Papuru Star

[papuru]

The first thing you noticed wasn't the light.

It was the absence of everything else.

No background scatter of stars. No distant constellations. No gentle drift of galactic dust. Just an impossible emptiness-like the universe had been scraped clean and left behind as a stage for a single performer.

And there it was.

A supergiant disk of violet-too perfect to be natural, too alive to be physics-hanging in the black like an eye that didn't blink. Purple lightning crawled across its surface in branching, angry fingers, flashing hard enough that even worlds millions of kilometers away saw the strobe of it against their skies.

The Papuru Star spun.

But it didn't move.

Every rule of observation insisted it should drift, wobble, orbit something, be subject to something. It refused. It simply existed, stationary in the void, as if the rest of the cosmos had to accommodate it.

The longer anyone stared, the more wrong it became.

Its apparent age looked ancient-one hundred million years of surface churn, pressure, time.

Its actual age: one thousand fifty.

Surface temperature: twenty-seven thousand degrees.

Solar mass: five.

A conundrum with a pulse.

A beautiful omen.

A scientific anomaly that made researchers whisper and priests bless themselves and soldiers sleep with one eye open.

Seventeen planetoids circled it like wary witnesses.

And on the eighth planet, under a cold blue sky that couldn't stop reflecting that violet glow, a decade of anticipation and a thousand years of tradition were about to collide.

Coalition Carnage had arrived.

Year 1050

Day 1

Kane Urasa woke like he'd been launched.

One second he was horizontal, the next he was airborne-flipping through the air with a grace that felt less like athleticism and more like the universe briefly agreeing to let him ignore gravity.

He landed on the balls of his feet without a sound.

He yawned, rolled his shoulders, stretched until his back cracked with a satisfying pop that made him grin, and-because apparently the cosmos wasn't weird enough already-he hummed a little tune as he headed to the cooling unit.

Breakfast.

Hospitality.

Basic decency.

He opened the waist-high door and froze.

Empty. Like someone had vacuumed out the entire concept of food and left only cold shelves and insult.

Kane just stared, mouth open, waiting for reality to correct itself.

It didn't.

His eyes narrowed.

"Those damn..." He drew the word out like it might turn into a curse if he gave it enough oxygen. "What am I supposed to eat for breakfast?"

He slammed the door hard enough that the unit shuddered, almost tipping over.

Then he crossed the room, hit the switch by the shutters, and watched thin metallic panels fold up and away-

-and sunlight poured in. Bright, slightly violet sunlight that painted his suite in a dreamy glow like the planet was trying to romanticize whatever was about to go wrong.

Outside, a crowd of Humans and Dycordians erupted.

Screams. Cheers. Clapping. The kind of noise that didn't feel like celebration so much as pressure-a tidal surge of strangers who thought his existence belonged to them.

A security gate held them thirty meters back, but hands still reached through the air anyway, desperate and useless.

Somewhere in the sea of signs, he caught one: MARRY ME KANE.

He lifted his hand in a casual greeting.

The crowd went feral.

He smiled, a reflex of someone trained to survive attention. But the smile faltered as he noticed how bright it was outside.

Too bright.

He glanced at the nightstand clock.

6:03 UT.

His jaw tightened.

"I know they didn't do what I think they did," he muttered, and snapped his fingers like he was summoning a ghost. "Holoview on!"

A ten-inch bar hovering above the carpet lit up, expanding into a five-foot image that flickered to life.

The holoview displayed local time.

It was much later than 6:03.

Kane's expression turned into pure betrayal.

The broadcast cut to a comet streaking across Dycord's sky-brilliant, ominous, trailing a wake like a wound.

Then the camera panned down to Topaz City.

A massive ocean of blue-skinned Dycordians packed the avenues. Other species dotted the crowd like scattered islands-Humans, Tilris, and more, all crammed together in a joyous mob.

The reporter's voice was almost shaking.

"The Dying Star comet over the skies of Dycord ushers in the new year-and Coalition Carnage is here at Topaz City. With it comes the fandom, or 'carnies,' as they're so often referred to. I can see visitors from many worlds within this throng of mortals, all seeking to catch a glimpse of their favorite Superstar, and I have to say, I'm eager-"

With a whirlwind of speed, Kane was dressed, moving like the idea of "late" had teeth.

Five seconds later, he was out the door of the Papuru Inn, rushing past a Dycordian couple holding hands. They blinked at the sudden gust of air, like the building itself had sneezed.

Twenty meters from the hotel, Kane stopped so sharply that his heel scuffed the pavement.

He looked down at his ankle.

Static, crackling, crawling, alive, reached up from a nearby sewage drain, tethering him like a leash made of lightning.

Kane's stomach dropped.

"A soul trap?"

A fan screamed from the crowd to his left.

"It's him! It's really him!!!"

And then the fans weren't just fans.

They were moving.

Humans peeled out from the crowd; some from the side of the hotel, some from behind a vending stall, closing in with a purpose that was way too coordinated to be normal fandom chaos.

And one of them climbed up through the sewer grate with the energy of someone who'd made terrible life choices and felt proud of all of them.

Pink hair. Freckles. A grin wide enough to be a threat.

"Kane!" she yelled, furious at the other fans for even existing. "Wait! He's mine! I brought the traps and it was my idea to cover every exit, so I get first dibs!"

Her shirt had his face plastered across it in full Coalition Carnage blue-gold colors.

Her eyes shone like she'd just met her religion.

"You need to stop running from your fans," she declared. "Kane Urasa."

"I have no time for this, Katy," Kane snapped. "I'm late."

"This won't take long." She lifted a hand like she was presenting a gift. "All we need is your hair."

Six Humans stepped forward holding shears.

Kane stared at them like he was watching a slow-motion disaster.

"I keep telling you," he said, voice calm, "I'm not donating hair to that freaky doll of me. Also, I don't authorize this fan club of yours."

"Don't insult the fan base!" Katy shouted, and thrust her arm forward like a war general. "Shave 'em, people!"

They surged.

They didn't look fully maniacal, which somehow made it worse.

Kane dropped to one knee and his left hand flashed with a silver, clean hue. He chopped at the static tether. It snapped without resistance. The soul trap fizzled into nothing.

Katy and her crew didn't even slow down.

Kane sighed like someone who'd seen this exact flavor of stupidity before.

"Next time, cra-lady."

Then he jumped.

Some swore it was ten meters. Others insisted it was thirty.

Either way, he cleared the posse, the security gate, and a chunk of the crowd like he'd been edited out of gravity's permission structure.

He landed running, and the city turned into a blur.

Above Topaz City, a massive blue hunk of quartz towered into the sky-eighty kilometers of jewel that made the metropolis feel like it had been built in the shadow of a crown.

Billions in goods and currency moved through the metal canyons below it, a world hub that looked like prosperity and smelled like pressure.

Kane weaved through foot traffic without touching anyone-almost without touching anyone. He hurdled a broken hover cart and landed among children carrying Coalition Carnage balloons.

Parents startled, then recognition.

Kane gave them that familiar Superstar smile; it worked like a soft weapon.

"Good luck, Superstar Kane!" a Human child shouted.

A Dycordian child folded her arms like she'd been personally offended by optimism. "But our Superstar is going to win."

Kane laughed. "He just might, kid. Where'd you get the cool balloons?"

"That carnival over there!" the Human child said. "Our school took us."

"Thanks." Kane leaned in, conspiratorial. "Hey, cheer for me too, okay?"

"Okay!!!" both kids chorused.

Kane shot off again, leaving behind a ripple of gasps as normal people watched Quickening up close and tried to pretend they weren't a little jealous.

***

Beacon City's cathedral would've seemed modest to most worlds, but here-among half-story dwellings-it dominated the skyline. Two stories of solid white curvature gave it the look of an egg set upright on a pedestal.

Inside, metal walls and stained glass windows glowed with stylized graphics of the seventeen planets, casting colored bands over Dycordians in ceremonial green robes.

The World Voice moved through these halls.

Over a billion of them, galaxy-wide. A third of Dycordians, the Spirit Caste, were born into ritual, trained from childhood to communicate with the spirit within their world.

A hooded woman drifted down a corridor, her robe trimmed in gold, marking her a Seer. She passed beneath an archway into a small, bare room lit by a single candle.

A Dycordian sat cross-legged in prayer, hands together, plain green clothing, bare feet on stone. Something about him looked calm in a way that suggested he'd already survived the kind of thing that broke other people.

The Seer stopped behind him.

"Opening ceremony starts in one hour, Hearer Claude," she said.

Claude rose smoothly to his feet and smiled.

"Thank you, Seer Vassi."

"Any word?" Vassi asked, quietly.

"No."

"Hm."

They left the room together, sunlight cascading through the windows. In an archway, a muscled Dycordian with darker blue skin watched them pass with open animosity.

Vassi didn't flinch. "When they see your skills," she said, "their feelings for you will change."

Claude's smile softened, but didn't warm. "I have long since stopped caring what others think of me. Being Superstar is a Guardian thing. I understand that." He paused. "But I was chosen by the Lords to be Superstar. I will do my world proud, even for those who wish me ill."

Vassi's gaze sharpened. "Starting to sound like your friend."

Claude's expression flickered. "It has been seven years."

"Do not get complacent," Vassi warned. "I have seen strong Superstars die due to lax thinking."

Claude nodded. "I understand what I am to do."

Outside, they reached a booth with several hanging disks. Claude took one, tossed it to the stone ground, and it hovered in place, steady, obedient. He jumped atop it, sat cross-legged, and took a slow breath.

"Remember my teachings," Vassi said, "and those of the planet spirits."

"I will," Claude replied.

The disk whisked him away.

He flew over ocean and coastline, over the cathedral perched on a bluff like a sentinel, over a strange man-made water sculpture where ocean water flowed through invisible channels in looping ribbons.

Claude didn't see it, he was in trance. But as he drifted toward Topaz City, something cut through his meditation like a blade. It was a shuttle entering the atmosphere far in the distance.

Across its hull displayed a holographic image, like a flying holoview: a Human woman with a blood-red locket at her neck, making grandiose gestures with her hands.

Braloor's chosen Superstar was incoming.

***

Inside that shuttle, a streamjet, luxury had been engineered by people who assumed their passengers would enjoy being pampered. It had a magically appearing stewardess. A charm chamber for relaxation. A bed of massage hands.

None of it mattered.

The Dawn sat at a desk protruding from the bulkhead, writing in a book with the focus of someone arguing with destiny.

A Tilris pilot entered, professional, careful.

"We've landed on Dycord, ma'am."

"Okay."

She took her pen, pulled off the cap, and poured the ink onto the page. Then, drummed her fingers on the book. It glowed.

The pilot cleared his throat, awkward, like a baby bird trying to pretend it was a predator.

The Dawn glanced down, satisfied as words appeared and faded into the page; recording reality as if reality had signed a contract. Then, she flipped her hood over her head and walked out

Outside, Dycordian delegates waited-three males in gray robes of the Govern Caste, ceremonial headgear shaped like the pen she'd just used.

"Welcome to Dycord, Superstar The Dawn," one began, eager. "I'm sure you have been to our home world before, so-"

"Wrong," The Dawn cut in, flat. "Never been here."

Another delegate hurried to recover. "Well then, allow us to introduce you to our wonderful city."

The Dawn sighed loud enough to count as an opinion.

She climbed into the hover car. It lifted into the city, drifting past colorful buildings decorated for Coalition Carnage, past Dycordians eating outdoors, shopping, walking odd pets she didn't recognize.

The delegates kept talking. Their voices blending into a blur.

Then The Dawn saw it. A carnival.

She squealed, high, sudden, violently joyful, so loud the delegates all flinched, one clutching his chest like he'd been shot.

"A carnival!" she shouted. "I see a carnival over there! I want to go!"

"We... can do that," one delegate managed, shaken. "But after the opening ceremony. The Lords of Continent have something-"

The Dawn was already gone.

***

The carnival was a patchwork of makeshift structures designed to appear overnight and disappear before anyone asked inconvenient questions. Floating and ground-level booths competed for attention: food vendors, games of chance, performers.

Kane's stomach tried to drag him toward the food. His itchy palm dragged him toward the gambling booth.

It stood four meters tall, housing a robotic skull attached to a pole descending from the top. Four skeletal hands moved freely, typing unknown information across multiple keyboards. A voice issued from speakers on the glass.

"Good morning, gentle sir. How may I assist you?"

Kane adjusted the hood of his jacket even though no one was close enough to care. "Coalition Carnage odds."

Numbers and words flickered in the air, projected from the skull's glowing red eyes. Scanning them, Kane's eyes widened.

"Hundred to one?" he hissed. "That's crap. Top five favored to win. SRC and fan fav both."

He leaned in, offended on principle. "No Kane Urasa?"

"Superstar Kane is at the bottom of both lists," the serve-tek replied.

A familiar voice came from behind him, calm as prayer.

"Betting on one's self is illegal, is it not?"

Kane turned, lowering his hood and his grin hit like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. "Claude! My boy! How ya been!?"

"It has been too long," Claude said, and for a moment the carnival noise felt like it dimmed around them. They shook hands.

Kane blew out a breath. "I was gonna contact you when I got in last night, but dude-I was tired."

"I thought Soul Style users never get tired."

"I don't keep it turned on." Kane frowned. "Anyway-the SRC says you're a Hearer in the World Voice now. Congrats."

Claude's smile sharpened into something teasing. "When I heard Earth chose you as their Superstar, I thought my hearing was impaired. I considered another career change."

Kane narrowed his eyes. "That supposed to be a joke? And what about you? A holy man involved in something like this?"

Claude's gaze lifted to the sky as if listening to a voice nobody else could hear. "Time to pray," he said, "time to fight."

"I get that," Kane said, glancing at the vibrant stalls lining the thoroughfare. "How's the kinfolk?"

"Mom is fine. She started a book club," Claude replied. He offered a small, characteristic shrug. "Dad is still a tax collector."

Kane let out a dry whistle. "How'd he feel about your new... career change?"

Claude turned his head, his expression unreadable. "You have met him. Enough about that, what have you been up to all these years?"

The two friends fell into a comfortable rhythm, weaving through the thick of the carnival grounds. If any of the partakers noticed the galaxy-famous Superstars in their midst, they made no fuss; here, they were just two more souls under the neon lights. A group of Dycordian and Human children suddenly bolted past, nearly bowling over an elderly couple who shrieked in mock indignation.

"Wish Earth was more like this," Kane admitted, watching the children disappear into the crowd. "I go out in public there, I'm mobbed up to my eyebrows."

"We Dycordians honor privacy," Claude reminded him, his voice tinged with a hint of pride. "Or have you forgotten?"

"It's been a decade since I've been here. I never realized how much I missed it, until now." Kane paused, cutting a sharp look toward his friend. "By the way, how did you know I was here?"

"I just knew."

Kane snorted. "Want to vague that up a little more?"

"Remember that shooting game I had?" Claude asked, ignoring the jab.

"Puzzle Shot? Yeah, I'm still the reigning champion."

"If I remember correctly," Claude countered smoothly, "it was 139 to 137. My way."

"Like hell. You can't take my championship away, not after everything it took to get it."

Claude stopped walking and pointed behind Kane. Tucked between a food stall and a fortune teller sat a rectangular booth, boasting a row of sleek plastic guns and a gallery of holographic targets.

"Winner take all?" Claude challenged.

Kane grinned, the old competitive fire sparking in his eyes. "Games are for friends to bond and kick each other's ass. Let's go."

They took their positions, soon becoming utterly enthralled with the rhythm of the game. They traded shots, sending beams of harmless light into floating targets. Claude maintained a narrow, frustrating lead until they both noticed a third competitor. A woman, the only other person playing at the far end of the booth, was rapidly closing the gap.

The two men intensified their focus as they realized she wasn't just lucky, she was surgical. Every time she pulled the trigger, a target vanished. Before Kane or Claude could reclaim the lead, the game's chime signaled its end.

The stranger had won. She pumped her fist in the air as the serve-tek whirred to life, depositing a large, stuffed polar bear into her arms.

Claude inclined his head. "Your aim is impeccable, ma'am."

"Damn right!" she crowed. "Whoo! I love stuffed animals!"

Kane smiled the way he smiled before trouble. "Hi, I'm Kane. This is my friend, Claude."

"They call me The Dawn," she said, hugging the bear.

"Oh," Kane said. "You're Braloorian. I'm an Earthling."

"Figures."

Kane's smile fell. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You suck," The Dawn said, cheerfully.

Kane blinked. "What!? Well, maybe you had a little extra help in the aiming department. A cheat code."

The Dawn tilted her head. "Meaning?"

"You people can't breathe without pulling a rabbit from somewhere."

The Dawn's grin widened.

And then she was in Kane's face, nose to nose, eyes bright with delighted violence.

"Do you want to fight?" she whispered. "Do you?"

"This got intense fast." Claude said.

The Dawn stared at Kane another second, then turned and walked away like he'd already lost.

Kane watched her go, jaw tight. "You see why people don't like Braloorians?"

"I like her," Claude said.

"You can do better."

Claude didn't dignify that with an answer. "Seriously," he asked instead, "why the animosity between the two planets?"

Kane shrugged. "No clue. I used to research Braloor, back in the day. Never found anything. They're just hostile."

Claude's eyes slid toward him. "You did use the term 'you people.'"

Kane winced. "I-okay, you're right. I didn't mean it like that."

Claude's voice softened. "Apologies are fruit for the soul."

Kane sighed. "Yeah. Guess I should."

***

The Dawn wandered through the carnival, making her polar bear roar at strangers and laughing when they looked uncomfortable. She should've been heading to the opening ceremony, but she didn't care. Then, the vibration hit against her breastbone, subtle but unmistakable.

Her smile vanished. She froze, eyes scanning, hair whipping as she turned.

"What?" she hissed under her breath. "What?"

People gave her space without knowing why. Instinct; a sense that her mood had shifted from "chaotic fun" to "something's about to break."

She saw them then, four men in a group that didn't fit: a Dycordian, a Human, a Tilris, and a massive Dagon. Suspicious glances. Tight movement. The kind of body language that didn't belong at a carnival. They entered a small structure.

She handed her stuffed bear to a passing Dycordian woman like she was discarding a distraction, then moved, quiet, fast, hungry for confrontation.

***

Claude's gaze sharpened as he tracked her path without looking directly at her.

"There she is."

Kane frowned. "You sure are useful. Where is she going?"

"That small building," Claude said.

They reached the squat plastoid structure and slipped inside. Half the space was piled high with dug-up earth. The other half was a ten-foot hole yawning into darkness.

Kane stepped to the edge. "What's going on in here?"

Claude moved around one dirt mound and stopped.

"Someone is unconscious over here."

Kane's gut tightened. "Who?"

"A Dycordian."

Kane exhaled hard. "You know, Claude, I'm starting to think this Dawn lady's kinda unhinged."

"We do not know the whole situation," Claude cautioned. "Should I retrieve a Defense Force officer?"

"Nah," Kane said, already committing to the worst option. "We're Superstars. We can handle whatever is going on."

Claude nodded once. "Agreed. After you."

Kane stared at him. "I'm a guest on your planet and you're making me go first? It could be dangerous down there."

"Almost assuredly," Claude said, and there was no humor in it now. "Which is why we should stop the banter in case The Dawn needs help."

Kane muttered, "Her eyes told me the only help she needs is therapeutic."

Then both of them jumped. They slid down a steep forty-five-degree pitch into the dark. Ten seconds later, dim green light glimmered below like phosphorescent breath.

Kane landed, feet skidding. Claude landed beside him, calm as ever.

Thin glowing trails ran along the dirt and stone, slimy, luminous, painting the tunnels in sickly green.

"These tunnels run beneath Topaz City," Claude said.

Kane swallowed. "I remember reading about them. Created to transport refugees thousands of years ago. Never said refugees from what, though."

"School books refer to it as the Luminary Web."

Kane made a face. "Don't tell me there's giant spiders down here."

"These are glow slug trails," Claude said. "They are small."

Kane nodded, relieved. "Okay, okay, so where'd she go?"

Claude's eyes unfocused slightly, listening to something that wasn't sound. "I can sense her. And whole groups of people." His tone shifted. "Something is definitely going on. No one is supposed to be down here."

Kane started moving. "Tourists think they can go wherever they please."

Claude pointed. "Closest group is that way. The Dawn is in that direction as well."

They ran for a few moments before they heard it. Clanking armor. They rounded a bend and found half a dozen lancers aimed directly at them.

"Halt or die!" the squad lead barked.

"Face down! Now!"

Kane and Claude raised their hands.

Claude spoke carefully. "I am Claude of Styfe. This is Superstar Kane of Earth. We followed someone down here, but do not know what transpires."

The squad lead signaled. Weapons were lowered, slightly.

"There's been a terrorist attack on the Mag factory," the lead said, clipped. "Dangerous material stolen. Terrorists are using the Web to move through the city."

Claude's brows drew in. "How do you know they are terrorists?"

The squad lead's eyes hardened. He made a gesture and his team marched off. He looked back with an impatient expression or thinly veiled hatred.

"They claim to be members of the Trust. They threatened to blow the Tower of Laws along with two other public locations." His mouth twisted. "We know how to do our jobs, even if you do not think so. Good luck in the competition, Superstar Claude."

And he was gone.

Kane's voice came out low. "So the Trust wants to disturb the opening ceremony. Make some kind of statement."

Claude's eyes sharpened. "What does The Dawn have to do with this?"

Kane didn't answer, because he didn't have a good one.

"We gotta ask her," he said, and started after the Defense Force.

Claude grabbed his arm.

"I do not know what signal they are following," Claude said, "but I can sense a battle taking place further up the north tunnel."

Kane was already sprinting. Not thirty seconds later, they found bodies.

A Dagon in worn armor, a broken lancer gun at his side. There were two more unconscious folks nearby, discarded like broken furniture. They reached the chamber beyond and saw her.

The Dawn was mid-motion, a vicious roundhouse kick snapping into a Dycordian's helmet. The lancer slipped from limp hands as the body crumpled. She stood among four more fallen bodies like she'd arranged them.

Kane took in the scene. "Nice form."

Claude stepped forward, controlled. "What are you doing down here?"

The Dawn didn't even look guilty. "Breaking jaws. Isn't it obvious?"

"Are you aware what is actually going on?" Claude pressed.

"No," The Dawn said brightly, as if the word had no consequences. "But some guys were acting shady. I followed them. Big guy saw me. Took a shot. Dropped him on his head. Got here, heard the word 'bomb,' so I started dropping bombs."

She shadowboxed the air, threw a kick for emphasis, then posed like she expected applause.

Kane cleared his throat. "You know any of them?"

"Cannon fodder?" she shrugged. "Who cares?"

A voice snapped from the tunnel mouths.

"We do!"

Figures emerged-men and women in mercenary gear, weapons raised. Seven tunnels. At least three per tunnel. Lancer pistols and rifles glinting in the green light.

"You've been interfering in Trust affairs," one of them growled, "which ain't healthy."

Claude tried diplomacy, like it was a blade he kept sharp. "Tell us what you want so we can discuss a solution for the betterment of all involved."

"Betterment?" the mercenary scoffed. "Is that a word? I don't care. Ice them!"

Over two dozen lancers opened fire.

***

The squad lead pressed a gloved thumb to his helmet's receiver, his voice a low gravel against the static of the Dycordian channel. "I sent the wannabe and his buddy packing," he muttered, eyes scanning the jagged horizon of the wasteland. "No resistance on this end. Any of the other units having better luck?"

Beside him, the Lieutenant broke formation. He didn't speak; instead, his hands flew in a series of sharp, frantic Dycordian battle signs. The lead watched the gestures, his brow furrowing beneath his visor. With a sharp, silent jerk of his chin, he signaled the rest of the squad to fan out.

"The planet spirit may be shining on us yet," he said into the comms, his tone darkening. "Squad out." He flicked the channel to local. "What is it, Lieutenant? This better be more than ghosts."

"The energy signature, sir," the lieutenant's voice crackled, breathless. "It's back. Low frequency, moving slow. It's heading right for our position."

"Get ready."

The squad shifted with practiced lethality, dropping into offensive staggers as they advanced. The silence of the canyon was absolute, until a rhythmic tap-tap-tap began to echo off the stone walls. It was steady, patient, and unnervingly physical.

"What I do here today," a voice vibrated through their headsets-not through the air, but directly into their encrypted feed-"will forever be remembered as the true blessing."

The squad lead's hand flew to his helmet, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Who is this? How did you hijack this channel?"

"Simple, really," the voice replied, smooth as polished glass. "Radio waves are easy to manipulate. At least, for one such as I. Like so."

A sudden, agonizing screech erupted inside their helmets. It wasn't sound; it was a psychic spike that drove through their temples like a heated needle. The lead let out a strangled cry, his knees hitting the stone floor. Around him, his unit collapsed in a chorus of static and groans, their weapons clattering uselessly against the rock. Through the blur of his failing vision, he saw the source of the tapping.

An elderly Ksush emerged from the dust, hunched and supported by twin canes. His tan skin was a map of deep-set wrinkles, yet beneath his loose gray tunic, his stooped frame held the corded, terrifying muscle of a predator. His most jarring feature, the Ksush third arm, curled over his head like a scorpion's tail, its taloned fist clutching a small steel box.

The old man stepped over the unconscious soldiers, his wrinkled lips peeling back to reveal a row of dull, yellow teeth.

"After all," he whispered to the cooling air, "I've had a lot of time to perfect my techniques."

He didn't break his stride, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.

"Report!" the old man commanded.

"Ran into three Superstars!" a mercenary screamed. "We're getting overwhelmed! We need-"

"No need to shout, I can hear you very clearly," the old man interrupted, his voice chillingly calm as he tapped his way toward the battlefield. "I will be there shortly."

