Shadowcroft chuckled and relaxed in his throne-like chair.

“Rip my arms from my body and beat me with them,” Shadowcroft repeated the threat good-naturedly. “That is a most unlikely outcome, but I admire your spunk. Give me just a moment and all shall be made clear.”

Ropes of ivy caressed his arms, and Logan thought that Shadowcroft’s grassy hair had joined with the bark of his seat, intertwining in some way. Looking at him, it was hard to tell where the headmaster ended and the chair started—almost as though they were two parts of the same whole.

Light from one of the stained-glass windows spilled across the desk in front of Logan. The gem behind Shadowcroft continued to spin, glimmering like a disco ball. The crystal ballerina continued her dance while the rose in the glass case snored softly, apparently bored to sleep by the goings-on of the office. Beneath the wood polish and lemon were the smells of spring: growing grass, flowers, and the scent of trees budding.

Ivy leaves shivered next to Logan’s elbow. His question hung in the air, demanding an answer.

The mossy-bearded tree man chuckled. “It is very simple, young one. You were chosen by the Reaper Box. The boxes are my servants in recruitment. They are alive. Sentient. A special type of mimic, known as Reapers. I send the Reapers out across the multiverse—to every known world that connects to the Tree of Souls. Even those only tenuously connected like your own world. They find those who are worthy enough to serve as dungeon cores, and if the candidate passes their test, then they are processed and reaped. Harvested if you will.”

“Harvested,” Logan repeated hollowly. “Like I’m corn.”

Shadowcroft wrinkled his wooden brow. “Corn? Let me see...” He paused, pressing his eyes shut, and mumbled quietly under his breath. “Ah yes. Corn. A grain on your planet, that comes on the cob, in a can, or creamed. Creamed corn. Is this something you value? Does this fill you with awe?”

Logan raised his hands. “Creamed corn. Do you really think that’s what we should be talking about right now? Countdown timer is still ticking. I was reaped. How’s about you tell me more about that.”

“As I said, it is a simple thing. You completed the Reaper’s Challenge. In this case the game, which was a crude simulation of what is going on, right now, across the multiverse. As I said before, your world is a crude, backward place—starved nearly to death for Apothos. The mimic knew that creating an actual dungeon would cause great suspicion, and so it blended in—as is its way—searching, always searching, for a hero who would be worthy.”

Logan’s mouth fell open. “You didn’t Jumanji me, you dirty SOB. You Last Starfighter’d me. Are you seriously telling me that beating that stupid 8-bit game is the whole reason I’m here? Not because I’m a war hero or because I’m some sort of chosen one? Because of a stupid game I picked up at a pawnshop?”

Shadowcroft held up a branchy finger. “I am familiar with corn, but unfortunately I am unfamiliar with this last starfighter—was he some sort of hero on your world?”

“It’s a movie,” Logan grumbled. “And you totally Last Starfighter’d me.”

“Ah, film, yes, we have heard of your Marvel movies. People say the second Thor movie was the very best. And the most historically accurate.”

Logan didn’t know where to start with that argument. First, totally wrong—Ragnarök was obviously the best—and second, historically accurate? In what possible way could The Dark World be considered historically accurate?

The headmaster leaned forward. “As to the second part of your question. Yes, you are here because you alone completed the mimic’s challenge. You beat the game and thus proved your potential worth to our illustrious cause. It truly is the greatest of honors. Now, let us move on shall we, hmm?”

“Yeah, about that. I’m not ready to move on. Still sort of caught up on that whole you unleashed a monster to kill me in my home thing.”

Shadowcroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “The Ethics of Murder class will really be of benefit to you, I’ll wager,” he grumbled under his breath before growing somber. “This is not a game, Mr. Murray. Perhaps you do not condone our methods of recruitment, but that is only because you do not realize what is at stake. This is not for a single life. Nor even the lives of your fellow countrymen. We deal not in the fate of a nation or a planet, but in the fate of the universe itself. There is no work more valuable than what we do. You said that on your world there are good people. People willing to risk life and limb for one another—to sacrifice at the expense of themselves. That is what I am asking of you.”

