feedback loop, maybe using specific waves between us to—"

"Yes, yes, you'll figure it out. What I'm saying, Houston, is you need to stop trying to be his overprotective copilot." Darius's voice dropped to a lethal tone. "There should be only one driver. As for you, Houston… you need to become the car."

Houston was stunned, the weight of Darius's words pressing on him as he considered the shift in his role. "Put everything in his hands, huh?" Houston muttered.

"Exactly," Darius shot back with a sneer. "You're coddling him like some helpless child, Houston. He's leaning on you like a crutch because you let him. Do you even realize the damage you're doing every time you step in to save him from his own mess? You're making him weaker with every soft-hearted move."

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Houston remained silent.

"And don't just stand there brooding, Houston. Face it: you're robbing him of every chance to learn, to actually grow. Pain, loss, danger—you've cushioned him from it all like some pathetic, sentimental fool. You think he'll ever be able to handle the Tower if he knows 'good ol' Houston' will always step in at the last second to save him?"

Houston's frustration deepened.

Darius pressed on, relentless, "He needs to suffer, Houston. Suffer. He needs to know what it's like to crawl his way up from the dirt, to hit rock bottom. Sure, he's had some harsh experiences, but he always has you there to care for him. Now? He wants to forget it all, drug himself in Overdrive to feel alive without facing reality. But that's a death wish, and you know it. He has to grow out of it, take responsibility for every damn thing he does. And that starts with you letting go. You're just the car."

Houston shot back, "And tell me, Darius, when he's finally in the driver's seat, what's going to stop him from pushing Overdrive past his tolerable threshold and frying his own mind? Think he'll keep a cool head?"

Darius's laughter was cold, cutting, as if expecting the comment. "Do you think the manufacturer lets the car run without limits?"

With that, his voice vanished, leaving Houston alone with his thoughts.

Alonso woke to the quiet of the jungle around him, the dense vegetation casting long shadows in the dim light of the evening sun.

As he shifted, a strange, sharp smell hit him—metallic and unsettling. He looked down and noticed a slick, grayish-black substance seeping from his skin, oozing slowly from his pores.

Should have expected it. Never gonna get rid of you, am I.

The sticky, viscous layer covered his arms, chest, and legs, clinging to him like sludge. He wiped at it with his hand, only to find it smearing further, cold and clammy against his skin. It left streaks on the ground beneath him as he sat up fully, the thick, unnatural scent of it filling his senses.

"How long did I sleep, Houston?" Alonso asked, trying to shake off the sticky gray-black streaks that clung stubbornly to his skin.

"A little over four hours," Houston replied, though there was something off in his tone. "Take a shower first; we'll talk after."

Alonso paused. "Talk? Is everything ok?"

Houston sighed, his voice more distant than usual. "Depends on how you look at it."

Alonso thought for a moment but shrugged it off, heading toward the river.

He could use another good rinse anyway. Glancing down at his pants, he considered making a new pair. With the sun already setting, drying them would take ages.

He surveyed the jungle around him, noticing some broad, waxy leaves from nearby plants and strands of thick vine. Perfect. He could fashion himself something quick and decent from those until his usual clothes were ready.

Half an hour later, Alonso finally reached the river and took a much-needed bath, even diving under the cool water and swimming for a bit.

He found it strange—no small fish, no signs of life anywhere in the stream. Clearly, this trial was pushing them to hunt more substantial prey.

After a satisfying ten minutes of rinsing off, he shook himself, flicking droplets away, and dried himself with a large, sun-warmed palm leaf he'd found nearby, sturdy and broad enough to soak up the moisture. He slipped on his makeshift pants, pushed his damp hair back, and addressed Houston.

"So, what's the deal?"

Houston exhaled deeply. "First, check the new status screen."

Huh?

Alonso went ahead and decoded the signal.

Status Screen

Stage 1 - 3.575%

Wave control

Max Output:

0.92-1.12 SU

Effective Bonus (at 28% Merging Rate):

0.18 SU

Magnetization Efficiency:

68%

Overdrive

Max Output:

60%

Physical Combat

Swordsmanship:

0.64 SU

Footwork:

0.45 SU

What?!

"Houston… what happened to all the other parameters? And what about Phases 2 and 3? Why does this look so… plain?" Alonso asked, clearly puzzled by the changes.

And… wait, was that individual wave output exceeding Siddharth's?! Unless… are these stats showing me at 60% Overdrive?

Then his gaze landed on the merging rate, and his eyes narrowed. Only 28%? It had plummeted—significantly. Almost laughably low. It would've been one thing if it hadn't improved over the last two days, but how could it have dropped so badly? And… had swordsmanship and footwork actually gone down, too? What the heck!

"I suppose you have a lot of questions," Houston began, trying to keep his voice calm, but Alonso caught the undertone. Nervous? But why?

Alonso glanced around, finding a spot to sit. Whatever Houston had to say, it wasn't going to be casual.

He settled onto a smooth rock by the river, staying silent to give Houston space to explain.

"I've decided it's best if we make some changes," Houston began, his tone weighted. "If we keep going like this… you'll either die or lose yourself."

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