FSE

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In the dim corridor, Piqsirpoq and I moved swiftly and silently, careful not to draw the attention of anything lurking in the darkness.

“Have you noticed we’ve passed this spot three times already?” my brother grumbled in a low voice as I paused to examine the gray patterns on the wall to confirm our position.

“It might be an illusion. The internal structure of the Tower looks the same everywhere.” Feeling a tug on my tail, I turned to see Piqsirpoq pointing expressionlessly at the blue and white engravings on the floor—three parallel marks. “Uh... maybe it’s some kind of spatial distortion?” I attempted to bluff with confidence, hoping he wouldn’t notice how red my ears had turned, practically glowing like lanterns.

He sighed, seemingly accepting my explanation—or at least pretending to. He waved down the distant corridor, signaling me to continue leading the way.

“I’m still not so sure…” Piqsirpoq muttered. “Something about this feels really strange.”

“I get what you mean,” I replied cautiously. “His situation is basically stuck between ‘not our father’ and ‘not yet our father.’” I shrugged. “Causal paradoxes are a real pain in the ass.”

“Exactly, so…” His tone turned more hesitant. “I’m not sure what this is supposed to accomplish.”

“I don’t know either,” I admitted with a huff. “But you wanted to do this, and I think that’s reason enough.”

Piqsirpoq made a sound of acknowledgment, though he seemed lost in his own thoughts and said nothing further.

I’ve realized it’s far easier to say something seemingly insightful when you’re not the one stuck at the center of the mess.

While searching for information about our father earlier, I’d discovered that the noise-canceling boot schematics he provided were several generations out of date. I also didn’t believe Qana would betray the Senate to hide the fact that our father was still alive.*

That left only two possibilities: either that Snow was right all along and we truly belonged to separate parallel universes, or the Tower had warped time for some reason, bringing us face-to-face with him during his Academy years.

Regardless of the truth, either way that Snow couldn’t really be called our father.

But ever since learning his identity, I’ve felt a complex guilt when reflecting on my time with that Snow, as if I’d possess something that wasn’t meant to be mine.

And I’m certain my brother deeply wants to see our father again, even if it’s just a similar version of him who doesn’t yet know he’ll have sons like us.

So, with little effort, I convinced Piqsirpoq to meet with that Snow. But that plan would have to wait until we found our way out of this chaotic labyrinth.

When we passed the “spatial distortion” area for the fourth time, Piqsirpoq finally snapped. His fur bristled, his nose wrinkled, and his mouth opened wide, baring sharp fangs as if ready to let loose with something undoubtedly unkind. That’s when I sensed a faint ripple in the space around us—a subtle disturbance too massive in presence to be entirely concealed.

In one fluid motion, I drew my sword and turned, slashing toward the anticipated attack. As Gray Snow cleaved through a small silver metal sphere, I realized it was a decoy. The adamantine resonance had created false signals to hide the true location of the threat.

Before I could react further, a white blur streaked across my vision, and the next thing I saw was the dim, blurry ceiling of the corridor.

Hissing in pain, I steadied my head, which felt heavy, and used the wall to push myself upright.

Diagnose, assess, repair.

For me, it’s gradually becoming a reflex, requiring little thought for the details.

As my vision cleared, I saw two white figures locked in a sharp, combative dance.

Piqsirpoq was on the defensive, gritting his teeth and struggling to hold his ground, but patches of his fur were being shaved away, and the bleeding gashes on his body grew more numerous.

That Snow attacked with relentless ferocity, showing no mercy. From his increasingly savage grin, I could tell the white wolf was thoroughly enjoying himself, exactly fitting Snow’s violent stereotype.

Piqsirpoq was slammed into the wall, scrambling to regain his footing. But that Snow didn’t stop, grabbing my brother’s head and slamming it into the floor.

I picked up Gray Snow, initially planning to step in before my brother was completely knock-out, but I quickly abandoned the idea.

Maybe he needed this.

Not the knock-out part, but someone to look up to, someone he could swallow his pride and accept defeat with conviction.

So, I sheathed Gray Snow, stepped back, and silently watched as Piqsirpoq was thoroughly thrashed, both metaphorically and literally, letting his ass get kicked hard.

The ever-burning campfire radiated steady warmth, its flickering light casting heavy shadows across Piqsirpoq’s injured face, making him appear even more desolate. Once again stubbornly refusing the nanodrone injection offered by that Snow, he turned his head aside and spat out a tooth mixed with blood. The tooth hit the ground with several clattering sounds before disappearing into the dim space.

That Snow burst into laughter, rummaging through his backpack before handing over a metal can glistening with condensation.

Though my brother’s face remained sullen, he accepted the beer, studied it for a moment, then pressed the aluminum can against his swollen cheek.

That Snow watched Piqsirpoq with eager anticipation before cracking open his own beer and taking a hearty gulp.

“Well then,” I ventured, feeling the ice-breaking activity was complete and deciding to steer the conversation toward something gentler. “Anyone interested in marshmallows?”

That Snow opened his mouth and swallowed the fluffy cylinder floating in front of him whole, while Piqsirpoq frowned skeptically, as if worried the marshmallow might explode.