Logan sat there, mulling over the words. He wasn’t sure about this Shadowcroft guy, but the idea of serving in some sort of galactic defense force didn’t sound terrible. Not really. The Last Starfighter had worked out pretty well for Alex Rogan.

“Fine,” he finally said, crossing his arms. “I can at least finish hearing you out.”

“Excellent.” Shadowcroft beamed, leaning back in his chair, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. “Let us just pull up your file.” He waved a spindly hand. The spinning crystal behind the tree man threw a complicated sheet of numbers and glyphs into the air above their heads. At first, it was unreadable, but then after a second it shimmered and shifted, taking the form of an evaluation sheet of sorts.

It reminded Logan of the menus from the Shadowcroft game.

“Do not be alarmed, Mr. Murray. The Arcane Lexicon of the Tree of Souls is indecipherable to all but those closest to the Tree Spirit. As a result, your mind will interpret the report in a way that makes sense to you,” Shadowcroft explained. “Let’s see what we have to work with.” His fingers flicked through the air. Information scrolled by. “Ah, an elite warrior. Good. Decorated for heroism and combat. Excellent. No long-term relationships to get hung up on, other than the uncle. Yes, that should make the transition easier.”

The tree man beamed more brightly than ever, seeming quite pleased. He swept through more pages until he got to one that detailed Logan’s core, whatever that was.

His smile evaporated like water in the scorching desert sun. Shadowcroft sighed and pointed. “Oh dear. Now here, you see, is the real problem. The mimic must’ve been truly desperate to have taken you.” He faltered and tapped at his chin. “Perhaps we might have to rethink the quota system.”

“I’m sorry. What’s the problem?” Logan asked, hunching forward, forearms resting on his thighs.

“No, no, that can’t be right,” Shadowcroft said, ignoring Logan’s prodding. He stood, walked to the crystal, and flicked it with a finger several times.

The crystal went dark, then reignited, even brighter. The information was the same. The headmaster shook his head. A few flowers swayed. “It says you are a Deep Root cultivator, Rank 9? Am I reading this right?”

“Deep Root cultivator sounds promising,” Logan said. “Not sure if being a Rank 9 is good or not.”

Once more, Shadowcroft didn’t respond. Clearly troubled, he stole a sidelong glance at Logan.

“Okay, seriously. What the hell is going on?” Logan asked, starting to get annoyed. “Do I get to keep the leg? Or do I have to give it back? I’ve kinda grown attached to it.” The bad joke didn’t clear the air.

“Not to pad it, Mr. Murray, but your core is just… well, terrible. I’m honestly shocked you survived the transition at all. You are supposed to be an elite warrior, yet to be honest, there are peasants—literal serfs—on Eritreus with more robust cores than you. I knew your world had troubles, but I didn’t think it was so severe. Let’s check it again.”

The crystal flickered, as did the screen hanging in the air. Shadowcroft, standing next to his desk, appraised it carefully. “Now isn’t that interesting. You call it Earth, but we have it classified as Uroth, a world on one of the far branches of the Theta Arcturus. Yes, I understand your comments more. It does indeed appear to be a beautiful planet, though a wretched one in many ways.”

“Not wretched,” Logan said forcefully.

Shadowcroft shook his head, sending his mossy beard waving. “By the Tree, look here. No wonder your core is so terrible. While once a great place, full of promise, your planet is now dying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more Apothos-poor world since I first started the academy. The fact that you even reached Deep Root status is amazing, considering the circumstances. Yes, so far, your world’s greatest contribution to the multiverse has been the Marvel movies.”

Logan let out a grunt of frustration. “All I’m hearing is a whole lot of bad-mouthing and not a whole lot of answers. How about you tell me why you seem to think my planet sucks so much. You mentioned Apothos. That’s the energy I used in the game to build the dungeon that protected the Tree of Souls. Which, given where I am, is probably important. Care to fill in some of the blanks for me?”