***

Bodies and shattered weapons carpeted the cavern floor. Kane's fist finished the count, driving into the jaw of the last standing Trust goon and dropping him like a loose cable.

Across the chamber, a red-black lancer beam carved a lethal line through the air. Claude moved before the shot finished screaming, vaulting clean over the streak of death, landing beside its source in one smooth motion. His bare foot snapped up, connecting with the Human's head. The mercenary folded, weapon clattering uselessly against stone.

Silence rushed in to fill the void.

The Dawn slowly turned in place, surveying the wreckage. At least a dozen bodies lay unconscious at her boots. Not dead, but broken.
She frowned.

"That's it?"

Kane rolled his shoulder. "Would've thought more of the Trust. These guys were weak."

Claude glanced between them, calm amid the ruin. "Amazing how similar the two of you are."

"Nah," The Dawn said without looking at Kane. "He weak too."

"We came here to help," Kane shot back. "Rude ass."

"And to apologize," Claude added evenly. "Remember."

Kane snorted. "Screw the apology."

The Dawn's grin sharpened, predatory. "Want to go a few rounds? These Trust chumps weren't enough."

A new voice slid through the chamber-old, smooth, utterly unconcerned.

"They are merely hired mercenaries, and not an indication of the truth of the Trust."

Kane spun. "Who said that?"

Claude's eyes narrowed, senses stretching outward. "They do not appear to be present in this chamber."

The Dawn tilted her head, listening to something no one else could hear. "Nearest waking soul is twenty meters north-northeast."

Claude nodded once. "That is correct."

Kane grimaced. "Showoffs."

The unseen voice continued, closer now, threaded with quiet certainty.
"My mission is of great importance. If that means your deaths, then the fans of this ridiculous competition will simply have to forgive an old man."

The sound hit without warning.

Not an explosion, but pressure. A violent cascade of noise that slammed into their skulls, rattled teeth, turning balance into a suggestion. All three Superstars staggered, clutching at their heads as the cavern seemed to scream.

"What the hell!?" Kane shouted through the pain.

The voice answered, pleased.

"I am Fiaster. Soul Master of Sounds. Telling you to turn back would be futile. Instead..."

The noise sharpened.

"I'll just kill you."

 

[papuru]

The fanfare of dozens of horned instruments hit every holoview in every district, on every ship, and in every bar where someone had ever bet their last c-chip on a stranger's fists.

Blue-and-gold letters slammed into existence:

COALITION CARNAGE

Seventeen planets flashed behind the title in violent, strobing bursts-Tilris wings slicing air, Humans throwing light with their knuckles, Dagon silhouettes like carved war, Ja'ir ice swallowing bodies, Ksush limbs moving faster than the eye could forgive.

A high, girly voice cut through it all, bright as a blade.

"After a decade of anticipation-ten long years of wanting-it's back."

Quick images of beings of every race, mixed with diverse settings.

"It's the year that brings us together in spirited rivalry. A show of strength of body... and the power of the mind." The voice rose like a countdown. "To the victor, blessings beyond the wildest of dreams. One thousand years in the making..."

The music dropped into a rhythmic pulse that matched heartbeats across the galaxy.

"It's the 100th decennial Coalition Carnage Competition!!!"

Screens go dark. Then fireworks. Topaz City burned with celebration, even under daylight.

Fireballs looped through the sky with bangs and pops, their sparks spilling in every spectrum, brilliant even in the sun, thanks to the shade thrown by the sky-high topaz gem that hung above the city like a god's eye.

The gem shifted colors in time with the explosions. Blue, gold, blue, gold.

Below, Dycordians packed the streets; laughter, street drums, children on shoulders, vendors screaming offers no one could hear over the noise. Floating viewscopes drifted like curious insects, catching everything: kisses, brawls, dancing, bets made with trembling hands.

And then she floated into frame. A pink-tinted Tilris, arms and legs spread like she wanted a hug from the sky. Her feathers were long and luxurious in some places, near non-existent in others, her slight form curated with the kind of purposeful sex appeal that made viewers forget they were being sold something.

On closer inspection, she was incorporeal. A hologram. A ghost in glamor.

"Happy New Year, my fellow carnies!" she sang. "My name is Roxy Boss, and I'm your host for this year's mega event! Open your hearts, purse your lips, and blow me a kiss, oh loving galaxy!"

She floated down until she hovered a few meters above the roaring crowd.

"Ready for some carnage!?"

Topaz City answered like it wanted blood in a chalice.

Roxy grinned wider. "And I'm sure you're not alone, just as I'm not alone. Joining me as our on-the-scene commentator, coming to us all the way from the sixteenth planet... Coalition Carnage Color Correspondent Ksush... Grodin!"

The holoview cut hard to chaos.

Grodin, three armed, seven feet tall, built like a walking wall, held a five-inch microphone in the overhead hand while the other two arms shoved drunk Pians away from his frame.

He stood before rows of wooden seating arranged like a colosseum. Every seat was full; six hundred thousand bodies, vibrating with anticipation and alcohol.

"Don't forget, crowd-pleasing former host of this very Competition, Roxy," Grodin said, smiling like a professional while beer slid down his head. "I'm here on Pia, partying with Pian carnies who hope to see some action up close here at Pia's new geodome, the Stadium."

Behind him, the ring: a 366 square of dark glass with ten-meter-high pillars in each corner.

Empty thrones sat atop those pillars, waiting.

"No longer content with battles taking place on their moon," Grodin continued, "the Pians now have a front row seat for the battles that make this Competition so great."

Two Pians roared in agreement and slammed their black-glass mugs together, sloshing beer all over Grodin's head again.

He threw them a look of murderous restraint, then smiled back at the viewscope.

"It's late afternoon local time," he added, voice smooth, "so the alcohol is flowing freely here for this historical event. This will be the first time a Coalition Carnage battle takes place on Pian soil since its conception. The energy is electric, with hopes of a first-round match pick. Will the Pians get it? We'll have to wait and see."

Roxy's voice slid in like silk over flesh. "Awesome! The opportunity to have blood and sweat spray directly in front of them has got the Pians hype and I don't blame them."

Roxy winked into a new location, her holographic legs knee deep in a flowing river of lava, while in the distance, a volcano exhaled black smoke into the air.

"Some of our viewers may remember this place, the Fire Eye," Roxy purred. "For our viewers too young to remember, the Fire Eye is a moon orbiting the planet closest to the Papuru Star. It's a volcano moon! How awesome is that!?"

She bounced in enthusiasm, the lava never reacting to her presence.

"Something new for the rest of you carnies out there, the geodomes have a wicked upgrade."

She floated over to a group of Yuni drinking beside a lava bed, their smooth rock skin reflecting orange light.

"Anybody interested in demonstrating the new geodome feature?"

One drunken Yuni leaned forward. "I'll do it, sweet wing."

Roxy tilted her head. "Pick up that stone and throw it across the river bed."

"If you go out with me."

Roxy didn't blink. "Anybody want to test the geodome?"

The Yuni huffed, embarrassed by laughter from his friends. "Okay, okay. I got this."

He grabbed a stone only slightly bigger than his hand, hauled back like a punchball pitcher, and heaved.

The rock made a third of its journey across the lava river before it struck something invisible, a barrier. The barrier stretched, the landscape beyond distorted like a sick mirage.

Then the surface snapped back, the stone also, and nailed the Yuni in the forehead. He did two backflips before face-planting. His friends howled while he started doing pushups, trying to show he was still fit and uninjured.


Roxy squealed. "Invisible geodomes that stretch when an object or person comes into contact! Imagine a body bouncing off into an outstretched spear! Whoo, the strategies! Let's take a look at more new and returning geodomes!"

Images flickered:

A mega glacier on a frozen lake, snow trapped in a bubble. "First fire, now ice. Ja'ir's constant contribution, the Whisper Wall," Roxy said. "How many frozen Superstar bodies will it produce this year?"

A neighborhood of dilapidated buildings shrouded in dust and darkness, trash everywhere. "Another returning geodome. The Superstars better tread lightly here. Many undesirables occupy this place, some of which may not want to be seen. A shot in the back would end a battle real quick. No one is welcome in...the Underbay! Now come on, give me a new one."

A metal room, floor, walls, ceiling, all steel, with a maroon pyramid floating high center. "The Randomizer. Rumors indicate it fits what would come from the world of Prees. I got a feeling it won't disappoint."

Roxy's smile sharpened. "We've got experts running analysis on the Superstars. Interviews with family. A special word from the winner of the 99th Carnage. All this and more as the Opening Ceremony starts right now, with the comedic stylings of the Magic Donkey Brothers!"

Roxy winked out and reappeared in luxury. Burgundy carpet, lush furniture, and a wall of glass overlooking the landscape of egg-shaped structures outside; the giant topaz gem disappearing above the view.

The opposite wall was one enormous holoview showing the Magic Donkey Brothers.

Food and beverages from multiple worlds lined another wall in a tasteful arrangement, except for the mess: spilled drinks, dropped portions, puddles, the smell of everything mingled with the distinct aroma of smoking root. Roxy's hologram didn't have a sense of smell, but she could see the smoke.

"This is a non-smoking room, Superstar Morihilus."

Morihilus leaned against the wall by the food table, puffing a root lit on one end. Dark red skin shining with moisture, he was dressed like he was going to a formal event where someone died. A pointed rapier fish blade sat at his hip like punctuation.

"This is not some common root, you annoying bird," Morihilus said, "but shay root, fit for only those of royal blood."

"Don't care," Roxy replied. "Put it out."

"I will not."

A voice from the hover chair nearby, lazily and hungrily. "Smoked fish is a delicacy on my world."

Morihilus's purple eyes glowed. "Watch the insolence, buffoon."

The speaker rose.

Gorjon stood over two meters tall, shirtless, his three arms heavily muscled, bunched like a bag of perfectly placed marbles. His black and white tights showing he loved to workout.

He strode toward Morihilus, footsteps heavy even through the thick carpet.

Roxy floated between them immediately. "This is not the time, Superstar Gorjon."

Gorjon reached out calmly, grabbed the root from Morihilus's lips, and crushed the still-lit shay root in his oversized hand.

"I would rather taste your blood," Gorjon said, voice flat. "But then, I already have. Didn't care for it. I'll just spill it instead."

Morihilus's hand slid to his rapier.

"That was ten years ago," Morihilus hissed. "Have a taste now."

A loud laugh cut through the tension. Morihilus turned his head slightly. "Must you guffaw so ridiculously loud?!"

A man-sized reptile lounged on a hovering couch, laughing at the Magic Donkey Brothers like comedy was oxygen. A yellow reptilian eye peered at them, slow and deliberate, then returned to the holoview and laughed again, boisterous, unapologetic.

Morihilus turned on Roxy, voice sharp. "How long must I endure these miscreants? I have strategies to discuss with my Syncs."

"The Lords of Continent want all the Superstars here during the speech portion," Roxy said.

"To parade us around for the rabble to gawk at us like split fish?"

"Don't be vulgar-"

Gorjon cracked his knuckles; the sound was like fireworks. "I'm bored. How about an exhibition match, fish man."

Roxy wagged one see through finger at both. "Save it for the sanctioned battles, boys. Besides, you should show a little modesty, for Superstar Narshira's sake."

Narshira, standing by the entryway, munching fruit, two forehead antenna wriggling with amusement, shrugged. "What modesty? He's already half naked."

Gorjon's grin was all teeth.

Roxy floated closer, sweet voice sharpening. "Don't make me penalize you two."

Narshira popped another piece of fruit. "Excuse me, Roxy?"

"Hmm?" Roxy's attention flickered, like she'd heard something no one else could.

"Do you know Superstar Bram?"

Roxy wasn't looking at Narshira anymore. She wasn't looking at anyone.

"Umm... get back with me, okay," Roxy said too fast. "I have another situation brewing."

Roxy's holographic form condensed in less than a blink to the size of a pinprick and vanished.

The reception area of the Assembly Hall smelled like polished metal and nervous sweat.

A serve-tek lay crumpled like discarded paper; another rolling backward in panic, a metal bracelet held in its scoop-like appendage. It was fleeing a slim Pian woman stalking toward it like a predator. Roxy snapped back into full size, hovering between them.

"I left instructions for a mortal attendant to usher Superstar Avia when she arrived," Roxy said. "My apologies. Relax, please, our serve-tek is completely harmless."

Avia's eyes cut like blades. "They are abominations. So is that thing it wants me to put on."

"You will need to wear the omniband," Roxy replied, voice smooth. "It tracks vitals for spectators and is necessary for travel between-"

"I don't care," Avia snapped. "Even a little bit."

"You agreed to follow rules and regulations-"

Avia stepped closer. "Are you going to put them on me?"

Roxy lifted her hands in exaggerated helplessness. "Hello, incorporeal here. But I will disqualify Pia from the competition. Your fellow Pians will like you even more."

Avia's already ridged brow creased deeper and for a moment, it looked like she might attack the air out of spite. Then she stomped to the serve-tek, thrust out her extremely thin right arm, and the robot clamped the metal bracelet onto her wrist with trembling efficiency.

Roxy clapped, producing no sound. "See? Still alive."

Avia stormed off like rage was fuel.

Roxy turned to the obviously relieved serve-tek. "Is everyone here?"

The serve-tek's voice came out clipped, nervous. "No, madam. Superstars Kane, Claude, and The Dawn have yet to arrive. Delegates report The Dawn disappeared en route."

Roxy's expression went flat. "No matter what," she muttered, "it's always Humans and Dycordians. Always."

---

Deep underground, the air was damp, thick with the glow of slime coating the walls. The tunnels were wide enough for refugees, wide enough for soldiers, wide enough for lies.

The screech of death drove The Dawn to her knees. Kane stumbled back against the glow-slime wall, hands up to his ears, face twisted in pain. Claude yelled something Kane couldn't hear over the noise.

The Dawn crouched and drew a small circle quickly in the dust, symbols packed tight inside it. The sound ceased so suddenly it felt like losing a limb.

Kane lowered his hands, his mouth moved, yet no sound emerged. Claude pointed toward a tunnel mouth and made a walking motion with his fingers.

An old male Ksush shuffled into the cavern using two metal walking sticks. He held a case in his third hand. His smile widened when he noticed The Dawn's circle.

Then the ground tremored; rumbling rolled in like an approaching beast. The circle shifted.

The old Ksush's voice was smug and disappointed at the same time. "A Mage Style user. Magic has its uses, but is primarily for the weak, in my experience."

Kane forced a grin through the tension. "You look like you've racked up a million experience points, so we'll take your word for it."

Claude's eyes were steady. "What grief do you have with the people of Dycord?"

"That is not your concern."

Kane's gaze sharpened. "Got anything to do with stolen explosive material?"

The old Ksush, Fiaster, snorted. "Hmph. If you must know... for the public, including you and yours, to see the truth the Coalition has hidden from the galaxy, there needs to be a spectacle."

Claude's jaw tightened. "And blowing up the Tower of Laws, killing a million people, would do that?"

Fiaster shrugged. Then he was a blur. One second he was eight meters away, shuffling like age owned him. The next, he was three feet from Kane, swinging one metal walking stick in a wide arc.

Kane moved on instinct, quickening barely out of range as the cane buzzed through the air where his head had been. A stone slab rose between Kane and death, but the cane speared through it anyway.

Claude's outstretched hand twisted and the stone column veered ninety degrees, ripping the cane from Fiaster's grip.

Fiaster raised his remaining cane toward Claude and The Dawn.

"Move!" she snapped.

Kane didn't see the attack, but felt the air pressure change, like the cavern inhaled. He charged anyway, refusing to waste an opening.
Fiaster clapped his right and third hands together rapidly.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

Sonic booms filled the cavern with white-hot noise. Kane felt it crawl up through his feet, into his bones, into his teeth. Rock and dirt began falling from above.

Claude's voice finally cut through: "Cave in!"

Kane bolted for the nearest tunnel as the world tried to collapse on him. Choking dust envloped him, the glowing slime dimmed. The Web turned eerie, muffled, like the planet itself was holding its breath.

When the rumbling stopped and Kane finally stopped coughing dirt out of his soul, he discovered he was alone. Boulders crowded the cavern entryway like a sealed tomb.

"You better not be in there, Claude," Kane rasped.

"I am fine, my friend," Claude's voice said, behind him.

Kane spun, startled into a fighting stance. Claude stood calm as clear weather, as if he'd stepped out of the stone.

"Glad you're alive," Kane snapped, "but where'd you pop up from?"

A second voice, dry, annoyed, came from behind him again.

"I'm alive too, if it matters, " The Dawn said.

Kane nearly fell over. "You two can teleport. Good to know. Teach it to me."

Claude's tone was almost gentle. "I did not teleport. I was one with the planet."

The Dawn's eyes were sharp. "Your Talent level is too small to teach even rudimentary magics."

Kane stared. "Nice."

He exhaled once, hard. "Anyway. That Boom Sonic is as powerful as I imagined."

The Dawn's gaze narrowed. "You know him?"

"What, you've never heard of the Soul Master of Sounds?" Kane said, incredulous. "Fiaster competed in Coalition Carnage forty years ago and almost won."

Claude blinked. "I have never heard of him, either."

The Dawn's expression didn't change. "So he's the Trust leader?"

Kane shrugged. "Hell if I know. He disappeared a while ago. Thought he was dead. One thing I do know? He's strong, and age doesn't seem to have weakened him."

Claude's eyes shifted like he was listening to the rock itself. "All we know is the Trust is down here. We must stop them."

"I'm in," Kane said, already moving. "Gonna cost the Dycordian government, though."

Claude started to speak, something about tracking soul signatures-

The Dawn cut him off with a flick of her fingers.

"I don't need these anchors holding me back. They'll get in the way."

White energy wrapped her body. And she flew down the tunnel into darkness.

Kane watched her vanish and muttered, "She's starting to annoy me."

Claude sighed, an old sigh, like childhood and responsibility lived in it. "Still. Should not let her go alone."

Kane rolled his shoulders. "If you weren't here to guilt me, I would. Let's go."

They ran.

---

Fiaster shuffled slowly through a dim tunnel deeper in the Web, his remaining cane clanking softly, boots scuffing along the rock.

"It's going as planned," he murmured, as if the planet was his confessional. "Alpha team is approximately ten kilometers east of the Tower. Beta and Gamma have the DDF running around these tunnels chasing shadows."

He paused.

"And Delta has just completed her mission."

He smiled to himself.

"I will tell the teams to withdraw," Fiaster continued, voice amused, "but I want to hang down here and have a bit of fun. Three Superstars playing hero..."

A pause, then, a soft chuckle. "Look. Calm down. I won't kill them. I know how important the Competition is."

Then, quieter, almost affectionate. "I just want to see what this generation can do."

---

Kane and Claude hit a branching path.

Two tunnels. Two sets of presences like distant heat signatures in the soul.

Kane frowned. "Which one?"

Claude's eyes narrowed. "I do not know."

"I thought you were tracking her."

"Not while she is in flight," Claude said. "Both directions have people."

Kane sighed like the universe personally offended him. "Fine. I'll go this way."

Claude nodded. "Yell if you run into trouble."

Kane grinned, already running north. "Will do."

He barely made it a dozen meters before he felt them.

Several presences, alert. Aware of him. Thugs clustered together, lucky for him. If they'd spread out, he might not have sensed them until it was too late.

Kane's wrist began to glow with silver energy. He smiled like someone about to enjoy themselves.

"Challenge accepted."

Beams of death snapped toward him. Kane bounced, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, never predictable, never still, Quickening flaring under his skin like a second pulse.

The corridor was thirty feet across, twenty feet of headspace, fine for moving refugees, terrible for dodging continuous energy streams.

Kane punched forward. The silver energy around his wrist shot ahead, expanding five times its size, into a ring. The lancer beams bent toward it like forced rainbows, the ring devouring them like a hungry mouth.

A mercenary's voice panicked. "Stop aiming at the circle, ya idiot!"

Another screamed, "I'm not doing it!"

The moment the beams ceased, the ring exploded in a blinding flash. The tunnel lit up: moss, slime, half-inch glow slugs doing their little errands, and six gunmen flailing as they tried to regain sight.

In that blink of brightness, Kane saw one of them clutching a small metal box. He didn't hesitate. He surged, Quickening output spiking.

"Nap time, gentlemen."

---

Claude moved differently.

He used wind like an extension of thought, propelling himself down tunnels in controlled bursts, fast, but not reckless. He eased up when he sensed nine souls ahead, likely Dycordian Defense Force.

When he reached them, his hands were raised and his identity proclaimed loudly before anyone's fear could decide to shoot. The squad leader looked at him like contempt was a religion.

"Maybe you should have switched to Guardian caste if you were going to get involved this much."

Claude's voice stayed calm. "I am only here to help. My friends and I encountered the suspected leader. He is a Ksush by the name of Fiaster, a former Superstar."

Surprise cracked through the squad leader's expression. "Did he reveal anything else?"

Claude hesitated. "Nothing of importance. I do not believe he intends to destroy any buildings or kill anyone."

A grumble rolled through the troops.

The leader's face darkened. "Four Mag-factory workers are hospitalized. Possibly over a million c-chips in damage. And they sent us a holoview proclaiming to blow up landmarks to make a statement. What evidence do you have?"

Claude met his eyes. "Merely a feeling."

The squad leader's jaw clenched. "That does it. Squad, move to the target area and set up a defensive position."

He turned back to Claude, venom in his gaze. "Mr. Superstar. You may think you're hot shit, but to me you're nothing but a glory hog. You will not win the competition. Get the hell out of these tunnels before I test your heart, boy."

Claude stood still as they ran past him. He turned and followed anyway.

---

The Dawn reached a cavern so wide it felt like the Web's belly. Ten exit tunnels yawned around the space like options for fate. The dust lay thick. Ambush territory. She hovered in the center, arms folded, expression bored.

"I'm waiting."

A screech hit the cavern, a high pitch wail, amplified into agony. The Dawn's hands flew to her ears. She crashed to her knees, writhing. Fiaster appeared behind her, like the punchline to the pain.

"Magicians!" he laughed. "You rely so much on spells and curses, you forget how to truly fight. Disabling you was simple enough. A Supreme, no less. Hah!"

The Dawn dragged herself upright, silver bangs trembling.

"I don't use magic as a crutch," she said, voice tight. "I use it as a means to an end."

Her eyes sharpened into a dare.

"Anyway, you use Soul Style. Might as well be magic. Stop the noise. Let's go hand to hand. No cheap tricks."

Fiaster's laugh sounded like a tree frog's mating call, wrongly joyful. But the noise ceased.

"Are you sure, youngling?" he asked. "I may have you by at least a hundred years. That means experience."

The Dawn rolled her eyes. "I'll manage."

Fiaster came in like a rocket, arms spread in a triangle, trying to grab her if she dodged. So she stepped forward and crescent-kicked him under the chin. Blood and teeth sprayed.

Before any of it could fall into her hair, she teleported behind him and drove her knee into his spine. He cursed and stomped, shaking the entire cavern.

The Dawn lost footing just long enough for him to recover.

"No magic, huh," Fiaster said, wiping blood from his mouth with a grin. "I've met Human females before. None were that strong."

The Dawn's smile was thin. "Yeah, and your old ass can move that fast without soul power. I've heard of the Quickening you soul bastards use. Shut up and fight."

She charged, twenty blows in ten seconds. Punches, kicks, knees, elbows. Street fighter violence tuned to a supernatural frequency.
Fiaster blocked each strike with three arms moving in tandem.

He pulled his walking stick from his clothing and swiped, forcing her back, then raised it overhead for a smash. A small gray brick wall snapped into existence between his cane and her skull.

The cane vibrated, carving gauges into it, then the cane shattered, sending pieces flying into Fiaster's body. He staggered but stayed on his feet.

The Dawn teleported behind him. He anticipated it, slashing a hand where he believed she'd appear. Ten feet too low.

She was above him, dropping like a meteor. He felt her descent and couldn't dodge. Her impact landed an inch from his body-THUNK-rock shivering from the force.

He countered with a backhanded fist that sent her crashing to the cavern floor.

"You almost had me," Fiaster said, breathing hard, grinning through blood. "These old bones would have shattered if not for my Aura Cloak. Or have you forgotten us soul bastards have that ability, too?"

A sudden gust of wind blew the dust away. The Dawn was already on her feet with no damage visible. She smiled, small, cruelly pleased. Without a word, she came in again.

Fiaster met her advance with a Boom Sonic.
The Dawn flew backward, kicked up dirt at her landing twenty meters away. Fiaster laughed for half a minute, as if it made him feel young again.

The Dawn's voice cut through it. "Are you done?"

Fiaster turned and froze. The Dawn stood behind him.

Shock flickered across his face. "Impossible. A Boom Sonic at that range should have put you down. Maybe there's merit to you after all," he admitted.

The Dawn shrugged. "Maybe."

Fiaster's grin sharpened. "Then it's time I took my leave. Sorry if you die."

He raised his hands. Wavy energy streamed from them into the cavern walls. The air vibrated with a dense hum, like the planet was singing a warning.

A force slammed into The Dawn's back and launched her toward a thin white line of energy emerging from the opposite wall.

A brick wall appeared, the thin line gouged deep in it, before it vanished.

She took to the air, a wave erupted from beneath her. She avoided it, then another. The near-invisible attacks came from all directions.
The Dawn teleported toward where she remembered Fiaster, and met another wave of sound.

It sliced into her leg, another thin line kissed her back. Blood spurted into the air. Fiaster stood near a tunnel deeper in the Web, eyes bright with satisfaction.