“No? That’s fine,” I shrugged and popped the marshmallow meant for my brother into my mouth. “No hard feelings.”

That Snow’s derisive chuckle showed his appreciation for my efforts, and I responded with an exaggerated eye-roll to thank him.

We sat in silence for a while. Eventually, as Piqsirpoq’s breathing steadied—thanks to Snow’s high metabolism reducing the swelling—he removed the beer can from his face.

“This isn’t quite what I expected.” His speech was still slightly slurred, but at least comprehensible.

“I thought Snow always played like this.” It seemed odd for me to say it, but that had always been my impression.

“Sure,” Piqsirpoq shrugged, casting a cautious glance at that Snow. “But in a place as dangerous as the Tower, discipline and caution should be the top priorities.”

That Snow responded with a nonchalant grunt, crossing his arms and sliding down to rest his head on the stone pillar he had been sitting on.

My brother scratched his ear, clearly unsure how to feel about the exchange.

“So, how do your teams usually tackle tower climbs?” I hadn’t realized I had zero interest in finding this out, but in the face of the awkward atmosphere, I grasped for any conversation starter.

“It depends on the objective,” Piqsirpoq explained. “Usually, it’s to replenish funds or secure extra budget for a project. Whatever the reason, the plan must be proposed, voted on, and approved by the tower-climbing team leader before detailed planning begins.”

“Oh,” I twitched my ears, pretending not to notice that Snow making an exaggerated yawn. “I thought the pack would be more… adventurous?”

“Snow’s fatality rate is way too high.” Piqsirpoq stared at the fire and spoke in a low voice. “Sending more people to chase some fleeting fantasy, only for them to never return home, is pointless and a waste of talent. That’s why proposals with high risks but unclear goals or rewards are usually rejected.”

That Snow frowned, glancing between me and my brother.

“So that’s why the disciplined gray wolves, who prefer full teams for tower climbs, don’t have particularly outstanding records,” I remarked, not really caring but needing to say something to close the topic.

“Yeah, it seems the ceiling is stuck at the 277th floor,” Piqsirpoq chuckled, taking another glance at his beer before popping the tab and taking a big gulp.

I didn’t miss that Snow’s subtle movement toward his sword hilt, but any defensive reaction would escalate the situation quickly. Instead, I let a dozen marshmallows slowly roast over the campfire while frantically searching my brain for another topic.

“So, any progress with Lily?” Desperate for a diversion, I decided to sell out my brother’s love life—who doesn’t enjoy gossip?

That Snow froze, raising his eyebrow while his ear twitched twice—Lily was a Wood name, clearly piquing his interest.

“How do you know…” Piqsirpoq shook his head vigorously. “No, I mean… what are you talking about?”

“Please, I’ve seen you trailing her like a shadow in the cafeteria at least a hundred times,” I teased, unable to fathom why he would act so obvious yet hope no one would notice.

“I…” My brother fumbled, glancing between that Snow and me. After a moment of hesitation, he sighed, slumped his shoulders, and his ears flushed faintly red. “Not going well.”

If I wasn’t mistaken, that Snow narrowed his eyes slightly, folding his ears toward Piqsirpoq.

“What do you mean?” I’m no expert, but offering a listening ear usually keeps the conversation flowing.

“Well…” He scratched his head furiously, shedding some fur. I glanced at that Snow, but he remained focused on Piqsirpoq. “I don’t know why she’s not into me.”

Huh?

“I mean…” His gaze shifted between us as if seeking confirmation. “I’m decent, right?”

Uh…

That Snow tilted his head, clearly unwilling to comment, leaving the burden of emotional support squarely on me.

“Objectively speaking, you’re certainly good-looking,” I said sincerely, hoping to ease his anxiety while realizing how problematic that sounded.

“Exactly!” My brother huffed indignantly. “So why won’t she accept me?”

I silently pleaded for Rationalism’s guidance as I tried to frame my words delicately.

“I think the issue isn’t how handsome you are,” I ventured, the answer already clear from his behavior. “It’s about communication and understanding.”

Piqsirpoq tilted his head, folding his right ear, signaling the need for clarification.

“For example, you don’t understand why Lily won’t accept someone as ‘decent’ as you. But do you know what Lily likes?” I never thought I’d say this aloud, especially in front of my half-brother and some version of my father.

“A reliable and dashing male?” Piqsirpoq replied, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself. “Isn’t that what all chicks like?”

“Rationalism above!” I blurted out, but let me defend myself—this was absurd. “First, even if the answer were ‘yes,’ it’s probably not what you imagine; second, I don’t need to know much about female to say they wouldn’t appreciate being referred to like that.”

“Really? But everyone says that.” He tilted his head the other way, looking as if his worldview had been upended. “And I don’t mean to question you, but your social experience is probably…”

I sighed heavily, cutting him off, uninterested in hearing what term he’d choose.

" True, I might not be the most convincing wolf to say this." But even I could tell just how inappropriate this was, doesn't that alone highlight the problem? Reaching toward the ever-burning campfire to warm my hands, I continued, " So let me quote a 'very wise wolf' who once said to me… "