“Fair points. And yes, both Apothos and the Tree of Souls are extremely important,” Shadowcroft agreed. “The Tree of Souls supports all of reality. Every aspect, every version. You played the game, so you understand the basics. I’m relieved, at least, to see you are putting things together quickly. Astute of you—a trait that will carry you far.”

“Appreciate the compliment, but maybe you can just circle back around to the part about my world dying and you recruiting me into your little academy by having something eat me. I remember the fangs quite clearly.”

“Yes, the fangs, regrettable.” The headmaster stroked his beard, musing hard. “As to your world. To put it candidly, your world, Mr. Murray, has become incredibly weak. Amazingly, your species has adapted some impressive technology to compensate for its many deficiencies. Let me clarify. It’s quite rudimentary by our standards, but fairly impressive by your standards.”

Logan blew out a breath. “Okay, Mr. Shadowcroft. You call me Mr. Murray. I’ll call you Mr. Shadowcroft. Tell me everything I need to know.”

The headmaster nodded. “Good. Good. You wish for more information. Sit back, Mr. Murray, while I reveal the very secrets of the universe to you.”

He snapped his tree fingers, and a resonate crack like a gun report echoed off the domed ceiling. The crystal brightened, spilling stars, planets, and space across the room.

Logan flashed back to trips to the planetarium in elementary school.

The headmaster’s rich voice filled the room. “The Ashvattha, otherwise known as the Tree of Souls, is rich with Apothos—the fundamental energy of creation. The tree is not root, bark, nor branch, like I am, but invisible dark matter that holds the multiverse together.”

Shadowcroft gestured to the branching darkness that wove endless, twisting limbs through stars and planets. “Every world, in every dimension, is sustained through its connection to the Tree of Souls. Those worlds are basically the fruit of the Tree, hanging from its branches, being nourished. But no piece of fruit can survive long apart from the Tree, yes? And, if the Tree of Souls were ever to fall, it would be the death of reality itself.” He nodded his head grimly.

After a beat, Shadowcroft snapped his fingers. The tree—that dark thread twisting through the entire multiverse—vanished. The results were immediate. Stars winked out. Green planets turned brown then black then crumbled into nothing. Dust, blown away into less than nothing. Whole galaxies stopped spinning and grew dark.

With a word, Shadowcroft directed the crystal to restore the simulated Tree of Souls. The picture of the multiverse reappeared as it had before, in all its shimmering glory. He then moved aside various versions of galaxies until he reached Logan’s home section of the Milky Way—or what Shadowcroft referred to as the Theta Arcturus.

The sun was a yellow ball shining across the planets, and there, attached to a weak looking branch of darkness, the dull green continents sat on dirty blue oceans.

“This, then, is your Earth,” Shadowcroft said. “Though Earth is such an odd name, don’t you think? Uroth sounds far more natural. You see, your world is barely connected to that far-flung branch of the Ashvattha. The limb has withered away to almost nothing. Hence, it is an Apothos-poor environment. My records indicate that it used to be more powerful, but as the Apothos began to die, you replaced it with technology.

“Magic and magic cultivation was forgotten. Now Uroth is a withered piece of fruit hanging on to existence by the skin of its teeth. True, there are still a few Celestial Nodes present, but not many. The nodes are where your world is connected to the Tree. You might consider them strange places full of strange beasts and creatures of lore—all of which are guardians of the Tree, as you shall be one day. Dragons, werewolves, cyclops… your myths and legends are from a time when there were more nodes, protected by guardians and the dungeons they built. Let me show you by simply turning back the clock a few thousand years, hmm?”

With every one of Shadowcroft’s motions, the Earth spun backward through time. Cities receded, clusters of lights blinking out. The air cleared. Large swatches of gray strip malls and black asphalt were replaced with fields and forests. The dark limb connecting the planet to the Tree of Souls thickened and the whole world glowed—almost buzzed—with tangible energy. The greens were greener. The ocean blues were far more vibrant.