"You might have a little talent," he said, almost kindly, "but you need stronger magic if you intend to be taken seriously. Goodbye for now, youngling."

"Where you going?"

Fiaster jerked toward the voice-

Only to lean into a right hook that smashed what teeth he had left. His arms flailed as he skipped head over heels across the rocky floor and slammed into the far wall.

The booming stopped. The relentless attacks ceased. Dust made another appearance.

When it cleared, Dycordian Defense Force soldiers stormed into the cavern, startled by the unconscious Ksush at their feet.

Claude arrived with them, eyes sweeping the space until they locked onto The Dawn, emerging from the darkness.

"You get lost," The Dawn said, wiping blood that didn't seem to matter, "or were you waiting for me to finish up?"

Claude ignored the bite. "Are you injured?"

The Dawn pointed at the unconscious Fiaster with a smirk. "He thought I was. Illusions are the simplest form of magic. I hear even Earthlings can do 'em."

She glanced around. "Where's the other one?"

A voice came from behind her.

"Name's Kane. And I'm right here."

Kane stepped in holding one of the small metal boxes the mercenaries had carried. Weapons snapped up instantly.

"Hold it!" a soldier barked. "That's explosive material!"

"No it's not," Kane said.

He opened the box to reveal a small device with dials.

"This is all that was in here," Kane said. "And it doesn't fit Claude's description of magnite."

Soldiers examined it while the squad leader received a call.

"It is a device designed to mimic the same radiation signature as magnite," a soldier reported.

The squad leader's face twisted. "And so were the other two boxes found. We were played."

Fiaster, cuffed now, lifted his bloody mouth into a grin that went ear to ear. "We never stole a thing," he said.

Every weapon pointed at him.

"We just made you look like fools."

Claude stepped forward, voice low. "What was the point of this? What did the Trust hope to achieve?"

Fiaster shrugged. "I was kicked from the Trust years ago. Hired a group of mercs to embarrass the local government and show the Trust they can let me back in."

His grin widened.

"It was working too. Had you running around like the Magic Donkey Brothers."

The squad leader snarled. "Do you have his soul coal, soldier?"

"Yes, sir."

A soldier stepped up with a lump of red coal the size of a toddler's ball. Dull. Unremarkable. The squad leader hurled it against the cavern wall. It shattered into red crumbs.

Fiaster shrugged, still smiling. "I'm still tougher than you."

The squad leader stepped closer. "Let us find out."

A new voice cut through the cavern like a law given flesh.

"Now, now. Let no man say Dycordians treat prisoners unjustly."

A heavily muscled Dycordian strode in wearing shining gold armor. An exotic firearm at his hip and straight-edge sword strapped to his back.
As he passed, Dycordians bowed low.

Kane bent too. The Dawn didn't.

The squad leader stiffened. "My apologies, Lord Gilmesh."

The gold-armored Dycordian's mouth twitched. "We go by the law. All members and former members of the Trust undergo extensive interrogation."

He motioned, and two soldiers hauled Fiaster away. Because the old Ksush kept shuffling slowly, they were forced into carrying him, while he laughed.

Gilmesh turned to the trio.

"Now, for the reason I am here," he said. "The retrieval of three wayward Superstars."

Claude lowered his head. "Our apologies."

The Dawn cocked her head. "Who's this guy?"

Kane hissed, "Show some respect. That's the Lord of the Guardian caste."

Gilmesh's expression softened, just slightly. "It is fine, Kane. Nice to see you again." He looked at The Dawn. "But lord is not a title I like to go by. Call me Gilmesh, lovely visitor."

His gaze swept all three of them.

"And I am here to escort you to the Assembly Hall. It is time to showcase the stars of the show."

---

Roxy hovered before the Tower of Laws; open ceiling structure packed with a million people, their cheers rising like heat.

"And now," Roxy announced, "a special word from the rulers of Dycord and this year's Grandmasters, the Lords of Continent."

From Dycord's clear skies, three figures descended on rotating disks, the disks orbiting each other like choreographed planets, their hands toward the heavens.

The disks stopped a hundred feet above the ground, continuing to rotate so each Lord could address the masses. The crowd cheered until their throats should've bled. The Lords lowered their hands.

Jarrik, identified as Lord of the Govern Caste, spoke.

"On this day, a thousand years ago, a coalition between planets was established. To commemorate the historical event, the leaders of that time created the Coalition Carnage Competition. And we continue this wonderful tradition... for each and every one of you. I, Jarrik, can assure you this will be the greatest Coalition Carnage in history."

In the Assembly Hall's massive entrance corridor, Kane, Claude, and The Dawn walked beneath statues of races holding the sigils of their home planets.

Above the archway leading into the main hall, a hologram of the Papuru Star hung in glory, while off-world delegates watched via floor-to-ceiling holoviews. A serve-tek approached with armlets on velvet pillows.

The Dawn leaned forward, delighted. "Oh look at the cute serve-tek. I want one one day."

Kane leaned toward Claude and whispered, "Does she have multiple personalities or what."

The omnibands clicked onto their wrists. As the next Lord, Yemi of the Spirit Caste, spoke about faith and gods and blessings, their omnibands beeped-

Energy surrounded them and they vanished from the corridor. They reappeared high above the crowd on gravdisks, where the Tower of Laws ceiling would have been.

Claude stood two meters to Kane's left. To Kane's right stood a one-armed Dagon, staring down at the crowd like he was searching for someone he hated.

A female voice cursed softly somewhere among the disks. Below them, Gilmesh floated and spoke to the crowd.

"Victory or defeat, Superstars bleed and die for glory and the Blessing of their people and planet. We will never forget the sacrifices made by the chosen of the past, future, or present."

The seventeen disks descended, then spread outward in a widening circle until each Superstar hovered only a dozen meters from the silent crowd.

Gilmesh continued, voice steady, heavy with ceremony. "These Superstars will bear the hopes and dreams of each of you and deserve your affection."

The crowd erupted. The cheer was loud enough to be heard for miles, lasting a full two minutes.
When it finally quieted, Gilmesh lifted a hand.

"Becoming the victor, the Supernova, immortalized ninety-nine of your predecessors." His voice rose. "One of which has some encouraging words."

Between Superstars and audience, a face appeared, Human, blue-tinted eyes, smiling like he knew everyone watching.

The crowd screamed again. Kane cheered too, unable to stop himself. Claude smiled. But The Dawn's posture tightened, subtle as a blade being drawn.

The smiling face spoke.

"Hey. It's me, The Truth, here to offer congratulations to the new crop of Superstars. Get ready for the most extravagant moments of your lives and always remember: the child of the star shines bright, even at rise. And though it may seem eternal night approaches in its wake... the will of mortals will always usher in a new dawn. Good luck. And fear not."

The face vanished.

Kane turned to Claude, puzzled, and thrilled, simultaneously. Claude raised an eyebrow at Kane with a small smile.

The three Lords raised their arms and spoke in unison:

"Wisdom, strength, and faith we grant to each of you, to the end of time! Coalition Carnage has begun!"

The Lords and Superstars ascended out of view.
Roxy dropped into the feed with a grin that could move men to war.

"The first competition begins in one hour, carnies, so get those last minute bets in!"

---

Later, an empty corridor inside the Assembly Hall held Claude sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, calm as if the building's noise couldn't touch him. Kane walked up, breath still a little fast from being cheered at by a million strangers.

Claude opened his eyes. "What did she say?"

Kane frowned. "Couldn't find her. Soon as the ceremony was over, she must've teleported somewhere that's not the Assembly Hall."

Claude's gaze lowered, thoughtful. "Have you seen the matchups?"

Kane's grin returned, pure adrenaline. "Yep. You and I are up first."

Claude's mouth lifted into something that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite a warning. "Should prove fun."

"For me, at least," Kane said. "I'm going to win."

Claude's eyes held his, steady, affectionate, dangerous. "We shall soon see."

 

[papuru]

PAST

A small hand clutched a bigger one as the city of Jewelhead swallowed them whole.

The avenue glittered with tall, curved buildings and decorative booths packed so tight, the crowd flowed like one organism. Off-world tourists, Earthlings especially, outnumbered the Dycordians, gawking at masks, trinkets, and foods that smelled like every planet had decided to send a chef to cook there at once.

Child Kane craned his neck so hard it looked like his head might pop off and bounce down the avenue.

Kane (voiceover)
Jewelhead. Planet Dycord's vacation darling. Mom said it was alien enough to feel like an adventure... and familiar enough to feel safe. Lots of Earthlings. Lots of cameras. Lots of reasons to believe nothing bad could happen, unless fate was feeling petty.

A green-skinned Finan ran a booth where toy planes dog fought in midair, controlled by a headpiece on his forehead. The little fighters looped and spun, firing harmless light bursts that made nearby kids squeal like they were watching a war and not a commercial.

Child Kane's fingers slipped free and he bolted.

"Sweetie-" Kane's mother reached, but he was already skidding to a stop at the booth, eyes huge, mouth already begging.

"But mom it's from Flight for Space! My favorite show! Please! Please!"

His mother caught up, breathless in a way that wasn't from running. Her smile arrived late, like it had gotten lost and had to be called.

"It's lunch time," she said, gentle but firm. "Toy later."

Child Kane pointed at two different fighters. "That one! And that one!"

Kane's mother stared at the toys like they were loaded weapons, then she sighed, and her hands moved.

"Okay.Pick one."

Child Kane, being a professional menace, immediately grabbed two.

Kane (voiceover)
Idiot kid. Completely self-absorbed in kid things. Didn't see how unhappy she was. Didn't see that these vacations were the only times her true nature leaked through, like the mask slipped when she thought nobody was watching.

They walked again, and the toy fighters wove above unsuspecting shoppers, faux lasers pinging, simulated crashes triggering little whines. One "shot down" fighter spun and sailed into a narrow alley beside a mask shop.

Child Kane chased it without thinking.

Two Dagons, big, muscular, and definitely intoxicated, stumbled into the same alley, laughing loudly like the universe was their personal sitcom. Kane's mother hurried after her son, panic flashing so hard it might as well have been a flare.

Kane (voiceover)
Mom was overprotective, sure. But not normal-mom overprotective. She acted like everyone was a threat. She taught me how to read people with near-perfect accuracy. By six, friend versus foe was easy. Like... scary easy.

When she reached the alley, she found her son laughing while the Dagons "flew" the toy around each other's heads, making engine noises and nearly crying from laughter.

For half a heartbeat, her body loosened in relief.
Then her eyes cut toward the alley mouth. A figure came into view wearing a long dark cloak and a mask from the shop next door. The kind of mask people bought because "mysterious" felt fashionable, except this wasn't fashionable. This was intentional.

The Dagons lumbered out past him, still laughing. He didn't even glance at them as he strolled forward.

Kane (voiceover)
Yeah. I knew the second I saw him. And so did Mom.

Kane's mother moved like she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life. She shoved Child Kane behind her with one arm, hard and decisive, then planted herself between her son and the cloaked man.

The man's hand came out from under the cloak holding a gun.

In a modest living area, sometime later, Child Kane sat hunched, shoulders shaking, face wet, hands balled into fists that didn't know what to punch.

A blue skinned boy slid onto the couch beside him and offered a sandwich with both hands like it was sacred.

The boy's parents stood in the doorway, crying silently, the kind of crying grown-ups do when they're trying to be brave and failing.

Kane (voiceover)
Both our families knew each other before either of us was born. So I stayed with Claude's family until my aunt came from Earth to scoop me up. Claude helped me survive the years after. And I'm man enough to say it: Claude is my best friend.

PRESENT

The common area near Assembly Hall looked like someone tried to decorate with plants from at least four worlds, with a subtle warning that money exists. All types of alien fauna lined the walls, intersecting seating meant for diplomatic conversations and public meltdowns.

A massive window framed the main avenue leading to Assembly Hall, busy with delegates, aides, security, carnival spillover, land and air vehicles, and that massive topaz structure looming like a watchful wall.

Claude stood at the window, serene as a prayer.

Kane stared at a datapad like it had personally insulted his bloodline.

"I don't get it," Kane said. "I'm faster, stronger, more agile. Tougher-"

"Modest," Claude replied without turning.

"-and yet your ranking is higher. That's why I don't pay attention to the SRC. Biased."

Claude finally looked over, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Against?"

"Against me. Against Earthlings. We always at the bottom."

"No disrespect," Claude said calmly, "but Earth has only won one Competition out of ninety-nine."

Kane's jaw tightened. "Like I don't know that. I have the same Soul Style as the guy who did win. That alone should bump me above at least the one-armed guy. What's he ranked?"

"Many of the others have years, or decades, of fighting experience."

"I've got experience, buddy. And you know that."

"I know." Claude's voice softened. "The Superstars' Guild uses many factors. Experience is chief among them."

Kane snorted. "The ones deciding that must be as old as Fiaster."

A commotion rolled down the hall like a bad decision on wheels. Two voices, loud and nearly identical, argued at the same time. Kane turned to them, sighing audibly.

"Tell Dane I'm fighting first!"

"Tell Zane I'm fighting first!"

Security guards shifted and delegates turned. Aides braced for chaos the way a person braces for rain, already resigned to being wet.

Kane's eyes darkened. Claude's grin arrived like he'd been waiting all day for the punchline. "You have company."

"The worst in the galaxy," Kane muttered.

Two Human males stepped into the common area dressed similarly except for color and style. They also wore the same face. Kane's face.

Zane and Dane, Kane's Syncs, identical down to the smirk that suggested they'd been born purely to ruin the man's peace. They liked to bickered in stereo.

Kane (voiceover)
The damn Syncs. Coalition science or magic or both, who cares. Sent to live with me six months ago to "learn Kane," according to my agent. They exist to take my place in battles I don't want to, or can't, participate in. Which is hilarious, because I'm not passing up any battles. Not now. Not ever.

When security started inching closer, Kane stood up sharp enough to make his chair slide back with a scrap.

"Will you two shut up!" Kane snapped. "Neither of you are going!"

Zane pointed like he was prosecuting. "But you won't do what it takes to win! I will!"

Dane nodded at his twin. "He means kill."

"Are you crazy?" Kane hissed.

"Killing the other guy takes him out the game," Zane said, utterly sincere.

"Then you miss the opportunity," Dane added, "to see the look of utter disappointment on their faces when you win."

Kane pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought you two hated Dycord and weren't leaving the ship."

"Changed our minds," Dane said. "When we saw who was up first."

Claude stepped forward, polite as always. "I am Claude. Nice to make-"

"We know who you are," Zane cut in. "We got Kane's memories and good looks. We also know you plan to use your friendship with our Base as a means to win."

"Yeah!" Dane agreed.

Kane's head snapped. "You guys changed my alarm-"

"That was Dane," Zane said immediately.

"-and ate all the food the hotel gave us."

"That was Zane," Dane said just as quickly.

Zane pointed at Dane. "Because Dane was going to blow up the whole unit as a prank."

Two omnibands beeped in unison. A feminine electronic voice spoke over their wrists, ushering destiny.

Omnibands: Sixty seconds until teleportation.

Dane lunged a step. "Quick, give me the omniband! I promise not to kill your friend, just crush his spirit."

"And I promise his death will be humane," Zane said, as if that made him a saint.

Kane turned to Claude, dead serious. "If I let one of these psychos go, do you promise to kill them?"

Claude didn't blink. "No."

"That's a big negative, fellas!" Kane barked at the Syncs. "Now go to the nearest market and restock that unit."

Claude's eyebrows rose. "I do hope my Syncs are not as... gung ho?"

"I think you mean asshole."

In a flash of static, teleportation took them mid-argument, mid-insult, mid-life.

The heat hit like a hovertruck. Around him, black rocky surfaces and rivers of lava; in the distance, a volcano looming. The Fire Eye, a geodome with a kill count and a fan base that probably liked that kill count.

Kane's boots kissed onyx. Claude appeared nearby, barefoot and composed. A group of five Yuni lounged on rocks fifty meters away, drinking from clear glasses that contained boiling liquids.

"Yo!" one Yuni shouted. "Superstar Kane!"

Kane glanced over. "Yeah?"

"You suck!"

Kane smiled sweetly. "So does your mom."

The Yuni burst into laughter, one so offended he threw his drink. The boiling liquid never came close and sizzled into nothing.

Kane pointed casually at the lava river. "Maybe you need to cool off in that river over there."

Claude's voice slid in at Kane's shoulder. "He is inebriated. You should ignore him."

Kane jerked around. "Damn, you're quiet. Make some noise when you sneak up on a friend."

"If I were anyone else," Claude said mildly, "I would have attacked when your back was turned."

"Good thing I'm fighting a priest then." Kane paused. "Wait. That sounded bad."

"Less talking!" a second Yuni yelled. "More trying to kill each other!"

Claude glanced upward as if he could see through the dome. "The others are probably watching."

Kane nodded. "Yeah. I don't want them seeing everything this early."

"Precisely." Claude lifted his hand, holding up his fingers. "So. First to force the other to use three techniques wins."

Kane's grin returned. "Sounds like a plan."

A holographic shimmer appeared beside them.

Roxy Boss hovered in, glittering and dramatic, feathers and charisma weaponized.

"Um, guys?" she said, stage-whispering. "People are booing."

"We're fighting," Kane said. "We're fighting. Go away and let us fight."

Roxy vanished with a huff like a star exiting a scene.

Kane exhaled and rolled his shoulders. "You ready? Hold on, Soul Style increases strength and speed. I can't turn it off. And your just a normal Dycordian. I mean... you know."

"I know," Claude said. "Which means I must use a technique now."

A six-foot staff rose from the onyx floor, forged of the same midnight material. It slid up into his waiting hand.

Kane's left forearm glowed. Silver energy crawled over the omniband and extended thirty inches from his fist, pulsing rhythmically, until it formed a blade that faded to nothing at the tip.

"Now we each have two left," Kane said.

Claude twirled the staff once, clean and deadly. "Let us begin."

Kane blurred forward. His first slash came almost lazy, testing. Claude blocked and silver sparks skittered.

The staff caught his Will Blade. Kane's smile froze. Claude hooked him under the arm and used Kane's momentum like a borrowed weapon, tossing him forty feet.

Kane twisted in air and landed light, boots scraping onyx.

Roxy's voice boomed from somewhere above, half-delighted, half-annoyed. "The Superstar pals test each other in a quick melee exchange! Now... they talk again."

Kane stared at Claude. "How did you do that? My Will Blade can cut anything."

Claude's staff hummed faintly. "My World Bo is not merely matter. It is a portion of a planet's spirit. Though you possess formidable will, I do not believe you match a planet."

"But we're on a moon."

"Moons are a planet's hands," Claude replied, like that made perfect sense and also like he didn't care if it didn't.

Kane squinted. "That's not weird at all. What about the strength to even block me? If you used a technique-"

"Did you read the SRC?" Claude asked.

"The SRC is for amateur gamblers and carnie nerds."

"True," Claude said, "but it hints at your opponent. One benefit of Communion Style is gaining attributes of what I eat. I had wild yonder for breakfast."

Kane pointed accusingly. "You cheated."

"I cannot turn it on and off, Kane."

Kane's eyes narrowed. "Did you know we were the first fight?"

Above, Roxy screamed at the crowd, probably. "Conversation is the more accurate term! Let's see some blood!"

The Yuni cheered like they'd been hired to do so.

Kane's stance lowered. "Fine. I will get you to reveal something next."

He launched again, then broke angle, circling, blurring around Claude like a silver storm.

Kane (voiceover)
All Soul Style users have Quickening. It's not a technique, so I'm golden. Besides, I'm stalling. Claude doesn't rush down. He waits. Always. I hadn't forgotten what happened the last time we saw each other.

PAST

Teen Kane rushed Teen Claude, fist cocked for a haymaker fueled by grief and stupidity. Claude sidestepped left.

Kane took a knee to the midsection and a foot under his chin. The impact should've ended it, but it didn't.

Kane came in again, yelling, "Take it back!"

Claude got shoved backward by a gust of wind. Kane's fist cratered the ground where Claude had been standing. Even though they wore formal suits, they fought like demons.

Mourners screamed. Others froze, too shocked to process violence in a place built for sorrow.
Claude caught Kane's outstretched arm and, in a blink, had him face-first in grass, locked in an arm submission.

Claude's voice was tight with emotion he refused to let spill. "I will not. You are being a fool yet again."

Kane roared and jumped, trying to smash Claude on the landing. He released, rolled, and rose uninjured. A stern voice cut through the scene.

"Stop!"

Both froze. Seer Vassi walked toward them as if walking into such a situation was normal.

"I know emotions are raw," Vassi said, "but this is a place for mourning. Not fighting. You are both at fault. She would be disappointed."

Teen Kane swallowed hard, then turned away. "I'm outta here."

Claude watched him go.

Kane (voiceover)
I was a real jackhole back then. Couldn't admit Claude was right. I will remind him after this match... assuming we both survive the lava and the audience's bloodlust.

PRESENT

Kane snapped back to the present, circling. Claude stood almost motionless, staff ready, reading the air like it was scripture.

Kane came in from Claude's blind spot, silver blade streaking. Claude met him as if he'd known the angle before Kane picked it. He blocked, causing more sparks, and throws Kane.

He skids and comes in again, three slashes aimed left; blocked, blocked, parried. Claude's staff left his hands in a sudden throw, rebounding with a loud THWACK, one inch from Kane's face, then snapping back into Claude's grip like it was on a leash.

Claude's gaze sharpened. "Got your Aura Cloak out of the way. Take this more seriously."

"That could've put my eye out!"

"Be thankful I did not toss you into the lava," Claude said politely. "That was my original plan."

Kane's mouth opened, then closed. "If your still mad, we can talk."

"I am sorry," Claude said. "Clarification: I only wanted your Aura Cloak unavailable. It takes approximately twenty-four hours to recharge unless the SRC is wrong."

Kane shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."

Claude nodded once. "Then let us show our second techniques before it returns."

Claude spun the World Bo so fast the wind slapped Kane's clothes.

Behind Claude, the heat rising from the lava bed twisted, then obeyed.

Rivers of molten rock climbed into the air like charmed snakes, weaving into two swirling tornadoes of lava, fifteen feet wide, twenty feet tall.

Kane took one involuntary step back.

Roxy's commentary flared across the dome. "Superstar Claude is turning up the heat and the stakes! How will Superstar Kane counter such an attack!?"

Kane (voiceover)
Claude promised later he wasn't trying to kill me. For a second... I wasn't sure I believed him.

The twin lava funnels surged toward Kane, who leapt, zipped, and vaulted, flashing between black stone and rivers of fire. The lava tornadoes followed every movement, ignoring physics like they'd personally unfriended it.

Kane landed on an outcropping and a funnel smashed it. Molten rock exploded outward like shrapnel. The Yuni carnies ducked flaming chunks while still holding their drinks.

The second funnel barreled in like a runaway train. Kane's Will Blade grew, expanding, brightening.

A spinning backhand slash carved the air, appearing like half a crescent moon. The lava tornado vanished fifty feet away, erased into steam and sparks.

Claude smiled, impressed despite himself. "Your Will Blade is formidable indeed."

"Took years," Kane said. "Wasn't easy."

"I can imagine." Claude's eyes searched Kane's face. "You are different than before. More determined. What changed?"

Kane's smile thinned. "I'll fill you in after my victory pose."

Kane charged again and the two display mastery of their chosen weapons in a display of footwork and feints; the kind of fight that looked like choreography.

Kane (voiceover)
The real reason I'm here? I couldn't say it while the whole galaxy listened. The truth would crush people. And it would tip off the bastards I'm hunting.

PAST

Kane rummaged through a closet stacked with hundreds of hand-sized cases, old holoview archives kept like heirlooms.

Kane (voiceover)
My great-great grandfather found a vault of vintage cartoons back when Humans abandoned Earth's surface to live above the clouds. He preserved them. Passed them down. When I miss my parents, I watch one. It's the closest thing to time travel I got.

Kane slid a small cube into a machine.
A hologram popped up: a cartoon rabbit sprinting from hunters, exaggerated faces, slapstick physics.

Kane laughed through a lump in his throat, then the image flickered. The rabbit vanished and a woman appeared, smiling, Kane's mother. He shot up so fast the chair protested.

Kane (voiceover)
When I saw her, smiling that smile that used to melt fear, my heart climbed into my throat and refused to leave.

She spoke gently, like she always did.

"Hello, Kane. I'm recording this on 1035-053-UC, just before we left for Dycord. I don't know when you'll see this... but I know you will. And I know by then I'll be dead."

Kane's hand reached for her face. His fingers passed through hologram static.

"My death was not an accident," she continued. "Not random. Something I discovered may have led to it. I'm leaving this as a warning."

She paused, eyes heavy with love and fear.

"Those Superstars you admire, the ones who win Coalition Carnage... I'm sorry, dear, but the Coalition kills them."

Kane's lungs forgot how to work.

"They murder these celebrities for reasons I don't fully understand... and replace them with Tek that look exactly like them."

Her voice stayed steady, but her eyes didn't.

"I'm telling you for two reasons. Don't become a Superstar. And if you're seeking justice for me... please don't. Live your life. You are the love of my life. I can give my life to keep you safe."

She smiled one last time.

"Goodbye. I love you."

The cartoon snapped back to its slapstick chase.
Kane didn't see it, tears too thick. His Will Blade forms and the couch is split in half like it had offended him.

Kane (voiceover)
I got Soul Style for reasons only loosely connected to the competition. But after that? I had a reason to join Coalition Carnage. A reason of vengeance.

PRESENT

Kane's strikes intensified. Claude blocked and dodged, staff spinning like a shield made of night. Claude almost locked Kane in another submission, but Kane's knee jammed the angle before it sealed.

Claude twisted, tossed Kane again. As Kane landed, Claude spun the staff overhead. Behind Kane, the air stirred. Five lava funnels formed.
The Yuni carnies whooped like they'd personally summoned them.

One yelled, "Hope you burn to perfection!" and his buddies guffawed like that was comedy.

Kane glanced at Claude. "Okay. I sees you."

Kane charged straight past Claude, the tornadoes in tow. Claude's smile widened, sure he'd predicted it. But Kane's target wasn't Claude.

Kane cut ninety degrees left two meters in front of the Yuni carnies. The Yuni had just enough time to realize what was happening.
They scrambled, but the tornadoes ignored them, locked on Kane like hungry gods.

Kane skidded, turned, and raised his right hand.
A faint silver glow bloomed at his wrist and he punched forward. A silver ring-shaped construct shot out, expanding violently as it flew, fifty times larger, humming with pressure.

The five lava funnels got dragged into it as if the ring was a hole in reality. They were gone with no trace.

Claude's eyed his friend with respect. "That is two. Sutúraito Ringu. The SRC says it transmutes anything that enters into pure will energy."

"That's right," Kane said.

Claude's gaze flicked to the ring, still hovering. "Releasing that energy would constitute your third technique."

"It does," Kane agreed.

The ring twisted, folded, and morphed into a long-eared bipedal rabbit chewing a carrot like it was on a break.

Kane's mouth quirked. "Technique: Jack."

Claude smiled as if the universe had finally proven him right. "Then I win."

Jack moved, not fast, almost instant.

A silver line snapped toward Claude.

Claude barely dodged left, but the beam corrected mid-flight and struck him square in the chest. There was a bright flash. When it faded, Claude lay flat on his back, eyes closed.

Roxy's voice blared. "And Superstar Claude is down! Time to start the count! One... two... three..."

Kane sprinted to him, kneeling.

"Ten!" Roxy shouted. "And the winner of Battle One, Superstar Kane!"

Kane waved up at the dome cameras, quick, practiced, then turned back, all jokes gone. Claude groaned and sat up slowly.

"Easy," Kane said, helping him. "I had it set to stun."

Claude blinked, then managed a shaky smile. "I did not see that coming. I mean... at all."

Omnibands: Five seconds until teleportation to safe zone.

Claude's voice dropped, urgent and private. "Meet me at the carnival entrance."

Static swallowed them.

---

Kane rematerialized inside a spacious cabin with dark green walls, his Streamjet's living module. One oval table and two opposing seats rising from beneath the floor, soft looking couches and monitors embedded in walls was all that was there.

One screen showed Roxy talking on mute, another, an empty cockpit. The smell of food hit Kane's nose.

Zane stood by an archway, arms crossed. "You won. That was cool. My win would've been more decisive."

Dane entered wearing a cook's apron. "We used the food onboard to make a victory brunch until you go shopping."

Kane stared at them like they were radioactive. "I'm going to meet Claude."

Dane grinned. "Y'all still good after you whooped his ass?"

"Please be gone when I gets back," Kane said, "never to return."

Kane Quickened out, only to have his dramatic exit ruined by the hatch door taking its sweet time. Behind him, the Syncs' voices carried:

"Did he say he was never coming back?" Dane asked.

"Yes," Zane replied happily. "I'll take the next fight."

The Streamjet dock was egg-shaped and packed with maintenance personnel and security, Human and Dycordian, cheering as Kane disembarked.

He waved, smiling nervously, then zipped out through the open hangar bay doors into the crowd-choked boulevards of Topaz City.

Kane (voiceover)
The applause never sits right. But I knew what I signed for. Being a Superstar means carrying the hopes and prayers of people who don't even know me. And even when I beat their Superstar, Dycordians still congratulate me.

Kane scanned for a path through bodies and food stands and gravdisk dancers, then caught movement in the distance.

A figure vaulted rooftop to rooftop, heading away from the Tower of Laws.

Kane (voiceover)
Seeing someone use Quickening to run away from the Tower made me think "shady." Trust die-hard? Copycat? Someone finishing Fiaster's supposed plan? I decided to follow.

Kane leapt up a building face, the crowd cheering like he'd just performed for them personally. From above, he saw balloons releasing from the distant carnival site, and the rooftop runner about a mile out.

He closed the distance, noticing the runner was a woman. She stopped on a roof overlooking a clearing. Kane crouched, Claude arriving a heartbeat later.

"What are you doing?" Claude asked.

Kane almost jumped. "Damnit, man."

"You need to work on your Awareness."

Kane gestured sharply. "I was aware enough to notice this lady acting sus. She left the Tower via roof jumping. After what happened this morning..."

Claude studied the woman, frowning. "I believe she is the Superstar of Pia. She resembles her."

The woman turned, glaring directly at them.
Both men went rigid, suddenly pretending they had been admiring the architecture for purely innocent reasons. She looked away like they weren't worth her eyesight.

Then she jumped off the roof. Kane sprinted to the edge.

Kane (voiceover)
For half a second, I thought she was trying to off herself. Me so stupid.

Below was a clearing of granite walkways spiraling inward, several avenues blocked off because of the dragon nested in the center.

It had crimson and violet scales, eyes longer than Kane was tall, and rows of teeth two meters long.

Claude sounded a little excited. "Cool. A dragonfly."

Kane swallowed. "I've never seen one this close."

The woman approached the beast without fear and patted it gently between two massive nostrils.

Then she threw one last glare up at Kane and Claude, pure contempt, sharp as a slap. Then she walked directly between two teeth, into the dragon's open maw.

The dragon closed its mouth. Its eyes stayed on the two Interlopers.

Claude exhaled slowly. "Have to admit... watching that was a little unsettling."

Kane stared at the dragonfly's closed mouth, heat and mystery prickling his skin. "What a galaxy we live in."

 

[papuru]

The Tower of Laws rose like a hollow crown over Topaz City, stone spiraling up, open to the skies, packed with a million bodies and a million opinions. Below, the holoview replayed the same moment again and again:

A silver line, too fast to be real, stitching the air.
Claude dropping.

The Dycordian crowd sat stunned into silence, like someone had snuffed their fire with a damp towel. A few humans cheered anyway, small, sounds that bounced around the Tower's enormous throat.

Avia Zareil stood at the very edge where a roof should have been, hair and cloak tugged by a stiff wind, pointed ears flexing with the gusts. Rigid brow carved her expression into something stern and unmovable.

And inside that sternness-

-Oh. So the Human wins. Doesn't matter. I can handle them. Both of them. One after the other, like brushstrokes. Clean and final.

She looked away from the holoview and out across Topaz's boulevards; non-linear design, semi-patterned chaos, beauty that wanted to be art and couldn't quite stop being infrastructure.

Then the metal caught her eye. There was so much of it everywhere.

-Metal, the bones of their city. Like a disease. No wonder their spirits feel... soft. No wonder their towers need crutches.

Avia stepped into empty air and dropped.
Wind screamed up past her face. The curved roof of Assembly Hall rushed toward her.

At the last breath of impact, her Soul Style flickered, silver aura, only visible to the few who could see such things, and her Aura Cloak swallowed the collision. She landed like a queen; no crater or cracks, so no apology needed.

And then she ran across the roof, over the curve, into a long leap that carried her to the next building with the ease of someone born to be chased by history and never caught.

-Ten minutes. Aura Cloak needs ten minutes. Plenty of time to plan.

Topaz stretched below her like a painted map, the Tower of Laws looming behind her. The carnival's music drifted on the wind in thumping waves.

And Avia moved, building to building, like a blade skimming water.

-Their architecture is... almost respectable. Non-linear, semi-pattern, beautiful like a painting. And then, that abominable substance. Metal in every seam and joint of this place. These two clash, yet compliment each other, like two sisters.

She vaulted again and the memory hit her hard enough to steal her breath.

PAST

Zareil Castle was not just a three-kilometer stone structure. It was towns folded around it like loyal children around a cruel parent. The courtyard glittered with glass statues of old royals-semi-opaque, dignified, cold.

Four sisters sat on grass beneath the keep, eating pastries.

Anya smiled at the statues. "Mom would've loved these."

Young Avia looked up fast. "Really? Did mom really like puffs?"

"Sure did," Anya said. "Her favorite was joval cream."

Avia brightened. "That's mine too!"

Zetori, older and already sharpening herself into a weapon, smirked. "You two even look alike."

Avia's voice went small. "Would mom have liked me?"

Zella's hand found Avia's shoulder. Warm. Steady. "She would love you, Avia."

Then a voice like a slamming door.

"We'll never know..."

King Zareil approached in red and black, regal attire, eyes like daggers. His daughters lifted their heads as if bracing for impact.

"...since you killed her."

Anya stood, fire in her spine. "Father! For the very last time, enough. You will not-"

"I will do as I please-"

"Not when it comes to Avia! Act like a true father and-"

The ground began to shake.

Glass statues toppled. Stone groaned and the keep shuddered.

The sisters stumbled; the King did not. He stood too steady, like the world shaking was something he could conquer.

"Another quake!" he barked. "Girls, away from the castle!"

Avia did not hear. She was screamed and staggered toward the keep entrance like a moth toward flame. A chunk of the keep's wall collapsed, slamming down meters from her, dust rose like a ghost.

Anya rushed, pushing Avia away from the falling stone and tripped as more rock rained down. The King snatched Avia up and ran.

As they fled, Avia's eyes caught something in the rubble: an arm. Anya's arm, jutting from stone and mortar like the world wanted to be sure to haunt her dreams.

The quake ended as abruptly as it began.

Three sisters and a father remained, huddled and shaking-except the father's shaking was rage, not grief. He dropped Avia hard enough that her ribs screamed.

Royal guards arrived, forming defensive positions as if the enemy was out there they could fight.

"Take the weak one to the faith healers," King Zareil ordered. "I will retrieve their sister's body."

Avia sobbed as she was carried away, bruised and broken, her sisters' hands clinging to her.

And King Zareil's eyes said what his mouth always would: This is your fault.

PRESENT

Avia landed on another roof in Topaz City, breath steady, steps precise. She felt it before she heard it: A second Soul, moving fast. Then another, following her.

-Does he think he's sneaky? I slowed down so the moron could keep up. But why is he following me? Curiosity? Perversion?
Dycordians do love their metal and their nonsense, but also privacy.

She reached the last roof on the block and paused, looking down into a clearing where her dragonfly slept.

Zelda Ann, her lovely beautiful friend. Her snoring vibrated the oval structure like a drumbeat under stone. Avia felt the two behind her stop as well.

She turned and gave them the look her father used to give her at breakfast, the one that meant you don't matter. They froze and she snorted.

-Try it. I dare you.

Then she stepped off the roof again, this time without her Aura Cloak, because she didn't need it for this.

She hit the ground light and clean. Zelda Ann woke immediately, enormous eyes shifting, black and yellow pupils dilating as Avia approached, laying a hand on the dragonfly's snout.

"Hey, Zelda Ann," she murmured. "Been getting enough rest?"

The beast rumbled softly, gaze tilting upward toward the rooftops. Avia didn't look back right away.

"Don't worry," she said. "They're harmless."

Then she finally glanced up. Two men stared down at her: Kane and Claude. Fear or wonder had tangled their faces into something almost honest.

Avia gave them a last look of contempt, sharp enough to cut, and walked into Zelda Ann's open mouth.

Pillars of teeth welcomed her; tongue soft beneath her tough montusk-hide boots. The inside was fog-glass, walls, ceiling, floor, like someone had built a cathedral inside a living throat.

-I'm sorry this was done to you. Once this is over, I'm pulling all of it out. Every bit of it.

Her two Syncs waited deeper inside, one doing pushups, the other reading.

They ignored her. She ignored them back, entering a separate chamber. A small wooden box sat by the far wall. She sat cross-legged beside it, exhaled, and opened it like it contained something poisonous.

The omniband gleamed. Avia picked it up with two fingers and snapped it to her right wrist. She closed her eyes, head against the fog-glass wall.

-Put the collar on. Smile for the galaxy. Be their entertainment, their... gallery.

Her fortitude didn't bend. It simply tightened.

PAST

Teenage Avia sat on the lush violet grass on the southeast side of Zareil Castle. The castle itself was around five hundred yards behind her, and the sawhorse stables were even further to her left. She could barely see the stable hands as specks milling about the six legged sawhorses.

The bright grass went on for another thirty feet to her right before dropping off, the burgundy roofs of East Zareil visible in the distance. Before her stood her sisters, each in their respective combat stance at ten paces. They both were breathing hard, sweat soaking their hair and clothes, chests rising and falling in the same stubborn rhythm, two storms pretending they were calm.

Zetori's gaze flicked to Zella's feet, then to her hands, then to the angle of her shoulders. Zella did the same. Identical assessment. Identical patience. Identical readiness. They were built equal by blood and sharpened equal by years.

"I think it's time we got serious," Zetori said, voice rough with effort and joy. "Psti-hon-we."

The word snapped out like a command to the universe. With dramatic flair, Zetori swept her palms apart as if pulling a curtain open, and a wiry length of gray stone appeared between her hands-no soil torn up, no ground needed, just pure conjured reality.

The stone lash unfurled to twenty-five feet and cracked with a sound like a whip and a rolling stone arguing over who was louder. Zetori settled into a squared stance, hips coiling, heel digging in; she didn't swing like someone showing off magic. She swung like someone throwing a straight punch-clean, disciplined, brutal.

The stone whip shot toward Zella's ribs. Zella pivoted on the ball of her foot, torso turning just enough to let the lash skim air where flesh had been. Her guard stayed high, chin tucked. She moved like a lesson, like a warning. Like the same old forms their instructors had beaten into them until it lived in their bones.

Zetori snapped her wrist and redirected. The lash curved, hunted, came again, this time for Zella's legs.

Zella dropped low and rolled, shoulder leading, then rose out of it into stance without a wobble. The whip hissed overhead and shed inch-sized fragments as it passed, the bits of stone dropping behind her like crumbs. They should've been pebbles, but they were not. Each fragment hit the field with impossible weight, leaving boulder-sized craters that punched up dirt and violet grass. Avia's eyes widened despite herself.

Zella didn't spare the craters a glance. She stepped in, closing the distance the way fighters did when they refused to be herded. Her Soul Style answered her intent: water gathered along her forearm in a crystal-blue sheath, dense and pressurized, shimmering as if light had become liquid. Steam curled off it in thin ribbons where her heat met the air.

Zella drove a tight, straight punch up the line of the incoming lash. Water met stone with a sound like a drum in a storm.

The stone whip shattered into a spray of harmless pebbles that rained down without the impossible weight, as if Zella's strike had stripped the conjuration of its cruelty. Without pausing, Zella slid her rear foot forward, turned her hips, and thrust both palms out. A rolling wall of water surged from her hands, not a wild flood, but a disciplined push shaped like a moving shield. Heat built inside it, turning its surface glossy, then fogging into steam along its edges.

Zetori's smile flashed. "Erb-faul-wier."

A war club composed of flame snapped into existence in her grip, the handle solid as if carved from invisible wood, the head a bright, roaring mass. Zetori chambered it like a baton, stance set, shoulders squared, and swung in a wide arc with the same mechanics as a hook punch.

The flaming club stretched as it moved, swelling to the length of three commoner homes lined in a row, a ridiculous weapon made believable by Zetori's perfect control. It slammed into Zella's advancing water-wall and the impact roared. Water vaporized instantly. Steam exploded outward so fast the field vanished behind a curtain of white.

Heat rolled over Avia's face. Through the fog, Zetori shifted with crisp steps, light on her feet, weapon up, listening. Zella's presence moved like a current, quiet and deliberate.

-This is 'El you're fighting. You don't notice that section of steam moving in the wrong direction?

A Zella-shaped form slid through the mist from the right, too obvious. Zetori's mouth curled.

"Raxai."

Zetori chopped her empty hand across her body in a knife-hand motion, then cut sideways.
The cut didn't just slice air, it was air. A gust snapped outward and ripped the fog sideways in a sheet. The decoy silhouette tumbled back, unraveling into scattered vapor. At the same instant, Zella appeared above Zetori, real this time, dropping with a knee tucked and a heel angled down, steam spiraling around her limbs like armor that breathed.

Zetori looked up just in time to raise her Aura Cloak. A translucent shimmer flared around her, barely visible, like heat haze, and it caught Zella's descending strike with a dull flash. The cloak absorbed the impact. Zetori slid back a full yard anyway, boots carving grooves into violet grass, and her grin turned feral.

Avia blinked, dazzled by the rhythm, by the way their bodies moved like mirror reflections that hated each other. She rose to get closer to the action.

Zella vanished into steam and reappeared above again, descending fast, wrapped in heat and water like a comet's tail. Zetori had only time to look up before Zella crashed into her with a shoulder strike that carried both of them down in a violent burst of steam and pressure. The impact detonated into a tight explosion, a ring that expanded across the grass.

Avia was thrown off her feet and landed hard on her back. The world flashed white. She grunted, breath knocked out, pain blooming along her side like a wound drawn by a cruel artist.

-Rib. Maybe two. Same pain as always.

Avia rose slowly to her feet, eyes on the rising smoke cloud. She could hear them both grunting before they exited the grey fog from different points, skidding in the grass. Deep grooves were left in the ground as they halted their momentum.

Zella changed the temperature around Zetori, heat drained from the air around the conjured invisible axe made of air. The moisture tightened into frost, then thickened into ice, clinging to the weapon, making it visible.

Zella vaulted and drove a short, brutal punch into the frozen edge. Ice shattered into shards that peppered Zetori's shoulder and thigh. She staggered, then dropped to one knee, breath sharp. The axe gone.

Zella stopped an arm's length away, still in stance, steam curling from her fists like smoke from a forge.

"Do you yield?" Zella asked.

Zetori's eyes flashed. "Gif-tink-hgl!"

Zetori thrust two fingers forward like a snapping strike, a blinding pop of light, so bright, Avia had to shield her eyes. When she lowered her arm, Zella stood unmoved, Zetori's hand still outstretched and trembling from the effort. Zetori dropped her arm with a disgusted huff.

"I hate Aura Cloaks."

"You used yours earlier," Zella said, breathing hard but steady.

"I hate others' Aura Cloaks."

Avia coughed up blood, just a little, but enough to put her sisters on alert. Both women turned toward her for the briefest moment, alarm flashing across their faces before they forced it back down.

"Do you-" Zella started.

"I yield," Zetori cut in, voice clipped. "I'm out of Talent anyway."

Zella relaxed and with a slow, careful exhale, she sent warmth through the air. The ice embedded in Zetori softened and slid free without tearing, melting into harmless steam.

"What the hell was that last spell?" Zella asked.

"A lightning dagger," Zetori said, rolling her shoulder as slimy wonder mollusks were pressed to her wounds, their antenna twitching rapidly. "Can't hold it longer than a second. I'm fine, go check Lil Big."

Zella's Quickening had her next to Avia in a flash. Avia's almost sickly thin frame rocked slightly as she stood upright, stern expression refusing to match the blood at her lips. Zella's hands were gentle on Avia's right side.

"Got too close, Lil Big."

"Only happens once every forty years," Avia muttered. "I wanted a good seat."

Zetori walked up, injuries knitting under the mollusks' work, her eyes flicking from Avia's blood to Zella's tired face.

"So," Zetori said, "have you decided?"

"Yes." Avia's voice didn't waver. "I will learn Soul Style."

"What!" Zetori snapped. "No! Just because she won!?"

"That's not it, Tori."

Zella studied Avia carefully. "Are you sure about this? To be honest, Tori's conjurations might suit you better."

"Magic weapons are easy to conjure," Zetori added quickly, as if selling it would make her change her mind. "Moderate Talent cost. Easy to wield."

"For someone my size," Avia said, deadpan.

Zetori shrugged. "Unarmed and unarmored combat for you is like a faith healer without a crystal ball. Useless."

"Zetori!" Zella snapped.

"Sorry," Zetori said, not sorry at all. "But I'm not saying anything none of us don't know."

"Then the reason for saying such things is redundant," Zella replied, irritated and protective in the same breath.

Avia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Father said I can choose one of you to teach me your Style. Zella is a much better teacher. We all know it."

Zetori smiled, sharp and affectionate. "Sensitive much?"

"She will not go easy on me."

"Yeah, right."

A shadow fell over them like a verdict.

"As if you are strong enough."

King Zareil strode across the grassy field toward them, royal garb untouched by sweat, eyes already loaded with contempt. He looked at Avia like she was a problem that refused to solve itself.

"If falling on your ass broke two ribs," he said, "how do you plan on surviving the training, let alone what lays beyond the Door? Even Zetori was afraid."

"Not afraid to admit it either," Zetori muttered. "Not that being reminded every day isn't pissing me off though."

"Soul Style's base abilities will make me stronger," Avia said, chin lifting.

"Ten times your current strength is still weak." King Zareil didn't even blink. Then, cruelty complete, he looked at Zella. "Anyway. Congratulations. You are Pia's ninety-ninth Superstar."

Zella's smile was small and wrong. "Hurray."

-When it's my turn...everybody will acknowledge my strength. Father included.

PRESENT

Roxy's voice crackled across holoview feeds everywhere.

"Betting block ends in a minute! Get those ballots in! And now, the Ksushest of Ksushs, our color correspondent Grodin!"

Grodin stood in a downpour, using a third arm to hold an umbrella like a man trying to remain dignified while nature laughed at him. Behind him, Pian women held hands outside a castle drawbridge, their line snaking around siege walls like a living accusation.

"Don't forget," Grodin said smoothly, "former host as well, Roxy. I'm here where dozens of Pian women have surrounded the home of King Zareil of the Coalition. I received word of this protest and came to investigate. Excuse me, ma'am. Why are you protesting?"

A Pian woman with one long ear missing and a scar over her rigid brow snarled at him.

"That so-called Superstar is royal trash! She represents no one!"

Others shouted over her:

"She schemed her way into being Superstar!"

"It should've been someone from Biquin!"

"We will protest here and Castle Biquin until she drops!"

Grodin leaned in, curious. "What did she do exactly?"

"That is for Pian ears only!" the scarred woman snapped. "We want her disqualified and replaced!"

"And who was-"

"Mr. Grodin, sir?"

Grodin's smile tightened like a noose. It was his cast-bot. "Why are you talking while we are live-"

"We are no longer live. Miss Roxy cut feed five seconds ago."

---

Music pumped through Topaz City's streets. Voices shouted in a dozen languages. Above, images spun like slots in a machine until they settled on a place of steely machinery, workers swarming around industrial giants.

Cheers erupted, Roxy practically sang the announcement.

"It's the Factory! Mainstay of planet Quil! Will the lives of the workers matter to our Superstars? Sometimes they don't! Let's find out!"

---

Teleportation snapped Avia into a world of overhead lights and grinding machines. The first thing she did was grimace, hard enough that some viewers probably assumed stomach pains.

-Of course it's metal. It's everywhere.

Workers of multiple species scrambled around them, trying to pretend a deathmatch wasn't happening ten feet from their machines.

A Coojur manipulated levers with taloned hands. A Tilris fought a thick tube into place. A Human and Dycordian argued over a datapad while replacing components in a roller machine the size of a sawhore stable. Her gaze swept the floor.

-They're watching. Kane and Claude. Morihilus. Narshira. All of them. Good. Let them see what "weak" looks like.

A shrill scream of sparks cut through the factory noise. A complicated goo-machine spat silver sparks behind it, bright enough to silhouette the man posing on top.

Seven feet tall. Heavily muscled. Black shoulder-length hair. Three arms, the third curling over his head like a scorpion tail.

Gold aura flickered around him and he threw his voice like he was throwing a planet.

"The most extravagant man in the galaxy has arrived! Galactic Wrestling Association Universal Champion twenty years running! Star of the hit movie Third Arm of Death! The one and only-"

"Who put fireworks on my machine!? Garrin, you're fired!"

"It wasn't me!"

Gorjon cleared his throat, an ear pollution noise.
He hopped down, the floor boomed beneath him, that Avia felt it through her soles. He stomped closer, stopped six feet away, and regarded her stance with amusement.

"As I was saying," he continued, undeterred, "I'm Gorjon. And you look... sickly. I have never seen such a slim Pian. Is this a joke?"

Avia stayed in her ready posture: hands near center, legs set, weight balanced.

-Buffoon, but dangerous. 'El said he gave her trouble. Stolen tricks and an ego large enough to require its own geodome. Painting a portrait. Beat him in two hits. Current gauge: empty.

Gorjon lifted two arms in a grand "what is this" gesture, the third arm curling like it wanted to slap the air.

"What is wrong with Pia that they keep sending females?" he boomed. "Your power style must be beast to stand before greatness and not tremble. What is it?"

Avia didn't answer. Silence is a weapon when your opponent is addicted to applause.

Gorjon leaned forward, grinning. "Silent type, eh? Fine. I'll force you to show me."

He came in with a haymaker that could have caved a steel wall. Avia ducked under it so clean it felt like art. She Quickened back the way he approached, just out of range.

Gorjon skidded, turning fast, surprisingly controlled. His eye tracked her, black iris sharp. He chopped with a knife-edge and Avia rolled left.

-Intent. He's aiming to hurt, not kill. Only a drip, not a flood.

He kept attacking. Punches. Grabs. A shove meant to set up a slam. Kicks heavy enough to dent one of the devil machines. Avia dodged everything. And smiled, not because it was funny, but working.

-Yes. Swing. Miss. Try harder. Get angry. Fill the gauge.

Gorjon paused, hands on hips, third arm gesturing like a preacher mid-sermon.

"What's the deal?" he demanded. "The fans didn't wait a decade to watch us dance around. Fight back! Or does my awesome physique give you hesitation? I can see past that smile. You're terrified."

Avia finally spoke, voice smooth as fog-glass.