The headmaster focused on a certain island in the Mediterranean Sea. He was able to zoom in until Logan saw a dusty city with narrow alleys and stone buildings. People in tunics, robes, and cloaks meandered through a marketplace full of squawking chickens, bins of fruit, and hanging wineskins.

“This is Knossos on the island of Crete,” Shadowcroft said, eyeing the world with great interest. “There was a rather weak minotaur there named Asterion. I assure you… the god Zeus was not involved. Asterion was a dungeon core, an Iron Trunk cultivator, who protected the node there.”

The headmaster lifted his hands to show Logan the vast stone corridors of a labyrinth underneath the city. There, the dark branches of the Tree of Souls were connected to the world.

“I’ll show you the dungeoneers,” Shadowcroft said. “A motley crew of greedy villains, though your stories don’t mention that. As they say, history is written by the victors.”

The scene changed to show a collection of armor-clad warriors standing in front of an archway underground. A young Greek man with a lopsided grin swaggered up with a bunch of other rough-looking soldiers. Accompanying them was a fat old man in a stained toga swilling wine. The old man finished his wineskin and then used it to smack the smirking swaggerer on the back of the head. The entire group laughed. They weren’t laughing when the young Greek turned on his heel and ran the old man through with a glimmering gladius. The curly-haired hero then rummaged through the old man’s robes and removed a big spool of thread, while the rest of the ruffians looted the body.

Logan sighed. “Well, this is sobering. Heroes are terrible. Got it.”

The headmaster said nothing, merely watching Logan’s reactions.

Once done ransacking the old man’s corpse, the dungeoneers laughed and headed into the impressive labyrinth of stone and iron, all without a care in the world. The maze itself was far more than just stone corridors—there were traps and minions. One hallway had a machine that smashed the walls together. Another cul-de-sac held dozens of rat men in ragged robes armed with stick spears. Not all of the raiders made it to the center of the labyrinth, but Theseus did. Along with a pair of olive-skinned flunkies carrying polearms.

In the central square room—lava burbling around the edges—stood the minotaur, ten feet tall, wearing gilded armor and wielding a golden axe. Asterion was protecting a vermillion crystal floating over a gorgeously carved pedestal. From his time playing the Shadowcroft console, Logan knew this was the dungeon’s inner sanctum.

With careless cruelty, Theseus sent his friends to be slaughtered by the minotaur while he lingered back, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To rush forward and stab Asterion in the heart. The horned beast fell, gasping while he tried to fight off the invaders with his last breath.

The raiders strutted contemptuously past him and over to the crystal. Theseus plucked it from its pedestal. Golden light flooded from the gem and into the hero like a surge of lightning, the crystal crumbling to dust in his outstretched palm.

Shadowcroft zoomed out, showing just what the effect was on the shadowy branch tethering ancient Earth to the Tree of Souls. The limb connecting Earth to the Ashvattha withered and darkened. Large sections of the world lost its glow.

Logan’s mind whirled. It seemed his high school classes got a lot wrong about the world, the heroes, the whole deal.

Shadowcroft fast-forwarded through history. Other dungeons and their assorted guardians fell. A tiger-headed man in a temple in India was killed by laughing raiders. A demon lord in a Chinese cave fell to an army of sneering men. A dragon in Europe during the Middle Ages was murdered by a strutting knight. When each dungeon fell, Earth lost more of that healthy gleam until once again, the post-industrial Earth spun in space, growing weaker and dimmer.

Logan felt sick. “Oh. You weren’t joking. My world really is dying.”

“Yes. Unfortunately.” The headmaster shook his head sadly. “It’s not irreversible, but it is on the cusp.”

“Is there a way to stop that from happening?” Logan asked. “You guys will miss out on the phase-four Marvel movies if Earth dies.”

The headmaster let a sly grin split his mossy beard. “We can’t let that happen. Why do you think the academy exists, lad?”

“First young one and now lad. I don’t know if I should be grateful or insulted.” Logan inhaled and nodded. “I’ll go with grateful. Tell me more, old-timer. Tell me how to save my world.”