"And you're terrible. Keep swinging and missing. I'm enjoying the exercise."

Gorjon laughed, loud, obnoxious, and, annoyingly, genuine.

"Tell me your Soul Style, small fry! The SRC didn't specify. Only 'Aura-specific.'"

Avia stayed silent again. Gorjon's grin widened as if he'd solved a riddle.

"I knew you looked familiar," he said. "You're smaller, but you resemble one of the only two female Pians I ever fought. You're related to Zella Zareil."

Avia straightened to her full height, still nowhere near his, and her smile vanished.

"You waste my time," she said. "If you plan on talking, I'll find someone else to hit."

"Then stop running," Gorjon snapped.

"You're so slow," Avia replied, and Gorjon closed the gap in a blur that wasn't fast compared to her, but was fast enough to punish arrogance.

A dropkick smashed into her guard. Her forearms took it, her bones didn't forgive it. She flew backward and hit a machine hard enough to knock a worker off his perch.

The worker looked at her like she was the inconvenience, climbed back up, and resumed repairs while still scowling.

Avia's forearms were bent. Pain rushed into her senses.

-Good. That's better. More intent. More fuel. Need to use what I've garnered to heal.

Her Soul Style pulsed, silver aura flashing. Bone snapped back into place. Flesh stitched. Pain retreated, leaving a cold clarity behind. Gorjon watched, impressed and greedy.

"So you heal quickly," he said. "That'll be useful in my arsenal. But first I wear you down. That's how professionals do it."

His skin turned to steel, metal crawling over muscle. Avia's jaw tightened.

-Metal on skin, pretending to be strength. Disgusting.

Then flame enveloped his arms, bright orange, licking and hungry.

"I got this from Zella," Gorjon bragged. "Flame creation and control."

He rushed with a rapid series of flaming punches, afterimages streaking across the cameras. Avia ducked and slipped and pivoted, near-misses singed her hair. Her enhanced clothing resisted the worst, but heat still kissed skin.

-Still not killing intent. He's showing off. He wants cheers, not a corpse.

During a particularly stupid opening, Avia Quickened right in front of his face and stuck out her tongue. A childish insult, sharp as a dagger when used at the right time.

Gorjon recoiled like she'd slapped his pride. He threw a straight punch which she vaulted over and onto his third flaming arm on one leg. She balanced with a dancer's grace, the other leg stretching high, then flipped away before he could grab her.

Gorjon's expression darkened. "Dare make a fool of me," he growled.

Wind washed over the factory floor. Gorjon lifted into the air, calm smile returning like a mask. He inhaled deeply, theatrically.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Papuru Galaxy!" he roared. "Bear witness to my new devastating technique: Tri-fire!"

Three fireballs formed, one per fist, then linked by licking flames into a triangle. Avia smiled tightly.

-Now we're talking.

He hurled it down. Avia dodged, easily. The triangle hit a machine instead. Metal melted into a smoking slug. Workers scattered, screaming about quotas and survival in equal measure.

Gorjon rained Tri-fire again and again, precise enough to threaten her without catching her, until Avia started moving near machines on purpose.

-You want the crowd? Then watch them flee.
Watch your applause run away from you.

Tri-fire blasted more machinery, goo turning black and brittle like charred logs. Only the hardiest workers stayed. Avia kept moving, the gauge climbed. Not from getting hit, she didn't need to.

PAST

Avia was painting a memorial portrait: her mother and Anya as fog-glass sculptures, smiling over a field of daffodils. Her brush moved with deliberate strokes, her other hand held a silver-black piece of coal on a string around her neck. She spoke softly to the statues.

"Well, mom. Anya. It's almost time. Another hour and I'll have had this soul stone for one hundred and eleven days. But I won't use it until I finish your portrait."

"The life of an illustrator agrees with you. A great talent. You should focus on it rather than failing at being Superstar."

King Zareil walked past her, trampling daffodils without noticing.

"They are dead," he said of the statues. "One from giving birth. One from staving death. Both because of you."

Avia's brush paused. "You remind me enough," she said.

He caressed his late wife's glass cheek. "I was hesitant," he continued, "because I know you will die. And your mother and sister would have wasted their lives saving you. But then I realized... I couldn't protect you forever."

He turned, face oddly blank.

"If you live, Zella will sacrifice herself for you. Zetori as well. Losing three women I love is better than losing four and having just you."

Avia's eyes narrowed. "Losing three women you love? Who's the third?"

"If you enter the Door," he said, "you will die."

Then he walked away, leaving Avia with the daffodils and the statues and a vow that tasted like iron.

-You will regret that, father. Every word.

PRESENT

Avia stopped moving.

Gorjon hovered above, smiling down like a god who'd mistaken popularity for divinity.

"Show me your Soul Style!" he demanded.

He formed a Tri-fire blast three times larger than before. Workers bolted, finally deciding money was not worth being turned into ash.

Gorjon's voice sharpened. "Even if I must crush my beloved fans to do it, you will show me!"

Avia dropped to one knee, fist touching the metal floor. Her hatred surged like a storm trapped in a room. She forced it into focus, like a painter deciding where the darkest color belongs.

-Strategic retreat ends when the enemy believes it's permanent. They assume you'll keep fleeing. Watch this.

Her Aura Cloak flickered on, silver aura flaring, and she launched herself upward, into the descending firestorm. The cloak drank heat, the air screamed around her.

Avia burst out of the flames with a fist already moving with a punch so fast, even a galaxy champion wouldn't see it coming. Her knuckles struck Gorjon's face mid-promo.

He hit the geodome wall first. The dome stretched like rubber, then snapped him back through a machine and into the floor with a boom that rattled bolts loose.

Blue goo sprayed everywhere, splattering his steel skin and hair. Gorjon blinked, dazed, covered in adhesive humiliation.

"I'm ok!" he shouted automatically, his one free arm flailing. "My Aura Cloak saved me! What is this, glue? This can't keep me-"

Avia dropped from above like a meteor. Knee to chin, fist between his eyes. Gorjon's free arm dropped like it was boneless.

Avia stood over him, breathing steady, face stern, eyes bright with something that wasn't cruelty but certainty.

"My Soul Style," she said, "is Violence."

Roxy's ten count was a formality.

"Ten! And the winner, Superstar Avia!"

Workers didn't cheer, they merely returned to work or started clearing debris, irritated more about damaged machinery than anything else.

Avia didn't care.

-Gauge: empty. Portrait: complete.

 

[papuru]

The little human girl in the frilliest pink dress ever stitched, skipped into the dining room. A big polished wood table dominated the space, atop which sat a black cat.

Oscar the cat sat beside a leather-bound book with a broken latch, tail calmly waving. The girl scrambled into the oversized chair at the head of the table, knees tucked under her, and leaned close to the cat like they were conspirators in a very serious criminal enterprise.

"Ready for storytime, Oscar?" she whispered.

Oscar's eyes narrowed with practiced authority. "I've been waiting on eager paws all day. Make it good."

He hopped onto her head with the casual entitlement of royalty and peered down as she pried open the diary, the latch snapping softly.
The girl cleared her throat in the exaggerated way adults did before speeches.

She began to read.

"Hey diary, it's me again. It's 1050-001-UC, so you know what that means. Coalition Carnage is here and it's my turn to-"

Oscar yawned, loudly.

The girl's cheeks puffed. "Oscar."

"Skip." His tail flicked. "Skip to the part where someone gets thrown into a wall. Preferably a smug someone."

She skimmed, humming a catchy little tune, finger dragging down the page. Her eyes brightened.

"Hmmm... ah! Here we go." She tapped the ink with reverence. "They teleport me to the Garden..."

Oscar's ears lifted. "Oh yes."

And the room tilted, not physically, not exactly, more like the words were a blanket that was engulfing them.

PAST

The Dawn arrived already airborne.

It was her home planet's chosen geodome, an enormous dome of curated jungle where the air felt too warm and the green felt too awake. The Dawn's smile could've fooled a stranger into thinking she approved.

She whispered a short divinatory phrase, barely a breath, and rose higher, surveying the canopy like it was going to leap up and swallow her. In some areas, it could. Dense foliage knitted itself into a false floor. Vines hung like cords waiting for a neck.

Under one massive tree lay a dead tortoise. Its spiked shell had been overrun with vines that threaded through every gap in body as if the jungle had taken offense at the concept of "empty."

The Dawn's smile held, her altitude increased, then the sky tore.

A hundred-foot eel of purple energy slid out of nothingness and moved through the air like it belonged there. Violet lightning crackled along its outline. Its jaw opened wide and a steady, building white light swelled inside.

Roxy floated nearby in her holoform, bouncing with the enthusiasm of a commentator who'd never had to pay for property damage.

"What is this?!" Roxy hooped. "A monstrous energy eel has appeared from nowhere! Is this the work of rare Soul Style Papuru magic?!"

The eel fired a beam of white-hot light that screamed at The Dawn, about to pass judgment. She snapped her fingers through a practiced set of signs and conjured a gray brick wall midair. The beam hit it with the kind of force that made the air itself flinch.

The wall held just long enough. She whispered a teleport and blinked fifty feet behind the eel. It turned with ugly, wriggling grace and pursued.
The Dawn began the arm movements for her next spell and felt something cold and thin push out of her chest.

The tip of a blue blade protruded through her ribs like a rude punctuation mark. Behind her, Morihilus smirked.

Roxy gasped theatrically. "A sneak attack by Superstar Morihilus has struck home! Superstar The Dawn may have taken her last breath!"

Morihilus leaned toward her ear, voice slick with triumph. "So amateurish."

The Dawn turned her head and looked at him.
She didn't seem the least bit fazed by being impaled, which was either impressive or deeply inconvenient for him.

"Agreed," she said.

Then she disappeared. Morihilus blinked, just once, and The Dawn reappeared behind him, heel already driving into the back of his head.

Contact was made and his burgundy-skinned body burst into water on impact, raining down over the jungle.

The purple eel closed in, mouth widening again.
The Dawn dove toward the canopy, because even she didn't like how eager that beam looked.

As she dropped, she saw movement among the trees, something fast, someone using Quickening, and already knew where the eel would fire. She whispered, left hand extended toward the eel, right hand throwing signs with urgent precision.

A red-bordered square portal opened in front of the oncoming beam, a second among the trees.
The eel's blast vanished through one and erupted out of the other, detonating in the canopy.

The explosion swallowed nearly an acre of jungle, violet light devoured the green. The air filled with burning sap and the last screams of startled animals.

The Dawn drew a triangle in the air, ceremonial discipline meeting battlefield necessity, and red light streamed from her fingers as she muttered the incantation.

The eel's voice rolled out, pompous and pleased. "You can't dispel Papuru magic as you can ordinary magic. You must be more creative."

The conjurer's arrogance came through the eel's mouth, earning more contempt from her. The eel lunged to swallow her and teleported above it, arms outstretched. Two brick walls in a heartbeat, one above, one below, sandwiching the eel's head. Stone, meet energy eel.

The eel's head crumpled into ash and scattered on the wind as if it had never been more than a bad idea. The Dawn felt power building on the jungle floor, five hundred feet from the scorched radius. She teleported.

Morihilus stood there, whole again, water-slick and smug, hands shaping a miniature Papuru eel that was growing by the second.

He smiled. "I have you now."

She kicked him between the legs.

Morihilus's fish eyes bulged, the eel winked out.
The Dawn's right cross aimed for his temple, but drew his rapier at the last second, blade flashing up.

Her attempted teleport fizzled, meaning a mage trap. He lunged, fish-head rapier darting for her heart. She spun to his outside right and drove an elbow into his head.

His Aura Cloak took it, impact shivering through her arm like she'd elbowed a tree. Lucky for her, "tree" was a category her training had long since learned to break.

Morihilus kicked for her ribs. She blocked, rolled with the strike and pain flared anyway. Blocking a Klugh enhanced by Soul Style was like trying to stop a speeding transport with your shin.

She somersaulted away, landing light but limping, dirt giving under her foot. She called her healing winds, but nothing happened. Mage trap confirmed.

Morihilus didn't chase, just raised his weapon, sending a purple beam her way. Without warning, a tiny glob of a pearl-white, beadlike substance appeared in front of her. It swallowed the beam like a starving thing, then vanished.

Morihilus's smile vanished right along with it. "How is that possible? You are within my mage trap."

The Dawn's smile, on the other hand, sharpened. "If you win, I'll tell you."

"Don't play games with me," Morihilus snapped. "Your brand of magic is incomparable to mine."

He spread his arms like a king greeting subjects.
Copies of him began forming out of jungle moisture, water clones assembling themselves without movement or visible effort. Twelve in total. Perched on branches, balanced on dead trees, surrounding her in a circle of smug.

Morihilus pointed and the clones swarmed. Her arms moved fluidly, parrying every thrust she could see. The gray sand, thin as dust, yet hard as steel, stopped the ones she couldn't.

She struck back; elbows and knees and forearms, her Eight Paths. The clones weren't durable, either; each good hit dissolved them into clear water.

A dozen bodies became puddles in seconds.

Roxy nearly vibrated into particles. "Unbelievably, Superstar The Dawn stood her ground and, badassedly, took out Superstar Morihilus's water clones! She is indeed a master battle artist!"

Morihilus stared, awe threatening to crack his arrogance. "Your battle art is exquisite, my lady. Eight Paths, correct? And with a Talent of five million, you are the one to beat in this competition."

The Dawn didn't take a bow, but the urge was there. "Plenty have tried," she said. "Much better than this."

Morihilus's smile returned. "I've only just started. And with the exception of your mystery sand, you can't use the vast array of spells and curses you're hiding."

"Don't need it to handle a fish man with no Talent for magic so he had to borrow fake magic from a piece of coal."

Morihilus's nostrils flared. "Papuru magic is real. Simple. Potent. And it works just fine in mage traps. Like so."

Energy fish materialized around him, swimming through air as if on invisible currents. Sharks, among other man-eater types, purple, glassy-eyed things with teeth like saws. More and more until the jungle felt like it was underwater.

One Papuru beast, a buldolphin native to Aphlis, opened its jaws and fired a beam.

The Dawn flipped past the blast radius. Another beam came at her and the pearl-white sand globbed into existence again and again, swallowed death in one bite.

She rolled, grabbed a stick, and hurled it like a javelin. Morihilus caught it with ease.

"Resorting to sharp sticks?" he said, amused. "How primitive."

From the tip of the wood, a thin vine wriggled to life, water-starved, half-dead, waiting. It struck like a snake and latched onto his cheek.
He recoiled, tossing the stick, but the vine hung from his face, growing, his skin paling around it, like it was drinking him.

Roxy's voice climbed in delight. "Uh oh. Superstar Morihilus has made contact with a water-starved jalvandoh vine! The slightest moisture brings them back to life!"

The ground around Morihilus began to writhe.

"And at last check," Roxy continued, "Klugh coat themselves with moisture so they can breathe on land. That means Superstar Morihilus has a new fan base ready to drain him dry!"

Morihilus slashed vines away with his rapierfish, cursing in his language, arrogance replaced by fury.

The Dawn, meanwhile, listened. Not with her ears, but the Locket, its faint hum on her chest.
The mage trap's anchor, a cloth-sided cylinder, ancient writing wrapped tight, half-buried near scorched earth.

She darted between blasts, baited a Papuru fish into firing at another, then snatched the cylinder and ripped the cloth off. She smashed the metal core against a tree.

She thrust a hand forward and muttered, voice clipped, ceremonial cadence pressed into speed.
Ice-blue air erupted outward; several purple sea beasts froze solid in midair, before shattering into glittering fragments.

She poured more Talent into the chill than necessary on purpose. Because the vines she'd awakened were now noticing her. Cold slowed them, but the hunger is persistent.

She rose into the air, followed by Morihilus.
Above the canopy, they hovered, facing each other with the sky turned heliotrope behind them.

Morihilus's lip curled. "Dreadful world you have here."

"You're only visiting," The Dawn said. "Try living here."

"No thanks." He lunged.

Roxy squealed. "The battle is taken back to the skies! Who has the advantage, Human of land or Klugh of sea?!"

The Dawn teleported to create distance. Morihilus's Quickening snapped him back into stabbing range almost instantly, forcing her to teleport again. He chased her, as she wanted, and didn't teleport when he assumed she would

Instead she side-stepped, and her strikes became a storm; right straight, left cross, elbows and knees that hit like hammers.
Morihilus blocked some, but many landed. Colorful bruises bloomed on burgundy skin, and his fury erupted.

Giant purple crab claws burst from his frame, papuru constructs reaching for where she should be. But The Dawn was now dozens of feet ahead, arms folded, laughing like she'd just watched someone trip over their own ego.

"Crab claws?!" she called. "That's what you came up with? No flair at all. Either Papuru magic is lame or you are."

His smile again, regal mask sliding back into place.

"The white sand," he said softly. "Incredible strength. Speed. You are a mage of high order. I have not faced one as skilled since that fool, The Truth, a decade previous."

"I'm better," The Dawn said.

"That remains to be seen," Morihilus replied, and pointed upward.

Bright pinpoints of light appeared above them, fifty feet or higher, like stars that had decided to get a closer look at the action.

"I call this," he said, voice savoring it, "Purple Rain. As for flair..."

The beams fell.

Speed-of-light violet blasts hammered the jungle below, obliterating twenty meters at a time into ash. No human could react that fast.

But The Dawn didn't have react. In the heart of the raining destruction, she held an umbrella made of the pearl-white sand, beads fused into a shielded curve, shimmering with defiant calm.

She smiled and waved.

Morihilus's eyes widened. "I must know what that is. I need a closer-"

A tentacle of sand whipped up from the canopy and wrapped around both his legs. He was yanked downward so fast his rapierfish spun out of his hand, end-over-end. The rain stopped and The Dawn teleported.

Morihilus was rising to his feet, vines beginning to react to his return.

"If you think that's enough-"

She didn't let him finish, she let him walk the Eight Paths. Right straight. Left cross. Back elbow to the temple. Left elbow to the sternum.
Double knees to the chin. She landed in a crouch, swept his feet, and as his head hit the ground, she spun like a dancer and drove her heel down onto the bridge of his flat fish nose.

The jungle went still like she had cast the Silence! curse. Roxy shattered that illusion, her ten count boisterous. Morihilus never moved.

---

The Dawn's omniband hauled her consciousness back to the ramp of her streamjet at her request. Precaution allowed her to sense what her eyes hadn't seen yet.

Five Talents inside, two familiar, in the main hold, plus the pilot and attendant in the cockpit.

The fifth burned bright, just as bright as her Syncs. Just as bright as her five million. She balled her fist, ready to storm in.

Then stopped. Her eyes closed. Breath in. Breath out. Her posture softened, no longer as aggressive. She walked up the ramp, calmly.

Inside the main cabin, her two Syncs stood holding hands, terror welded to their faces. A man sat in one of the gaudy orange chairs like he'd paid for the ship and the air and the right to judge everyone in his range of vision.

Her diary rested on a side booth, she could see the inked words still fading into existence, documenting her current actions without anyone touching it.

The Dawn wondered, briefly, what it was writing now. The man rose. Xenzalin, Wiseman of the Talis, moved slowly at first, bald head bowed in thought. Then his eyes focused on her with intent.

"The mage trap had no effect," he said. "Did you try to channel magic through it at the time?"

The Dawn reached into her battle garb and drew out the Traveller's Locket. It was a blood-red oval on a cheap bronze chain, with an inscription like a 'T'.

"Didn't think of it," she said. "Would you like it back now? I'm sure there are more loyal subjects who'd gladly hold onto your creepy jewelry."

Xenzalin's face didn't change. "No," he said. "And you will utilize it more often."

"I don't need this to win."

"Seriously?" Xenzalin's tone hard. "You would be dead if not for this Locket. And these ridiculous self-imposed restrictions-"

"Hasn't stopped me yet."

"It nearly did today." He stepped closer. "Limiting yourself to low Talent cost spells will lead to your defeat."

The Dawn reflected his look back at him. "Look. I don't even want to be here. If you want to learn how the Locket works, then give it to somebody who wants to be your test subject."

Xenzalin's gaze flicked past her to the Syncs, a small squeak escaped one of them.

"This is not up for debate," he said. "Use the Locket... or the blind eye I have for your friends' activities will become more watchful."

The Dawn stared at him, anger pressing up behind her ribs. "You said if I competed, they would come to no harm."

"No," Xenzalin replied smoothly. "I said if you make the Finals."

"Aren't you afraid of the consequences?"

"No," Xenzalin said, like he'd never met consequences he couldn't rewrite. "You're strong-willed. Strong enough to keep your senses. Besides, the Locket affords you a million Talent. Utilize that."

The Dawn's hand flexed. "Fine," she said, voice tight. "I'll use it for that, at least. Leave my people alone."

"That's not enough. You need to understand." He lifted one finger like a lecturer. "We have possessed the Traveller's Locket since the beginning of our species. Since my lifetime, It has done little more than choose crops of potential Supremes... until you."

The Dawn's skin crawled.

"You awoke it more fully," Xenzalin continued. "That's why it named you The Dawn."

Her mouth twisted. "Maybe it should've stayed asleep. It's creepy as hell."

"Don't be blasphemous."

"Would you just go away now?"

"Not until you understand-"

"I get it, okay? I'll use the damn-"

"Not that," he cut in, voice suddenly cold. "Wendnatoh took The X for one of his experiments."

The Dawn moved before thought caught up, elbow aimed at Xenzalin's jaw. He side-stepped with no visible effort and used her momentum to spin her back toward her Syncs like she was a child being redirected away from something dangerous.

One Sync, Fawn, caught her.

The Dawn nodded once, gratitude flashing, then vanished under the returning heat in her eyes.

"Ladies," she said, voice brisk, almost cheerful in the wrong way, "help me take this pasty bastard down and we'll skip the rest of this stupid competition."

Pawn's voice trembled. "What can we do against him? His Talent-"

Fawn's eyes hardened. "Is the same as you and I. And we don't have her drawbacks. We can take him. What's the plan?"

The Dawn relayed it mentally, then turned back to Xenzalin, his hands folded behind his back. "Don't do this. I am much stronger and more intelligent than you could ever be."

The Dawn approached with measured steps, refusing to overcommit. "Record this."

She struck, careful not to be grabbed. Xenzalin evaded each strike with ease, body flowing like liquid in the form of a man. Fawn came from behind, he reached for her, his hand passing through the illusion.

The Dawn used that heartbeat to whip a strike into his shin. He blocked with his leg and kicked her away with it, sending her across the cabin.

Pawn was supposed to attack, but she stood in stone terror. Fawn struck again, this time with a hastily formed portal into deep space. All heat left the cabin, replaced with the deepest cold The Dawn ever experienced.

Xenzalin resisted the cold pull with a smooth, minimal shift of stance and with a flick his hand, the portal shattered into a thousand glittering shards.

Shards that became strings that shot toward the women. Some wrapped around Fawn's hands, some stitched her mouth shut.

Strings flew for her only to be intercepted by globs of pearl-white sand, appearing like loyal ghosts.

Xenzalin's eyes brightened. "Did it respond to your thoughts... or act on its own?"

The Dawn answered by ripping everything not bolted down into telekinetic motion; chairs, trays, loose panels, turning the cabin into a storm of furniture.

Her diary sat undisturbed, enchanted long ago, unimpressed by the chaos.

Xenzalin dodged the telekinetic missiles with impossible grace, bending at angles that looked illegal. He rebounded off the steel bulkhead and kicked for The Dawn's head.

She rolled, then snapped the pearl-white sand into half a dozen coils that wrapped him, tight and fast. She closed the distance in two strides, fist aimed at his nose.

Her hand passed through him. For half a second she thought she'd been fooled. Then his hand emerged from the sand and seized her wrist. Not an illusion.

He was suddenly free, spinning her into a console wall. The monitor cracked and died, an image of the next geodome selection flickering out. Fawn, still stitched, tried an axe kick from above.

Xenzalin performed a standing backflip, her heel missing his head by millimeters. His boot struck her abdomen and momentum took over.

Fawn hit the floor hard, Xenzalin standing on her. Blood and vomit pushed through the stitching at her mouth and nose.

The Dawn hurled a stone wall at Xenzalin's face. It passed through, denting the bulkhead beyond. He retaliated with a gesture, an invisible force slamming into The Dawn and launched her into the opposite wall with sickening speed.

She pushed to her knees, mouth bloodied, breathing hard.

Xenzalin regarded her like a failed experiment.

"I have had enough of this," he said calmly. "Your friends can join The X. Wendnatoh?"

A ripple of space brought a simmering gray-haired visage into view.

The Dawn's voice broke before she could stop it.
"Wait. Please."

Xenzalin's eyes flicked to her.

The Dawn swallowed. "I will do as you ask," she said, each word scraped raw. "All of it. Okay? Just don't give them to... to him."

The image vanished.

Xenzalin's anger softened into a polite smile.

"Why, thank you," he said, then vanished in magenta smoke.

Silence rushed in behind him. The Dawn knelt where she'd landed, eyes fixed on the plush carpet. She spit blood on it in contempt. The cabin door slides open and the pilot stuck his head in cautiously, while Pawn crept closer.

"I'm sorry," Pawn whispered. "I just... I couldn't do anything. I was so scared."

"It's okay," she said softly."You wouldn't have made a difference anyway. He's a Wiseman."

Pawn rushed to Fawn, now unstitched, struggling to breathe. The Dawn stood, the Traveller's Locket swayed against her chest. She walked to her Syncs anyway.

 

[papuru]

For this chapter, imagine you lived in this galaxy.



Imagine you were born a Dagon.

Dagons are built the way other races tell stories about. Gray-blue skin stretched over dense muscle, broad frames, heavy bone. Their faces tend toward permanent scowls, expressions that look like challenges even when none are intended. It is not posturing. It is just how they are. By the age of ten, a typical Dagon can lift the kind of ground car you probably have in your driveway and hold it overhead without much effort. Strength comes early to them. Power is expected, not praised.

They grow big. They grow strong. No one applauds it.

Now imagine that, sometime in your teens, you said out loud what most Dagons only think in passing. You told anyone who would listen that one day you would enter the Coalition Carnage Competition. Not to participate. Not to represent. To win. You trained day and night toward that singular goal, pushing your body until exhaustion became routine. You even braved the terror behind the Door, the one most people pretend does not exist. The Dark World does not scare everyone away, but it scares enough of them.

At twenty-five, you earned it. You became the Superstar of Unity for the ninety-seventh Coalition Carnage, beating out thousands of other Dagons who wanted the role just as badly. You were strong enough that the air itself bent under your movement, pressure shifting when you struck. Among your people, that mattered.

Imagine you are Prisma.

Imagine you are the strongest Dagon alive.

Now imagine you lost.

Not a close loss. Not a technical defeat. You failed to make Finals at all. You were dismantled badly enough that the broadcasts stopped using your name and started using phrases like learning experience and promising future. How would you feel? Embarrassed. Angry. Maybe resigned.

Prisma was furious.

So furious that he trained again. Not smarter. Not safer. Harder. Eight straight years of it, every day layered on top of the last, until the idea of stopping felt worse than the damage he was doing to himself. When the ninety-eighth Coalition Carnage came, he returned stronger, sharper, more controlled. He made Finals that time. He proved it was not a fluke.

And then he lost in the first round.

That is where the difference shows.

Some people would take that second failure as closure. Proof that they had reached their limit. They would brush themselves off, accept that they had done their best, and move on with whatever life remained outside the arena.

Prisma does not work that way.

What if winning was not a goal, but a requirement. What if anything less than victory felt like erasure. What if the need for it was not rational, not healthy, but absolute.

Exactly.

1049-097-TC, two weeks before the start of the current competition.

The planet Unity holds exactly three million inhabitants, no more and no less, divided cleanly into thirds. One million Dagons. One million Kujin. One million Risen. The reason for this balance is not recorded anywhere official, and anyone who knows the real answer learned long ago not to explain it. Unity survives because the numbers are enforced, not because they are natural.


The Trinity ruled over the populace, each member representing one of the three races so that none of them fade into extinction. It is a system built on compromise and old scars. In the distant past, Dagons were conquerors who took what they wanted by force. The Kujin were intellectuals who valued order above all else and built hierarchies to preserve it. The Risen had once been slaves, until rebellion and bloodshed carved their place in history. Even now, generations removed from those origins, the races remain at odds, distrust simmering just beneath the surface.


And the three men tasked with holding that fragile balance together are something else entirely.


Ulmesh reclines slightly in his seat, fingers steepled, his expression calm in a way that reads as deliberate provocation. "And you will see," he says evenly, "Itum is stronger than any Dagon you could have chosen."


Lagan's jaw tightens. His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans forward, eyes burning. "You keep insulting us, Ulmesh. Have you forgotten that you were born Dagon?"


Ulmesh does not raise his voice. He barely moves at all. "And reborn Risen," he replies. "A race much superior to you and yours. Or have you forgotten."


The words land exactly as intended.


Lagan surges to his feet, fists clenched, every inch of him radiating restrained violence. The chamber feels smaller with him standing, pressure building as if the air itself is bracing. Before it can tip over, a softer voice cuts through the tension, sharp precisely because it does not shout.


"Lagan, please. Not today." Millijur's hands are clasped together, knuckles white. "This meeting is important." He swallows, then asks the question none of them have managed to avoid. "Should we interfere in the tournament to ensure victory?"


Ulmesh answers without hesitation. "No. Itum is strong enough to not need aid."


Lagan scoffs. "So you say. But he and his race were wiped out during the Great Cleansing. By the Dagons of that distant time." His gaze locks on Ulmesh. "By you, in fact."


For the first time, something flickers behind Ulmesh's eyes. Not guilt. Not regret. Memory. "That was a long, long time ago," he says quietly. "When I died, my life as a Dagon died as well. What we were before, we no longer are." His voice hardens. "We have Risen."


The double doors never open.


They explode inward instead, torn from their hinges by the force of a single kick. Metal shrieks as it twists, slamming against the chamber walls. Ulmesh and Lagan are on their feet instantly, instincts flaring, bodies angled for violence. Millijur vanishes beneath the conference table with a yelp, chair legs scraping loudly as he scrambles for cover.


You stride into the chamber through the wreckage.


A brown sack rests over your shoulder, its contents heavy enough to stretch the fabric. Blue-green liquid drips steadily from a torn seam, splattering against the polished floor. By the way, your right arm is gone, taken cleanly at the shoulder, leaving nothing but absence and old pain you no longer acknowledge.


You stop at the table and speak.


"I'm the Superstar this year."


Ulmesh stares, then laughs, disbelief breaking through his composure. "Prisma? Is that you? Ha! I thought you dead."


Lagan rounds on you, fury unchecked. "You are a disgrace to all Dagons! You have failed twice! You will not-"


"I'm the Superstar this year."


The repetition lands harder than the first time. You shrug the sack from your shoulder and toss it onto the table. The fabric splits on impact. A green, polka-dotted head rolls free and comes to rest facing the space beneath the table.


Millijur screams. Long, loud, and high-pitched enough to echo.


Ulmesh snaps without looking away from you. "Itum! Will you shut up, Millijur!"


You meet their eyes as you speak again. "If any of you disagree, step forward and I will kill you now."


Lagan takes a step forward despite himself, fists clenched tight. "You think you're strong? You couldn't win with two arms! Your Soul Style isn't even that powerful or unique, when compared to those of now."


Ulmesh raises a hand, slow and deliberate. "Wait." His gaze flicks briefly to the head on the table, then back to you. "Itum was stronger than the two of us combined, Lagan, and is now dead at Prisma's hands... or hand."


The room goes quiet.


The words settle in, heavy with implication. Even Lagan hesitates now, the weight of the reality sinking in.


From beneath the table, Millijur's voice trembles. "What choice do we have? The competition is in fourteen days."


Indeed, the coward speaks true.


The decision has already been made.


And now, let us return to the present day.

Roxy's voice cuts cleanly through the omniband, bright and energized, carrying easily across systems and screens.

"Day one is turning out outstanding, as we approach the halfway mark. Battle four is about to begin! Let's check out the geodome!"

The options flash across the feed: Nature's Teeth, all crushing pressure and darkness. The Junk Moon, unstable gravity stitched together with scrap and old technology. Eden, Earth's contribution, reshaped so drastically, it barely resembles the planet most people imagine when they hear the name.

You do not react.

This is a Prisma chapter, and Earth and its Superstar, do not matter. Not right now.

Roxy laughs as the selection locks in, her enthusiasm sharpening. "Hell yeah! The Underbay!" She leans into the moment, feeding off the anticipation. "Its denizens want,need, the Blessing! Home to many off-worlders, and some of them might be willing to place a knife in the back of our Superstars so their home world's chances of winning improve. I'm eager to find out! Let's gooooooo!!!"

The feed plunges downward, dragging the audience with it.

A hundred thousand feet beneath the surface of Ksush, the Underbay unfolds like a scar that never closed. Rows of hovels cling together for stability, structures that barely qualify as living space wedged between condemned buildings layered in faded gray and old graffiti. Every surface looks worn thin, paint flaking, metal corroded, concrete split by years of neglect and violence.

The smell hits hard and fast. Decay mixed with urine, excrement, and the sharp chemical tang of substances banned everywhere else. It assaults the senses to the point of hysteria for anyone unfamiliar with it. The people who live here have adapted. If asked, they would shrug and offer the same tired defense: at least it's too dark to see what's causing the stench.

Trash carpets the streets, illuminated by dim streetlights that flicker more than they shine. The cracked boulevard running through it all looks like it was abandoned halfway through construction and never forgiven for it.

You know this place.

You live two miles outside the geodome's barrier, close enough to feel its presence, far enough to disappear when you need to. You moved here some time ago, right after-
No.
You cut the thought off before it finishes forming. You do not like thinking about it. There is no reason to start now.

You walk down the boulevard at an unhurried pace, shoulders squared, head level. Hostile intent brushes against your Awareness from every direction, bodies pressed into shadow, eyes tracking you from behind broken windows and half-collapsed doorways. Hands tighten around weapons that stay hidden.

What would you do about it?

You do nothing.

You keep walking.

They know you here. They know what happens if they misjudge you. The Underbay remembers violence the way other places remember history, and your name carries weight whether you speak it or not.

A sharp sound cuts through the air ahead. Metal snaps. An explosive charge goes off. Someone screams, briefly and high, before the sound cuts out altogether. An ambush, sprung badly or against the wrong target.

Of course, you turn toward it.

If you were Prisma, what would you do next?

A) Accelerate and end it quickly before it spreads
B) Let it play out and assess who survives
C) Approach at the same pace, forcing whoever's left to notice you

An explosion blooms a hundred yards to the northeast, the sound rolling through the Underbay like a dull, familiar thunder. You do not change your pace.

Either the ambushers are dead, or the Superstar is.

It does not matter to you. If it is the former, then your assigned opponent was strong enough to survive the Underbay doing what it does best. If it is the latter, then someone has robbed you of your victory, and you will make a point of tracking them down and killing them for it. Either way, the outcome is acceptable.

You take another step. Then another.

Nearly sixty seconds pass before the air shifts.

You feel it first, a sudden disturbance in the ion field, sharp and deliberate. A reddish object the size of a manhole cover tears through the space ahead of you, launched from a thirty-degree angle at roughly half the distance of the original explosion. It hums as it spins, energy coiled tight inside its surface.

You sense the sender the moment he leaps.

A Preesling. Reptilian. Fast. His presence cuts across your Awareness like a blade, not because he is hiding, but because he is moving too quickly to linger in one place for long. You recognize the confidence in it immediately. He wanted you to notice.

You consider taking the hit.

For a fraction of a second, the idea crosses your mind. You could tank it. Let the disk detonate against you and see what kind of force it carries. Measure him that way. It would hurt, but pain has never been a deciding factor for you.

You discard the thought and leap instead.

You go straight up, pushing off the street hard enough to fracture the concrete beneath your feet. The disk slams into the ground where you stood a heartbeat earlier, detonating in a tight, controlled explosion. It is similar to the first blast, but smaller, cleaner, shaped for precision rather than chaos.

You land on the roof of a twenty-foot building as debris rains down around you.

The reptilian Superstar is already descending.

He bounces off the air itself, rebounding from something invisible, then again, speed stacking with each contact. The effect is unmistakable now. He is not simply jumping. He is striking points in space that throw him forward harder and faster each time.

He is a green streak against the dim Underbay lights, scales catching what little illumination there is. To anyone else, he would be difficult to track. To you, he is perfectly clear.

You watch him line up the approach. You feel the pressure build as he closes the distance, momentum compounding into something that might actually matter.

You could brace.
You could dodge.
You could counter.

Instead, you throw a punch.

No flourish. No hesitation. Just a straightforward strike, timed to meet him at the point where speed becomes liability.

What do you think Prisma is relying on in this moment?

A) His durability, trusting his body to absorb whatever comes
B) His timing, believing speed always creates an opening
C) His power, expecting the impact to end things immediately

Preeslings are known for their agility. It is the one thing everyone agrees on when the subject comes up. Flexible spines, powerful tails, bodies built to redirect momentum rather than absorb it. This one seems a cut above even that reputation.

Your punch should have met him square in the chest.

Instead, he twists in mid-descent, his body folding around the strike with practiced ease. Your fist passes close enough to graze his scales, close enough that you feel the air shudder from the near miss, but he is already moving past it. His tail snaps out, wrapping tight around your bicep, scales biting into skin. He jerks hard, leveraging your own mass against you, and for a split second it feels like your remaining arm might tear free at the shoulder.

Then you are airborne.

You smash backward through the dark structure behind you, walls and support beams giving way in a cascade of concrete and metal. You halt your momentum mid-flight, stopping yourself before the street claims you, and float there as the building collapses inward under its own weight.

It never had a chance.

The lives inside it wink out all at once, twenty-eight points of light snuffed cleanly from your Awareness. You register the loss without reaction. They were an ultra-violent pirate gang, the kind that would have carved this district into something worse if left unchecked. If they were going to die, there were worse ways.

The dust cloud settles as you hover above the wreckage.

The Preesling looks up at you from the street below, elongated snout tilted back, dark green and silver scales catching the glow of the remaining streetlights. His grin stretches wide, all teeth and confidence, making him look even more predatory than his species already does.

"What's good, my dude?" he calls out, voice light, almost friendly.

He plants his feet and gives a little wave with one clawed hand. "Nice to meetcha. Name's Fritz."

You answer with ions.

White energy condenses in front of you, air screaming softly as billions of charged particles are forced together into a tight, pulsing sphere. It looks like a miniature star, light bending around it, pressure building until the space nearby feels strained. You draw back and punch the ball forward with everything behind it.

Fritz's eyes flick to the forming blast.

"Not the convo type," he mutters under his breath.

He was already moving.

The ion sphere tears through the space he occupied a heartbeat earlier and slams into a junked vehicle farther down the street. Electricity engulfs the metal frame like living flame, crawling over it in violent arcs as the car disintegrates from the inside out.

Fritz vaults cleanly over the blast, tail snapping behind him for balance as he sails straight toward you. Invisible points in the air catch him and throw him forward again, speed stacking as he chains the rebounds together. Each contact sharpens his approach, turning his body into a guided projectile aimed squarely at you.

He is coming in fast enough now that the air itself seems to peel away around him.

What do you think Prisma is preparing to do as Fritz closes the distance?

A) Let the hit land to gauge Fritz's maximum output
B) Adjust the air density to disrupt his approach
C) Counter mid-impact and force a close-quarters exchange

So how do you deal with a leaping lizard moving fast enough to turn the air itself into a launch pad?

You have options. Too many, honestly. Another punch would work, if you timed it right. A kick might give you more reach, more leverage. You could form another ion sphere, one of those condensed stars of pressure and charge, and meet him at range. When you control the ions in a planet's atmosphere, you are never truly out of answers.

Ions are simple things, stripped-down molecules carrying electric charge, drifting invisibly through the air of most worlds. Billions of them can be forced together into something solid enough to hit. Trillions can be spread wide, stiffening the atmosphere itself, turning empty space into resistance. You can make the air fight for you, as Fritz finds out, first hand.

Fritz's yellow-tinted eyes roll briefly in their sockets as he tracks your movement, pupils narrowing when he realizes you're about to commit. He reaches somewhere along his side and produces one of his metallic orbs, fingers tightening around it as he twists mid-motion. Even while struggling against the pressure you're exerting on the air around him, he manages to fling it forward.

The orb vanishes a millisecond before you move and you hit the invisible rebound zone at full speed.

Your Quickening makes you one of the fastest Superstars in the competition, fast enough that most opponents never quite understand what hit them. Here, that speed betrays you. The moment you collide with the unseen surface, the stored momentum snaps back at you, amplified and redirected. You are hurled backward the way you came, faster than even the tail toss managed earlier.

You slam into the geodome barrier hard.

Just like the three-armed wrestler two matches ago, you do not stop there. The barrier throws you back with twice the force, and you tear away from it in the opposite direction, body adjusting instinctively to the reversal.

What happens next catches you off guard. It would catch anyone off guard.

You plow straight into the next attack Fritz fires your way, an energy disk streaking toward you from below. You do not slow. You do not brace. The collision blooms into a fire cloud that briefly turns the Underbay bright enough to be seen from blocks away. Those watching from alleyways and shattered windows retreat deeper into the dark, deciding whatever is happening here is no longer worth the risk.

When the smoke clears, you are still there.

Floating.

Unmoved.

Fritz hangs upside down from a rusted stairwell by his tail, staring at you with wide-eyed awe, mouth open in a grin that looks almost childlike in its delight.

"What a badass," he says, laughing softly. "This is awesome."

You answer by clenching your fist.

Ions scream as they are pulled into shape around you, several spheres tearing into existence at once, each one humming with contained violence. You punch the first, sending it screaming forward. You kick the second, redirecting it on a lower arc. You drive your head into the third, launching it straight through the space Fritz just abandoned.

He drops from the stairwell and vanishes into the maze of condemned buildings, using the terrain as cover. Your ion spheres follow, slamming into structures with catastrophic force. Electricity crawls over entire buildings like living flame, hundreds of millions of volts racing through metal and stone. Screams echo briefly, then cut off. When the light fades, scorch marks stain half a dozen facades, permanent reminders of where lightning chose to land.

You remain where you are, hovering, watching the ruins smoke.

What do you think Prisma is trying to do right now?

A) Force Fritz out of hiding by denying him safe terrain
B) Overload the rebound zones by flooding the area with ions
C) Test how much chaos Fritz can operate inside before slipping

You keep the pressure on.

Ion spheres streak through the Underbay in relentless succession, forcing Fritz to stay airborne. He dives between condemned buildings, rebounds off invisible anchors, flips and twists through collapsing walkways and exposed stairwells. Each time he thinks he has bought himself a breath, another bolt tears through the space he just vacated. You herd him deliberately, driving him from one cluster of structures to the next, denying him the chance to settle into a rhythm.

During one particularly fluid exchange, he twists sideways in mid-flip and produces a compact weapon, rectangular barrel snapping into alignment with practiced ease. He fires without breaking stride.

The disk comes fast.

You recognize it instantly as Tek, some firearm-adjacent construct designed to deliver shaped force rather than raw destruction. You meet it with one of your own ion spheres, the two colliding midair. The flash is blinding, light washing out the battlefield for a fraction of a second.

That is all it takes.

When your vision clears, Fritz is gone.

Not just out of sight. Gone.

You reach for him instinctively through Awareness. Soul Style users sense the living the way candles announce themselves in darkness, each soul a point of presence, some brighter than others. Your range stretches roughly twenty miles in every direction, a constant map of existence layered over reality.

There is nothing where Fritz should be.

The absence hits harder than any blow. There are methods to hide the soul, techniques and Tek designed to mask that inner signal, but they are rare and dangerous to use improperly. You did not expect him to have access to something like that.

What you do feel is the ions shifting above you.

You look up just in time.

A black sphere drops from the darkness overhead. You bring your arm up to block, bracing for impact. The object slams into your forearm with incredible force, spinning as it bites into flesh. Skin tears. Tissue peels away under the rotational pressure, pain flaring sharp and immediate.

You grit through it and redirect the momentum, twisting your body and sending the object skidding past you instead of through you.

The sphere uncoils mid-motion.

Fritz emerges from it, scales now fully black, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. His tail lashes out and hooks around your ankle, and he yanks hard, dragging you groundward with brutal efficiency.

You hit feet-first.

The impact carves a small crater into the street and sends a shockwave rolling through the surrounding buildings. Windows shatter. Loose debris rains down. The ground booms under the force of it.

Fritz lands a few meters away with his own heavy crash, suddenly seeming to weigh far more than his frame suggests. The black sheen fades from his scales, the familiar green and silver returning as he straightens.

"Cool, huh?" he says, grinning despite the damage around him. "It's Tek I made myself. Cranked the weight of my scales up a thousandfold." He gestures casually. "I was coming at you pretty fast. Kinetic energy topped out around four tons, give or take. You stopped it with one arm. Dude, that is so fire!"

Your forearm is stripped nearly to the bone. Blood runs thick and dark down your skin. You do not give him the satisfaction of reacting.

You are done measuring.

You quicken.

You cross the distance between you in an instant, leaning back as you arc a foot out in a sweeping motion. Ionic energy trails from the strike like a whip, curving toward Fritz with controlled violence. He drops low onto all fours, the lash passing just overhead and tearing into a nearby building instead. The structure collapses in on itself, reduced to the rubble it was always going to become.

Your other foot snaps out immediately, another ion whip screaming toward him.

It misses.

Again.

To his credit, Fritz does not hesitate. He surges forward, closing the space in less than a second. Both clawed feet slam into your left knee with crushing force. If you feel it, you do not show it. You bring the same leg down in a brutal stomp, aiming to end him outright.

He is already moving.

What do you think Prisma realizes at this moment?

A) Fritz is adapting faster than expected
B) This fight will not end at range
C) The Dark World recalibration is overdue

Fritz's tail saves him from becoming paste.

It coils around your leg at the last possible instant, anchoring him just long enough to redirect the force meant to end him. Using that leverage, he snaps both feet upward and plants them square into your chin. The impact cracks through the air, sharp and clean. He grins as he does it, teeth bared in open enjoyment, already reaching for you with one clawed hand.

You swat the grab aside and step through it. He vaults over your shoulder instead, tail flicking toward your eye on the way past. It is a lazy attempt, a desperate one, the kind weaker fighters rely on when they are out of options. You turn your head just enough for it to miss, irritation flaring hotter than the near miss deserves.

He immediately throws another metallic orb. It vanishes as soon as it leaves his hand. Fritz strikes the invisible rebound point a heartbeat later, zipping in the opposite direction, chaining the motion into a tight reversal. His scales darken to pitch black as his legs tuck in, body compacting into a dense, incoming shape. He rockets toward you, lining up a dropkick aimed directly at your face.

You duck under it by instinct alone. He slams into the wall behind you, feet hitting first. Instead of stopping, he runs up the vertical surface, claws scraping sparks as he climbs. At the apex, he pushes off and launches back toward you, talons outstretched, chest open, posture loose.

Cocky.

Your leg lashes out and finally connects.

For a fraction of a second, it feels right. Solid. Final. The impact carries everything behind it, and Fritz's form collapses inward, scattering into nothing but air and debris.

The street is suddenly empty.

You straighten slowly, scanning the ruined block, eyes tracking movement that is not there. No soul flare. No rebound echo. Just the Underbay, broken and quiet, smoke drifting lazily upward.

"Hey, dude?"

The voice comes from below.

You look down just in time to see Fritz clinging to your shin, arms locked tight like a child refusing to be let go. His grin is still there, undiminished, even as he snaps both feet upward again.

Your view flips to the shadowed sky.

The blow sends you spinning backward, vision catching broken light and collapsing silhouettes. Fritz releases you mid-motion, twisting away in a smooth arc and landing cleanly, laughing as if this were all a game. You hit hard and skid, staring up at the dim ceiling of the Underbay like you expect something to answer you back.

As if there were anything up there worth listening to.

You do not believe in gods. You do not believe in unseen hands guiding fate or moral frameworks imposed by things that cannot be struck. No higher power dictates your actions. No distant presence decides when you are allowed to be good, or when you must restrain yourself.

And right now, restraint is gone.

The anger that floods you has nothing to do with pain. Your body has endured worse. This is humiliation. This is being toyed with. The air around you thickens as your rage bleeds outward, ions responding to your emotional state without being told.

The atmosphere itself begins to press down.

What do you think pushes Prisma over the edge here?

A) The realization that Fritz is enjoying the fight more than he is
B) The repeated misjudgments that let Fritz keep control
C) The insult of being treated like a spectacle instead of a threat

The ground shakes.

It is not subtle. It is not localized. Burning white light splashes across the Underbay like sudden noon, so bright that those watching from the comfort of distant worlds see the landscape itself begin to fail. Buildings buckle inward. Streets fracture and peel apart. Whole sections of the district collapse downward, folding into the level below as if gravity finally remembered what it was owed.

The camera feeds lose clarity almost immediately.

Dust and dirt surge upward in rolling clouds, blotting out most of the visuals. What remains is sound. Twisting metal screaming under impossible strain. Concrete tearing itself apart. The wet, sickening crunch of structures and bodies giving way together. When the dust finally thins, a gaping chasm occupies the space where a neighborhood once existed, its jagged outline tracing the limits of the geodome like a scar burned into the world.

You float above it all.

The destruction hangs beneath you, settling slowly, debris still falling in lazy arcs. Your expression has not softened. The fury is still there, barely contained, radiating outward in subtle distortions of the air around you.

Roxy's voice cuts back in, breathless and electric.

"What massive power on display by Superstar Prisma!" she shouts. "He demolished everything inside the geodome! Everything!!! The Underbay went more under, and those under it, and on it, are done! Sorry, our hearts are with those who lost their lives here today. Is Superstar Fritz among them? Let's count to be sure! One... two... three..."

Nothing happens.

No green streak. No voice from below. No sudden reappearance hanging upside down from wreckage, laughing like this was all part of the plan.

Silence answers her count.

"Winner of the battle," Roxy declares, voice lifting. "Superstar Prisma!"

You feel it then. The declaration. The acknowledgment. Victory, clean and absolute, carried across systems and screens.

Can you imagine the feeling of being declared the victor of anything?

You probably can. Because you are not a loser.

The smile that pulls across your face would look out of place on anyone else. On you, carved into a gruff, scarred visage, it fits just fine.

The omniband begins its recall sequence. You feel the familiar pull, the system preparing to wrench you out of the geodome and deposit you back on Dycord like a piece being returned to the board.

You do not allow it.

You thicken the ions in the air deliberately, interference blooming outward in a controlled field. The teleportation stutters, fails to lock on. You will return soon enough. On your terms.

Instead, you drift toward the ten-foot doors at the edge of the geodome. Smooth, glossy metal sheets stand upright without visible support, irrelevant to the devastation around them. They slide open as you approach, obedient, and you pass through without looking back.

You rise fast, higher and faster for only a few seconds, then cut your ascent and descend sharply. You land on a street where no eyes dare follow you, where even the bravest Underbay watchers know better than to linger.

Your home squats where you left it. Unassuming. Unwelcoming. Barely livable.

Inside, it is exactly what you need and nothing more. A bed. Training equipment worn smooth by years of use. Food storage stacked neatly. No comforts. No decorations. No distractions.

You lower yourself to both knees in the center of the single room. Eyes closed. One hand resting loosely on your lap. Breathing steady.

Meditation is not optional for a Soul Style practitioner. Mind and body must move together, not one dragging the other forward, but unified. It is a truth Kane, Avia, Gorjon, Morihilus, and Fiaster all had to learn before power answered them fully.

You slip into stillness.

An archway forms within your mind's eye, familiar as your own heartbeat. Rotting oak, splintered and dark, its surface etched with age and something older than time. You pass through it without hesitation, stepping into speckled darkness.

You have been here thousands of times. Maybe more.

You have never questioned what this place is.

You have only ever known one star, the one that burns in the Papuru Galaxy. You have never considered that this space, this endless map of light and absence, is something else entirely. A reflection of another galaxy. Another proving ground.

What would you think if you knew there were entire civilizations beyond this, waiting to be tested?

You walk. You have a body here, solid and heavy, even though empty space serves as ground beneath your feet. Ahead waits a being far smaller than you, golden skin etched with shifting symbols that refuse to settle into meaning. His hair hangs in a single braid that reaches nearly to his ankles.

Soby turns as you approach.

"Welcome back, Prisma," he says calmly. "Are we jumping right in?"

"Yes," you answer without pause. "I need to be better."

Soby bows deeply, one arm extending toward a door that was not there a moment before. It bears golden markings and an arched opening that feels wrong to look at for too long. You reach for the knob and pull.

The sound hits first.

Screeching. Roaring. Hissing. Slashing. Crunching. Stomping. Cries that cannot belong to anything meant to live.

The smell follows. Decay. Blood. Death.

The sight defies language.

Creatures tear into one another beneath the doorway's starlight, shapes colliding in a frenzy of violence. Teeth the size of your home snap shut on flesh. Ten-headed abominations with ten arms end in gnashing maws. Tentacles and tongues coil through heaps of torn bodies. Grotesque forms writhe and feed without pause.

A thing as tall as the Tower of Laws, made entirely of black hair and teeth, rips the head from a smaller creature coated in black goo. A massive head lunges toward a mouth with arms, only to have its jaw torn free and devoured. Midnight blood fills the air, raining down like oil as the Dark World consumes itself.

An ink-black sun rimmed in crimson burns overhead, radiating heat without light. Beyond it, a massive black hole waits, patient and endless.

Imagine this is your first time seeing it.

Imagine standing at the edge of this and being told that this is the price of power. Most would close the door. Wake from the trance. Throw the soul coal away and live in ignorance.

Unless you needed this power.

Unless you needed to prove your strength to anything that dared exist.

Unless you were Prisma.

You leap, falling into the horror below without fear.

Soby follows.

 

[papuru]

PAST

I was only six years old when Bram, my older brother, found me playing in the backyard. He'd gotten ahold of some blue-colored piece of coal from somewhere, and he looked like he'd been lit from the inside.

"Do you know what this means, Microtek?" he asked, holding it out like it was proof of something.

I shook my head. "No."

His grin didn't even try to be subtle. "I'm going to be a Superstar. You remember what a Superstar is?"

It clicked hard enough to make me sit up straighter. "Oh! Like Dante! He won!"

"Yeah," Bram said, the word thick with admiration. "He's a Supernova now. And I'm going to be just like him." Then his voice dropped, and his eyes flicked toward the house. "But don't tell mom and dad."

I frowned, confused by the sudden secret. "Why?"

"They might not want me to do it," he said. "Say I'm too young."

I looked at him; ten years old, taller than me, already acting like he could argue the universe into changing its mind. "You not too young," I told him. "You're ten!"

Bram's laugh came out quick, like he'd just won something. "I know, right."

Bram was always headstrong. No matter what anyone told him; shouldn't, couldn't, not allowed, he pushed anyway. Sometimes it worked out for the better. Other times, not so much. But watching him chase that idea with both hands gave me something solid to build on. Twenty-nine years later, when I became a Superstar too, I could still trace it back to that moment in the yard and the blue coal in his palm.

PRESENT

Tarshira and Gharshira, my beloved sister Syncs, had me posted up in the prep bay of my streamjet while they ran a final sweep on my Sho-Tek suit. They moved with the familiar efficiency of people who'd helped me build something brilliant.

The suit looked like simple black garb; light, flexible, almost modest. Which was the point. Antian layers sat beneath it, tougher than they had any right to be. Still, "tough" wasn't the same thing as "immune." In a room full of Superstars, even the weakest one could get lucky and tear through me with the right super attack and a bad angle.

Van Black didn't help.

The SRC file gave me a neat little bundle of labels: strong, fast, aura of low-frequency radiation. Which sounded comforting if you believed the SRC couldn't be nudged, sanded down, or outright rewritten. I'd built half my life on data. That didn't mean I trusted whoever got to publish it.

Gharshira's eyes flicked over my shoulder seal like she was inspecting a cheap hem. "I'm still voting for the Chumaki," she said. "It's the one that doesn't come with a complimentary funeral."

I kept my arms out while Tarshira checked the underlayer at my ribs. "Have you seen the size of this guy? If he decides to be strong at me, my skeleton's going to file a complaint about choosing the wrong Sho-Tek."

Tarshira didn't look up. "Strength is his highest attribute. That is not an opinion. It is the chart."

Gharshira made a face and tapped a diagnostic line on my forearm housing. "Also: his body emits radiation. Which is adorable. He's like a walking hazard symbol."

"Low-level radiation," I said. "The Shomaki screens it. I designed it to chew through that frequency range."

"And if he decides to stop being 'low-level'?" Gharshira asked, sweetly, like she was offering me a dessert menu.

I caught my reflection in the dark panel of a storage locker, forehead antenna, eyes too sharp, mouth doing its best "sure, this is fine" impression. "Then we add prayer," I said. "Possibly yelling. But yeah, definitely prayer."

Outside the bay, Roxy's voice started up, bright and practiced, turning bloodsport into a party trick. My omniband clamped tighter around my wrist and threw a countdown at my ears: 60 seconds.

A minute.

My hearts, both of them, went from steady to sprinting like they'd just seen the exit sign.

I pulled my mask on. The internal screen lit up with clean confirmations: systems stable, power steady, seals ready. Everything green. Everything sharp. The Sho-Tek wasn't just state of the art; it was my best answer so far. Three builds over a year, each one smarter and meaner than the last, and this one was tuned by my Syncs until it fit like it belonged.

Tarshira pressed her hand to my shoulder, quick, grounding. "Good luck."

Gharshira's smile was all teeth. "Don't die or we die."

"Relax," I said, and gave them my most confident smile. "I've done the math. I'm only mostly doomed." Then, softer: "I got this."

The countdown kept dropping.

Somewhere beyond that door, Van Black was waiting; strong, fast, glowing just enough to be a problem.

And in sixty seconds, we were going to find out how honest his file really was.

The Coalition's teleport always announces itself like a bad joke; pins-and-needles across my skin, a half-second of vertigo, then the slow insult of those two full seconds where you're nowhere and you know it.

Mine doesn't do that. Mine is instant. Clean. Professional.

Theirs dropped me into water.

Cold pressure wrapped around my suit and tried to remind me I had lungs. My antenna twitched under the mask as the shock hit, like it was offended on my behalf.

"Damn it," I said into empty comms, because if you don't complain, the universe assumes you're fine.

Nature's Teeth. An eerie glow washed the space in bluish light, turning fish and drifting life into silhouettes that looked cut from paper. No horizon. No surface. No seafloor in sight yet. Just water and motion and the thud of my own hearts deciding this was a great time to be dramatic.

I snapped up a holographic keyboard. Neon keys floated in front of my visor while curious sea life swam straight through the projection like it wasn't there; because it wasn't. I ran a quick fix on my orientation, then pulled distance-to-target.

Casino Island: 6,400 kilometers.

Jonah's speed: seven times sound.

I did the math before my CPU finished being smug and posting the answer anyway.

Thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes underwater with a mystery man hunting me.

My teleportation was still the fastest tool I had, but it came with its own petty limitation: it wouldn't take inorganic matter with it. Which meant I couldn't just grab a rock, tag a location, and blink my way out with an anchor. I could move me. Not the world around me. The universe loved rules when they were inconvenient.

I fired the boot thrusters and cut through Aphlis's thick water like I owned it. The suit adjusted; micro-jets compensating for drag, stabilizers correcting my angle. A year of building these things and it still felt weirdly intimate, like the armor knew what I was about to do before I did.

Survive thirty minutes. That was the only objective that mattered. Everything else was style points.

I moved forty feet off the drop point and planted the Backfire arrow launcher, locking it to a stable patch of rock I could barely see through the haze. I tagged Van Black's profile as the only valid target. The system accepted the constraint with a little green confirmation that said: I will not shoot the fish. Great. My suit was more ethical than most people I'd met.

A warning ping flared on my HUD: water spout formation, two hundred fifty meters to my left.

"Tornado field," I muttered. "Hard pass."

I angled down another fifty feet. The pressure climbed. The light thinned. The ocean stopped feeling like a place and started feeling like a closed fist.

I unclipped the gravity well generator from the housing near my left shoulder blade and set it to float in place. Easy to miss if you weren't looking for it; and I was hoping Van Black was the kind of opponent who made "How'd I miss that?" his whole personality.

A red indicator blinked across my view: OPPONENT LOCATED.

I followed the arrow and toggled enhanced scope with infrared overlay. The seafloor resolved into dark shapes and harder edges. And there he was.

Van Black stood planted on the ocean floor like the water was his air; head to toe in a skin-tight black suit, mask smooth and eyeless. No expression. No tells. Just mass and intent. The kind of stillness that wasn't calm so much as stored violence.

He didn't chase the way normal people chased. He waited, as if the chase was inevitable and he didn't need to hurry.

My stomach tightened anyway.

"Of course," I whispered. "A living shadow with muscles."

I couldn't tell if he was facing me or simply angled in my direction, but the hair on my arms lifted under the suit like it knew. If his mask had the same kind of augmentation mine did, he could be tracking my heat signature, my thruster wash, the tiny changes in pressure I left behind. If he didn't...

Then he was worse than the file suggested.

I held still, letting the sea swallow the noise of my systems, and watched him for one extra beat; long enough to confirm he hadn't reacted to my last trap placement.

Then I started moving again, slow and deliberate, because the first rule of surviving a predator was simple: Don't be the most interesting thing in the water.

A school of fish slid across my sightline; their silver bodies, obscuring my vision like a living curtain. It lasted maybe a second, but it was enough.

Van Black was gone.

My eyes couldn't find him, but my sensors didn't need eyes. A warning line snapped across my HUD: INBOUND. FAST. DIRECT.

"Of course," I muttered, and reached for the one thing on my belt that always felt reassuring right up until you actually had to use it.

I yanked my kinetic hammer free. The handle telescoped out with a clean mechanical click, extending until it matched my height, the weight balancing as my suit compensated for the water's drag. It looked solid in my grip. It felt... theoretical.

I didn't like that feeling.

I'd left the gravity well generator behind as a trap. I'd done the math. I'd done the prep. And still, watching that red marker eat up distance, my confidence started doing what confidence always does when it meets reality: it tries to hide.

Did I choose the right Sho-Tek?

The file called him the Death Hand. No explanation. Just a name that sat in the mouth like a threat. And right then I couldn't stop thinking about Gharshira and her "wear the Chumaki" face, like she could see the headline and she didn't like my odds.

Van Black closed in, a dark mass cutting through the water with purpose, and something in my brain unspooled a memory I hadn't asked for.

Not helpful, brain.

Bram was always prepared for danger. Being heir to our parents' corporation meant competitors hired kidnappers. Hitmen. Quiet problems with loud consequences. Cycloids died carelessly all the time; people who thought money was armor. That's why most top execs used liv-tek decoys. Because a realistic copy was better than a funeral; but not cheaper.

Van Black surged closer.

And I remembered the day I thought assassins had finally gotten to Bram.

PAST

It was right after I figured out how to create backfire energy.

The triangular container I built was small enough for my child hands to wrap around, but the green swirl inside it wasn't small at all. It fed on itself, stable and hungry, a loop I'd designed to keep running. The kind of power that could keep our modest home lit forever; no favors owed, no bills, no "sorry, we're cutting you off."

The first person I wanted to show was Bram.

I padded into his room with the container held out in front of me like a prize.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, shirt off. The blue coal hung from his neck on a cord, resting against his chest like a charm.

And he was covered in blood.

My brain tried to make it not real. Tried to turn it into paint, or a prank, or a nightmare you could wake up from.

Then I saw the cut on his forehead, deep, raw, and it split wider right in front of my eyes. Fresh fluid ran down his face in a slow line that didn't care about my denial. His arms were mottled with bruises. Cuts crossed his torso in angry tracks, each one leaking. Blood had pooled under the fabric of his workout pants, dark and spreading.

The container slipped in my grip.

I screamed. Full lungs. Full terror. The kind of sound that doesn't belong to language.

Bram's eyes snapped open.

My scream climbed higher as I bolted from the room.

"Micro-tek! Wait!" he shouted.

I ran and not the brave kind. Not the kind you tell people about later. Just six-year-old panic with legs, because Bram had been bleeding in a way that didn't look survivable and my brain couldn't find a safer plan.

Mom was in her hover chair on a conference call; her voice smooth, like nothing in the universe could interrupt her. I burst into her line of sight anyway.

"Mom-"

She glanced at me and kept talking. A silencing force field snapped around her chair, neat and absolute. My words hit it and vanished.

Fine. Great. Helpful.

I pivoted and sprinted for Dad.

Most Cycloids were obese, around ninety percent, easy, so tech did the walking for them. Mom was no exception. Dad could still move under his own power, but slowly, like his body negotiated every step. I grabbed his arm and tried to pull him, babbling, pointing, making sounds that weren't sentences.

He saw my face. That did it. He called for Mom, calm but edged, the way he spoke when he expected to be listened to.

Mom ended the call at Dad's urging. Not mine. She drifted into the living room with that controlled calm people mistake for kindness.

Bram was already there.

He had a bloody towel in his hand and he was pressing it to himself like this effort alone could make him look normal. He stood straight, shoulders tight, trying to sell the idea that everything was fine.

He failed.

"Did I look that bad?" he asked, like we were discussing a bruise.

"You looked dead!" I blurted, and my voice cracked because the word was too big.

Dad's eyes swept Bram fast, taking in the damage. "Son, what happened?"

Bram opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

"I will call the doctor," Mom said, hands already moving, already choosing.

"That's not necessary, Mom," Bram said quickly. "Really. Please stop."

"Ok, Bram," Mom replied.

Which sounded like agreement if you didn't know her. Mom didn't become C.O.O. of Vel Metal by doing what other people wanted. She became it by promising to, then doing whatever she'd decided anyway.

Dr. Ria arrived ten minutes later. His hover chair seemed barely able to hold his girth afloat, stabilizers whining softly as he floated into the room. He didn't waste time asking Bram how he felt. He looked at the injuries and went straight to the point.

"I have encountered these types of injuries plenty of times in my career, Mrs. and Mr. Nova," he said. "Your son has bonded to a soul coal."

Mom's composure snapped like a wire. "What!!!"

Dad's face tightened. "Oh, Bram."

Bram leaned forward to bargain with the moment. "What? I'm okay, right, doc?"

"Yes," Dr. Ria said. "Now after I grafted your skin together. But you need to lie down. You lost a lot of blood."

"It's cool," Bram said, trying for a grin he didn't earn. "I'm always making more."

"This is no laughing matter, young man," Dr. Ria cut in, voice sharpening. "You are only ten. I've seen what happens to full grown adults. Only death awaits you down this path."

Bram's jaw set. "People do it all the time."

"Bram, that's enough!" Mom's voice hit hard. "Where is the soul coal?"

Bram held it up by the rope, letting it hang like it wasn't the reason my stomach still felt hollow. Mom didn't reach with her hands. A tractor beam snapped from her hover chair, ripped it from his grasp, and crushed it into blue powder right in front of him.

Dad's tone stayed steady. "Your mother's right, son. You are much too young to be doing something like this."

Bram's control finally cracked. "But time moves differently there! Those cuts were fifteen days old! The monsters couldn't touch me after that! I was kicking so much bu-"

"Bram Nova!" Mom snapped. "You will be silent this instant! You will not be getting your hands on a soul coal ever again!"

He went quiet. Even at six, I knew he wouldn't listen.

He was grounded for two weeks, no friends, no martial art practice, nothing. Three days later, Bram had another soul coal.

PRESENT

I flexed my toes and the boot thrusters answered, nudging me backward through the water like I'd just remembered something I left at home. Van Black followed.

Sixty feet and closing.

I could've pushed harder. I didn't. Not yet. If you show your ceiling early, you spend the rest of the fight living under someone else's plan. I held at about eighty percent thrust, enough to look like effort, not enough to tell the truth. He still gained.

I brought my kinetic hammer up across my body, a defensive line in a place where "defensive" was mostly wishful thinking. Van Black ate the distance and then he was on me, throwing a punch like the ocean was empty. No drag. No hesitation. Just speed and intent.

My mind flashed to Bram, because it always did when something hit hard.

I'd based my hammer on his Bamma Slamma. My brother also fancied himself a poet, which was the generous way of saying he named techniques like he was trying to win a contest nobody else had entered. His mallet had been no bigger than a standard tool, and it could halt any attack and drop anyone he tagged with it.

Mine wasn't that. Mine was the best I could build without being Bram.

I met his punch with the hammer head. Metal hit knuckle with a thud that I felt through my gloves. The meter-long handle lit up, glow skittering along it, electricity crackling as the suit drank in the impact. Kinetic capture into conversion. Conversion into backfire. Backfire into payback.

I swung again, two hands, full suit strength, pouring everything I had into momentum.

The hammer absorbed the energy from motion, his, mine, the shove of water-and routed it into my systems. My suit translated it into backfire energy and fed it back into the weapon, stacking the charge like I was building a bomb in real time.

Van Black caught the handle mid-swing. One hand with no strain. He locked it in place like I was a child having a tantrum. Then he went for my head with his other fist.

I boosted, hard, skating over the blow and up above him. My shoulder harness pulled, trying to keep the weapon aligned. I yanked back, expecting leverage to do something.

He didn't move.

My Shomaki Sho-Tek was designed for high-level strength matchups. In it, I could crush concrete slabs into pebbles. I'd tested it. Re-tested it. Broke my own equipment proving the numbers were real.

Van Black stopped my two-handed swing with one hand and didn't even look the least bit stressed. I might've chosen the right suit, but it still might not be enough.

My thrusters added force to my pull. He pulled too. For a split second, it was humiliatingly simple; a tug of war over my precious weapon, like we were children fighting over the last good thing in the room.

Then my ears rang, not from sound, but alarm.

A radiation warning flared across my HUD, urgent red chewing at the edge of my vision. I didn't have time to isolate the type or map the profile. All I had was the message: worse than expected.

I made a decision that tasted like losing and shoved it down anyway. I let go.

The moment my fingers released the handle, I rocketed away, straight toward where I'd planted the second trap. Van Black could have the hammer for now. A weapon in his hand didn't matter if I could turn the field into a problem he couldn't muscle through.

"Okay," I muttered into my own suit, because apparently I enjoyed narrating my bad choices. "Gharshira was right. Again. I hate that."

The Chumaki had been made for this; for opponents who generated massive amounts of energy. For bodies that emitted hazards as casually as heat.

New strategy. Stay away. Keep moving. Make him spend. Make him commit.

Wait for my Mek-Tek to arrive.

My CPU flashed the updated countdown: 26 minutes, 55 seconds.

I didn't need it. I felt every second in my blood.

The gravity well generator was about forty meters northeast of me. I headed that way, casual drift, controlled thrust, like it was coincidence and not the only plan I had left that didn't involve begging.

He followed.

The radiation coming off him had climbed again in the last half-minute. My HUD kept screaming about it in angry red, like it was offended I hadn't already solved the problem by being less alive.

I needed him watching me, not reading the water.

I popped the right-thigh compartment and pulled a spare converter, then snapped it onto the cable routed under my bicep and down my right side. One quick re-route and the power budget feeding my suit's right arm diverted into the converter instead. I clicked it into the focal lens assembly in my gloves.

Instant high-intensity laser. The kind no law enforcement agency would sign off on unless they were also planning a cover-up. The catch: aiming at something super fast in dense water is basically "hope with math."

I fired and a white burn tore through the blue-lit gloom. Van Black slid aside, which was fine, because hitting him wasn't the point. I wanted his attention pulled outward while his body drifted inward.

He rose above my eye level, just enough to make tracking awkward. My visor chased him, laser trying to bracket his movement, my arm lagging a fraction behind every change in direction.

Then he dropped. One moment he was high, the next he was lower and closer, my range collapsing before I could re-center. His kick drove into my solar plexus.

Pain punched through me, clean and immediate. The suit didn't fail, but it didn't lie either; I felt it. Antian was durable and expensive, pulled from deep Winsker rock and refined until it could be molded. Vitalized, it moved like cloth and still took punishment like metal. We'd pressure-tested the Sho-Tek beyond anything reasonable.

Reason meant nothing to Van Black.

I held together. I also learned exactly where the bruise was going to bloom later. He followed with a left strike.

I slipped it, faster than he expected, and answered with a kick, tight timing, using the water's resistance to hide the snap. My foot hit his ribs and it felt like I'd just kicked a wall that lifts weights.

His knee slammed into my midsection and I used the impact as propulsion, letting it shove me out of his immediate reach before he could chain it into something worse.

He didn't give me space, fist homing in. I dodged and dodged again. The next one I blocked, and the force still sent me flying back, armor stabilizers fighting to keep my body from tumbling head over feet.

He kept throwing. Fast. Focused. Like he had a reason beyond "win."

My breathing started to roughen. I could feel the suit compensating, but my body was still doing the part where it remembers it's underwater and gets dramatic about it.

Is he just trying to end this quickly? Or does he want me?

He was from Quil, my world's main competitor in manufactured goods, which meant grudges came with invoices.

My sensors fed me two updates at the same time: the gravity well was close, and the radiation in the water around us was pushing into hazardous.

I waited for the first clean opening, when his angle meant he'd be watching my retreat instead of scanning the space I was leading him through. Then I pushed off at a diagonal, careful to keep the trap out of his direct sight.

He surged after me, exactly as predicted.

As soon as we entered range, I triggered the generator.

I let my posture sag a fraction, let him think he'd timed it perfectly. Let him commit to the straight, brutal line that had been working so far.

At the last second, I thrust under his path, tight, quick, no wasted motion. The gravity field snapped alive and Van Black drove straight into it.

Tek isn't like regular tech. It doesn't run on "good enough" parts and wishful thinking. It needs three things to even exist: a focus that can be persuaded to express the right property, a power source strong enough to force the effect into reality, and a casing that won't split when you ask it to contain something that wants to tear free.

My Sho-Tek runs on backfire energy, the loop I created when I was six. It still feels wrong that something I made with child hands powers armor that can keep me alive.

My gravity gear is worse. The focus for it is a miniature black hole, stabilized in the pack on my back. Carrying it that close used to spike my anxiety, I thought my hair would fall out. I keep doing it anyway. So far, I've been lucky.

Van Black hung in the water with his fist still outstretched, stock still. Bits of flotsam drifted past him like he was the center of a slow, harmless snow globe. It looked like my machine had trapped him inside a cube of water; one tight pocket held rigid while the rest of the ocean behaved like nothing was happening.

I smiled.

No Mek-Tek. No last-second save needed. I'd done it with the tools I already had.

Roxy's holographic form dropped in from above, bright and too cheerful for the setting, zipping around him and inspecting the frozen shadow from every angle.

"Superstar Van Black has been immobilized! As per the rules, he has until the count of ten to escape or Superstar Narshira is the victor. One... two... three... four... five..."

A giant orange hand appeared over my generator and crushed the device down to the size of a of soul coal.

"Damn it."

He'd been trapped a full five seconds before she even started counting. And now he was free.

The enormous hand pinched the ruined ball between its thumb and middle finger and flicked it at me.

I dodged and pushed back hard, keeping distance as Van Black advanced. The moment the hand showed, my radiation alarms escalated, hazard radius expanding to about ninety meters. My suit's analysis spat out the particulate profile: protons, and multiple forms of hydrogen nuclei.

Okay. That wasn't comforting, but it was usable.

This plan was dangerous and might go sideways fast, but his strength and radiation output were already past what the SRC said, past what I'd prepared for. If I stayed on the same track, I'd lose.

So: new track.

First, I had to reach the first trap I'd set. I needed the arrows inside it, because the launcher itself was probably about to become another casualty of "Van Black is too powerful." The arrows were the part I could repurpose.

If I could modify the energy output they produced while avoiding his hits, I could give him a taste of his own ability.

I did the math; minimum: forty-two seconds. And Van Black was still coming.

That orange radiation hand shot toward me, too fast for something that big, and for a heartbeat my brain stalled on the mismatch.

My CPU did the math for me this time; if that thing closed around me, my Sho-Tek would last under thirty seconds.

I'd last under a tenth of that.

I slapped the tri-shaped button on my chest and triggered the repellant field.

The Tek behind it was almost annoyingly simple in concept: vitalized titanium for structure, a small run of esire vines as wiring, backfire energy as the power source. The nightmare part was the focus. You need something small enough to carry and strong enough to impose a property that wouldn't crack under no amount of pressure.

Metal wasn't reliable. The strongest metals, except vitalized zantinum, which I can't get, can be pierced if someone brings enough force to the party and doesn't care what it costs. So I went mineral instead. Milo diamond. Ultra-rare, only found on the water world Earth, and it had exactly what I needed.

My electromagnetic shielding snapped into place a split second before contact; quadrilateral, full enclosure, clean geometry wrapped around my body.

The hand wrapped around it and stopped cold.

It didn't push through. It didn't dent. It just met a wall that might as well have been a law of nature. With the density tuned to Milo diamond, the only thing I could picture punching through it was another Milo diamond moving at the speed of light, and Van Black wasn't throwing that...yet.

The hand tried to constrict anyway. The orange brightened, red streams ran inside it, and those streams flowed faster as it tightened, like the color was part of the mechanism.

Van Black gestured and the hand flung me hard toward a cluster of waterspouts.

"Nature's Teeth," I spat because I didn't have a better word for the universe deciding to add unscientific weather to the murder.

Tek has one advantage over its predecessor that I appreciate more every time someone tries to turn me into paste: it doesn't malfunction, doesn't go obsolete, doesn't need recharging. I could leave the shield up for two years if I wanted.

But "stay inside a bubble forever" isn't a win condition.

I kept it on anyway as I entered the first set of undersea tornadoes. The funnels hammered me from multiple angles, spinning and shoving, the kind of violent randomness you'd normally only see in a kid holo game, except this one came with mind numbing terror and consequences.

When the spouts dumped me into a small clearing, I dropped the shield and checked my sensors. A radiation front was coming after me, fast enough that calling it super swift felt like lying.

I didn't wait to study it. I torpedoed deeper into a fresh set of forming spouts, forcing the water to do some of my fighting for me.

As I cut through, I caught glimpses of the source: jagged fissures in the rock below venting air that fed the spirals. Aphlis didn't just have an ocean; it had features that acted like they'd been built to punish anyone who needed a stable environment.

I knew almost nothing about this planet beyond what my instruments could scrape together mid-panic. It wasn't just unfamiliar, it was actively strange.

My suit counted eleven waterspouts within fifteen meters, with more turbulence building beyond. One of them tugged at me hard enough to shift my trajectory, the pull trying to commit me to the spin. I kicked thrust higher, bought a few seconds, and angled away before it could grab my whole body.

I didn't know the destructive power of waterspouts in general, let alone here. I wasn't interested in finding out. So I kept moving, deeper, faster, and just unpredictable enough to make Van Black work for every meter.

My sensors flagged the hand's incoming strike before my eyes caught up. My CPU flashed an advised route like it was scolding me for being slow, and I followed it on instinct; cut left, drop, then snap right.

The radiation fist hit the rocky outcropping that fed the spouts with a punch that felt like a bomb going off in a locked room. The stone shivered, water surging, the whole area got angrier.

I told my suit to locate the edge of Nature's Teeth. Van Black didn't let the calculation finish.

He was suddenly right there, close enough that he felt like my shadow about to kill me. His mask was blank black, featureless. No nose ridge, no mouth line, nothing. It wasn't intimidation so much as erasure. I couldn't read him because there was nothing to read.

Can he see through it? Or is he blind and tracking me with something else; pressure shifts, heat, the electrical signature of my suit? If he didn't need eyes, then I'd been giving him the wrong distractions since the start. He is a Soul Style user, after all. They have all kinds of tricks.

He came in swinging.

Underwater gave me extra angles, extra ways to slip away, and I used them. I avoided most of his hits by cutting sideways and letting the water steal just enough speed from his strikes to make them miss. A few I couldn't dodge fast enough, so I blocked.

One impact ran straight up my right arm and left it numb from elbow to fingers. Another punch was already incoming when a waterspout erupted between us like the ocean decided it wanted a turn.

The currents grabbed everything; me, Van Black, fish, debris, and spun us hard. I toggled autopilot and let the suit do what it was built to do: get me out. It ripped me free of the funnel in a sharp, controlled vector that left my head spinning and my right shoulder screaming where the twister had wrenched it.

I kept rising, fathom by fathom, dodging spouts until I cleared the field.

My sensors pinged the arrow trap: a little over twenty meters.

I hit the boosters and shot for it.

Van Black cleared the spouts a heartbeat later and stayed on my tail.

The orange hand returned, full size again, fingers spread as it surged forward to grab, melt, and crush. I couldn't stop. Stopping meant getting held. I could only snatch the trap in passing.

I was already bracing to trigger my shielding when, a blade buried itself into the giant palm.

Ten meters long. Four meters wide. It punched through the hand like it had mass rules and the construct didn't. The handle was as wide as I was tall, and a chain, eight inches thick, ran off into the distance; one hundred fifty yards of ugly intent ending in a wrecking ball scavenged from some dead construction machine.

The chain snapped tight and blade split the orange hand clean in two.

The weapon retracted fast, yanked back to wherever it had launched from, leaving the hand to shred apart and dissolve into the water like a bad idea realizing it wasn't welcome.

Something huge drifted down between me and Van Black.

He stopped short, first real hesitation I'd seen out of him, looking the newcomer up and down like he'd just met a problem he couldn't brute-force immediately.

My backup had arrived. And his name was Jonah.

Twenty-five feet of frog-shaped Mek-Tek, built for underwater combat; big frame, built to push through pressure and chaos. The hatch in his back opened invitingly.

I didn't hesitate. I swam inside and sealed it. Don't need the arrows now.

"Time to rock!"

Past

"Time to rock" was Bram's way of announcing the conversation was over and the outcome belonged to him. He didn't say it when he was confident. He said it when he'd decided he was done being reasonable.

I'd heard it the loudest during the Final Bout of the 98th competition-Bram versus Loque, a Klugh who'd gone undefeated the entire tournament with water-based Soul Style techniques that made other water style users look like they belonged in the kiddie pool.

I'm not proud of this, but I didn't know if Bram could take him. Loque was that good. His control was so precise he could influence the water inside a living body. The first time they faced off, Bram's Sync died in his place.

I remember the way my stomach stopped working after that. The way my thoughts slowed down like someone had throttled them. I saw my brother die. But it wasn't him, just his lookalike. It still made me feel queasy.

By the Finals, the tournament had moved to the space station Galaxy, parked around one hundred million miles from the Papuru Star. The arena was a big round slab of stone with a self-contained atmosphere sealed over it, and we spectators sat excited around the edge like we were ringside at an execution disguised as sport.

I was wedged between my parents, who were suddenly, publicly happy to have a Superstar son. They didn't even try to hide the way their mood tracked with Bram's win rate. Both their companies saw profit spikes that year, the kind of gains that made boardrooms purr. Bram had exceeded their expectations, which meant they'd started treating him like an asset they loved.

In that moment, though, he looked like he was running out of time.

Bram was bloody and burned. He'd already spent his Aura Cloak. A wall of boiling water chased him across the field while Loque closed the distance behind it, clearly aiming to get close enough to touch Bram and superheat the water in his tissue.

I was days shy of my sixteenth birthday and all I could think was: this is going to be my present. A bloody headline. A silence where my brother used to be.

Steam lashed the station's force field ten feet above our heads as Bram used his Soul Style's Quickening to stay ahead of the wave on the arena itself. When I glanced at Loque, he looked more focused than before, like maintaining that much water was costing him something real.

I looked back to Bram and my brain stuttered.

He was rising, floating high above us, past the boundary of the conjured atmosphere and into open space like it was a summer breeze.

That didn't make sense. The station's artificial gravity in the fight zone was triple our home planet's. It never seemed to bother Bram, but he'd never shown any ability to defy gravity outright. Not like that.

The gasp started with my parents and spread outward in a ripple of disbelief.

And then I saw what was behind him.

The planet Yon filled the space past his silhouette; barren desert, sun-scorched mountains, all harsh geometry and unforgiving light. It was so huge in that frame that it made Bram look small for the first time in his life.

Now I understood why Loque was struggling. His wave wasn't just water anymore. It was weight. It was drag. It was fighting the station and the planet's gravity.

The video feed shoved up close; catching Bram, all blood, burn marks and stubbornness, looking down with the sternness I come to associate with doing what he needed to get what he wanted

"Time to rock!" he said, almost remorsefully.

We only heard Bram because Soul Style has something called Sustenance. His omniband carried his voice even out there in vacuum; some not-quite-scientific trick about the body recycling its own oxygen long enough to do the unthinkable.

Yon filled the background behind him like it owned the sky. Even so, the Papuru Star's deep-violet light still leaked through; until it didn't, something vast sliding across the light.

At first my brain refused to name it. Then it resolved into a silhouette so enormous it made the arena feel like a coin on a table. A volcano range, one peak the size of my home city, drifting through space like it had been cut loose from reality and told to find a new home.

It moved past Bram and came to a stop over the arena and the audience. Galaxy Station still dwarfed it, technically, but the range made me feel microscopic; a dust bug in a room where gods were rearranging furniture.

All around us, faces went slack with awe. Even Loque froze, his focus breaking for the first time in the entire tournament. His awe turned to terror, clean and immediate, as lava started dumping from underneath.

I can't properly describe what it does to you, watching hundreds, maybe thousands, of tons of molten rock fall toward your head. I don't know what Loque felt, but I felt my soul trying to leave my body, which was frozen with fear.

The magma hit the station's force field and the barrier flared into white static, swallowing a huge portion of our view as the fire poured like a fountain. The sound in the arena became one solid scream, mine included, completely wasted.

Galaxy Station was the most sophisticated and well defended installation in the galaxy. It could probably take an assault from the entire 108 fleet, all while keeping the gift shop open.

We never saw Loque again. He vanished inside the fire, and that was that.

It took Bram less than an hour to return the lava flow, the volcano range, and the planet back to where they belonged, and showed up at the victory ceremony when it was done.

I ran to him and hugged him so hard I honestly thought I'd reopened every injury he'd already suffered.

"Nice to see you too, Microtek," he said, voice rough with amusement. "You didn't actually think I'd lose, did you?"

"There were moments I thought you were dead," I said, and my voice came out sharper than I meant, part relief, part accusation.

Bram laughed, because Bram always laughed at danger. "Me too."

I pulled back just enough to look at him properly, like my eyes could confirm he was still real. "Did you really drag Yon all the way here with your powers?"

"I got lucky," he said, suddenly more serious. "It orbit was close enough to arrive in time to matter."

I stared at him, trying to fit that sentence into my understanding of the universe. "Soul Style is... insane."

"In its purest form," Bram replied, and there was a weight in it I didn't understand.

That was when our parents arrived to claim him. They were smiling the way people smile when something they own is about to pay its weight. They started guiding him away toward the Controllers of Cy, already talking about holographs and appearances like the ceremony mattered more than what we'd just watched.

Bram glanced back at me. He promised he'd see me at my birthday party in a couple of days and I'm almost sure that was the last time I ever spoke to my brother.

Present

I only needed a glance at Jonah's control system. If anything was off, my Syncs would've been yelling in my ears before the first warning light.

Gharshira's voice came through the internal speakers with that polished edge. "Should've worn the Chumaki."

Even filtered through Jonah's audio, I could hear the smug. She'd earned it. I didn't have the energy to fight her and Van Black at the same time.

"I will pretend I'm learning from this," I said.

I switched to manual control. No matter how many simulations I run, a living brain reads chaos better than a digital one. At least my brain does. Not bragging. Just... statistically supported.

I slammed the focus emitters to one hundred percent and felt the pilot seat hum as the system came fully online. If Van Black wanted maximum problems, fine. I'd stop being polite.

He didn't hesitate. Jonah's size didn't intimidate him for a second. He drove a strike straight into Jonah's frog face. We slid back maybe ten feet, but the vitalized plating held.

I pulled and pressed the sequence that brought Jonah's modified chain weapon online; the wrecking-ball end swinging out and circling with a heavy, patient momentum. The design started as an Earth chain-sickle concept, but I'd ditched the curved blade for a straight one.

Van Black came again, and the water around Jonah started to move differently, faster, twisting around his metal body like something invisible was stirring it. A yellow fish slapped into my forward camera lens. I felt bad for one second. Then Van Black entered striking range and my priorities snapped back into place.

This time I let him think his hit was landing. I jerked the controls and Jonah shifted, huge body gliding aside with a speed that made me very proud. The wrecking ball swung through the space I expected Van Black to be.

It hit him dead-on.

Bubbles exploded from the impact. His masked head snapped back and his body vanished into the gloom with a satisfying violence I felt in my chest, like a breath returning.

Not a knockout. I wasn't that optimistic. But it was a real hit. A reminder that he wasn't the only one that hits hard. He came right back in, same speed, same aggression, no visible damage. Like the wrecking ball had been a suggestion.

Aura Cloak. "Right. Of course you have that."

If he'd burned it there, it was out of the way now. I hoped. I pushed the emitters again, solidifying sections of water into tri-shaped projectiles. Old Cycloid throwers, brutal little geometry built to punch through armor when our ancestors didn't have better options. They launched toward him in a tight spread.

They didn't reach him because the orange hand returned, this time in a set.

"Are you serious?" I said, and it came out a laugh.

The two fists swatted my tri-stars apart faster than I could make them, breaking them into tumbling fragments that dissolved back into the sea.

I triggered the shoulder jets. Jonah vented foaming bubbles in a thick bloom, turning the water into a white mess that hid both of us. My sensors kept Van Black tagged.

But could he still find me?

I didn't wait to learn the answer. The moment visibility went, I moved, straight up. One of the fists plunged down through the foam, knuckles first, aiming to crush.

I flipped Jonah into slashing mode. Two fast arcs of his left arm and the fist came apart into four chunks before it dissipated. Great. I'd just shredded irradiated matter into the ocean like confetti. Sorry, fish.

The second hand reached out of the foam for Jonah's right leg.

I activated shielding a split second before contact. Sparks flared as radiation met particle defense, the ocean briefly lit by our collision. The hand strained, failed, and withdrew. I followed with a wrecking-ball swing and broke it apart mid-retreat.

For a moment-an actual moment-things looked manageable.

Then I couldn't find Van Black.

Gharshira's voice cut in, sharp enough to make me flinch. "He faded. Invisibility. The viewscopes can't track him either."

Tarshira followed, calm and dreadful in the way she always was. "It's possible he's bending the light produced by the geodome."

"I realize that," I said, grimly.

Jonah's external gauges started climbing, temperature rising in a ring about a hundred yards out in every direction. Micro radiation. A perimeter.

He wasn't hunting me, he was building an oven.
Dead fish drifted upward. Bubbles rose, steaming.

"He's going to cook me in here," I said, mostly to myself.

I didn't trust the shielding against this much electromagnetic output and I wasn't interested in learning its failure point.

Jonah could hit Zach-1 underwater, three thousand miles per hour. I coaxed every ounce of thrust out of his propulsion and ran.

The radiation box stayed with us. No matter the direction, the heat followed. The shielding sparked. Alarms started screaming.

Fine. If he wanted the whole ocean to be a weapon, I'd oblige.

"Time to stop running," I muttered, and cranked Jonah into a hard spin. I fired the emitters while rotating at speed. The water around us solidified into a twisting ring, our own spinning shell, a forced whirlpool.

Under normal conditions, water is decent at absorbing radiation. Under these conditions, we'd need to be absurdly deeper to get the shielding effect we wanted. Without that pressure, radiation breaks water down into reactive oxygen compounds before it recombines, dumping energy as it goes.

Energy that can detonate.

I held the spin, extended the field, and then ignited the buildup, hoping Van Black was close enough to regret it.

The explosion wrapped around us.

For a beat, I was grateful I hadn't tried this with my backfire arrows earlier. In my head it would've been elegant. In reality it would've been elegant and my death.

Jonah lurched. The cockpit shook hard enough to rattle my teeth. A control panel to my left spat sparks, then another burst snapped above my head. The restraints bit into my shoulders as I got thrown back, and the flicker of light, bright, jittery, hit my brain sideways.

Birthday candles.

Bram.

Past

My birthday is the second-to-last day of the year. Bram's victory the day before had everyone glowing. For once, the family wasn't a battlefield. We were actually enjoying each other's company while we waited for him to show up.

Aunts I didn't know we had. Uncles I hadn't seen since I was a toddler. More cousins than any sane person should be expected to tolerate, all floating, rolling, or crawling on expensive high-tech chairs that looked like luxury and sounded like money.

They asked the usual questions, the ones that pretend to be friendly while digging for weakness.

What's it like having a brother like Bram? Why are you so thin? And my personal favorite, delivered with that curious little tilt of pity: "You can't control your technology telepathically?"

A rare birth defect that affects .012 of Cycloids. Statistically interesting. Socially exhausting. Who cared? Not me.

The first time there was space to disappear without it becoming a scene, I slipped away to Bram's room.

I spent a lot of time there when I wasn't in the lab. Bram had moved out at sixteen. Now I was sixteen too, and I was ready to be on my own as well. I'd planned to tell our parents that night, but I wanted Bram on my side first.

Where was he? My pad beeped. I answered before the second tone could hit.

Bram's three-dimensional head sprang out of the hololens, brown hair, tussled, grin already in place. Just seeing him made something in my chest unclench. I laughed, loud and real.

"Happy birthday!" he said.

"Bram!" I leaned in like he might disappear any moment. "Where are you? Everyone is here."

"I'm still on Unity," he said, like it was a minor delay and not my entire night cracking in half. "The Coalition won't let me leave until I've completed some of the terms of my contract. Meeting important delegates and the sort." Then, brighter: "Hey, I even met Dante! He's here now!"

"Oh..." The word came out thin. "You promised, Bram. I can't handle my family without you, bro. Come on."

"I'm sorry, Narshira. I can't today." He said it gently, like gentleness could replace presence. "I promise to be by in the next couple of days."

He glanced to his left, then back at me. Quick. Automatic. Like someone else was in the room with him.

I wondered what my face looked like in that moment. If something was wrong in it, Bram didn't notice.

"I'm going to call the house holo," he said. "Get the fam off your back for a little while. Happy birthday. I love you."

Then the image winked out.

I stood there, pad in my hand, waiting for the feeling to finish forming into something manageable.

It didn't.

The family cheered.

I heard it from the hall, loud and sudden, and my stomach went cold. I opened Bram's door and stepped into the gaudy decorated corridor that led to the reception area.

It was packed. Drunk Cycloids in expensive chairs, pressed close together, faces turned toward the wall where Bram's hologram had appeared; bigger, brighter, and treated like a holy event.

He introduced Dante and the room erupted again. I stayed where I was, not moving, because my brain had snagged on one detail it couldn't let go.

The Bram who'd just called me had called me Narshira, not Microtek. No way that was Bram.

Present

Jonah's systems were still up. No failures. No warnings. Green across the board. I build them tough.

The water cleared enough for me to see I was alone. For a second I wondered if the blast had actually taken Van Black out.

Sonar answered: incoming. Big. Fast.

A boulder the size of a hoverbus came at me. I fired a missile from Jonah's left thigh and splintered it into smaller rocks.

I turned Jonah toward the direction it came from and dropped all six depth bombs as I moved. They deployed from Jonah's rear ports. My Syncs giggled over comms like they'd been waiting all day for that.

I didn't laugh. Van Black had me tense as hell.

Sonar caught him, torpedo-fast, cutting through the disturbed water where the bombs had gone off. I pushed Jonah forward and spun the chain weapon, blade on one end and wrecking ball on the other. Water condensed around the ball as it rotated, hardening into a sheath.

I threw the wrecking ball at him. The hardened water whipped ahead of it and speared fish on the way.

First the hardened water, then the ball connected. Van Black didn't slow. Because he'd just used his Aura Cloak, damnit.

The orange hand returned, avoided the water whip, and grabbed the chain. It pulled with strength that didn't make sense for a disembodied hand. Jonah pulled back. The cockpit shook.

Rear cameras lit up, Van Black had already flanked to my six.

I fired a missile at the hand while turning to face him. It missed.

The hand surged forward and rammed the wrecking ball into Jonah's sword arm, bending it at a sick angle. The blade dropped into Van Black's grasp.

Small man, huge sword. Not funny. The blade lined up toward the cockpit.

"I lost," I said. "I'm dead."

Then everything snapped.

One second I was strapped in; the next I was sitting on cold metal, naked. A thermal blanket wrapped around me before I could get a word out.

"What- Jonah!"

"Calm down, Narshira," Tarshira said. "We saw the battle was lost and got you out."

I blinked and oriented. My streamjet's observation deck. Gharshira stood at the holoview, watching.

On-screen, two giant orange hands hammered Jonah with his own weapons.

"My baby..." I said, and hated how it sounded.

Both Syncs hugged me. I hugged back. I was alive. I could rebuild Jonah.

Gharshira tilted her head, pure attitude. "Admit it. You designed the teleporter this way because you look good naked."

I laughed despite myself.

Over the holoview, Roxy's voice cut through. "Winner of Battle 5: Superstar Van Black!"

 

[papuru]

PAST

The first time Zala Skipstone turned the holoview on, the cave lit up like lava moss had set up residence in her living room.

A sheet of pale-blue projection unfurled above the stone table and assembled itself into depth, real depth, not flat picture depth. The image didn't sit on the air; it occupied it. A battle arena floated in black space, bright with shield-lights and packed with a crowd that looked like a moving field of gravel. In the center of it all, an island of round stone.

Zala had insisted they buy the holoview. She'd said it was for Juna. She'd said family support mattered. She'd said the girl deserved to feel watched in a loving way.

Zala had also arranged the seating.

She sat closest to the projection; close enough that the glow polished her burgundy-blue stone skin to a theatrical shine. Her hands were folded with the neatness of someone who expected applause for simply sitting correctly.

Vaug sat at the head of the table the way mountains sit at the head of valleys: not by invitation, but by physics. He held a stone cup of water and sipped slowly, deliberately, as if swallowing too quickly would make him look weak in front of the family.

Brann lingered near the archway, tall and angular, pretending he just happened to be there. He always "just happened" to be where the attention was. His face was set in the familiar look of a Yuni male trying to appear above emotion while drowning in it.

And Renn; Renn had shown up, which meant Zala's night was already a success.

Renn Skipstone wasn't supposed to be there long. He was a reporter for the Aboveground now; polished voice, careful posture, the kind of person who could describe a landslide with tasteful adjectives. He claimed he was visiting. Zala claimed he was "finally back where he belongs."

Brann claimed nothing out loud, but the way he watched his brother said plenty.

The holoview's title shimmered overhead:

99th COALITION CARNAGE - THE FINALS - BOUT 5

Juna appeared, and the cave seemed to tighten around her name.

She was younger then, still leaner in the shoulders, still wearing bravado like armor that hadn't been tested enough. She moved quickly on the stone with a grin that belonged in a festival, not a finals bout. Razor-feathers whistled past her and she laughed as if the enemy was providing entertainment.

Zala's lips pressed together.

"She's laughing again," Zala said, not quite a complaint and not quite a praise.

Vaug didn't glance at her. "She laughs when she's confident."

"She laughs when she's careless," Zala corrected, satisfied the way she always was when she turned someone's warmth into a flaw.

Brann shifted, eyes locked on the projection. "Maybe it keeps her loose."

Zala's gaze flicked to him. "Loose gets you broken."

Renn, sensing the temperature of the cave the way a man senses a storm before a broadcast, tried to sound neutral. "She looks... fearless."

Zala's head tilted. "Fearless is just a fancy way to say 'doesn't listen.'"

Vaug's cup touched the table with a soft, heavy thunk. "She listens to me."

Zala smiled in the direction of the holoview; sweet, polished, and just a little bit sharp. "Yes. Of course she does."

Brann heard the blade under it and didn't let it pass. "She listens to Juna."

Zala's smile stayed. "And how's that working out so far?"

Above them, Koshinataa darted through the arena's air pocket and out into the void, winging back in with effortless control. His portals snapped open and shut as if the universe was his closet. Juna's fireflies chased him, tiny winged flames powered by her soul, fast enough to keep him moving, bright enough to make the crowd roar.

Then Koshinataa pulled something new.

Another mini portal opened beside his elbow. He plunged his arm into it and drew out a device with a trigger. He fired a cloud into Juna's fireflies path. The moment they passed through it, they sagged, flame turned gelatin, their pursuit collapsing into drifting globs.

Brann leaned forward. "What is that?"

"A trick," Vaug said, voice dry.

Renn's eyes widened, fascinated in spite of himself. "That's... smart."

Zala turned her head slightly toward Renn, pleased. "See? Even Renn understands tricks."

Brann's jaw tightened. There it was, the way Zala could turn a compliment into a weapon with one small pivot of her mouth.

On the projection, Juna's entire body flared with heat; flames crawling over her blue-and-burgundy rock skin before she internalized it, absorbing every bit until she glowed deep crimson. Smoke rose where her molten feet softened the ring's panels.

Vaug's mouth twitched with pride he didn't want anyone to see.

Zala let herself inhale as if she was smelling something burning in her kitchen. "She shouldn't do that."

Vaug's eyes stayed on Juna. "That's her."

"That's too much," Zala insisted, already preparing her future speech. "She always goes too far."

Brann muttered, "You say that whenever she's doing well."

Zala didn't even look at him. "I say it whenever she's doing loud."

Juna quickened forward and leapt into open space to meet Koshinataa's dive.

And then she exploded.

The arena vanished behind a blinding bloom of fire. The holoview flooded the cave with white light so intense the walls looked briefly new. The station's shields flared. Even across distance, the sound came through like a deep quake.

Renn flinched. Brann's breath broke. Vaug didn't blink.

Juna landed in the center of the ring, back to her normal colors, smiling wide like the universe was a joke and she'd gotten the punchline first.

Zala's voice came soft and certain. "That smile is going to cost her."

Vaug's fingers tightened around his cup. "Stop talking like you want it to."

Zala turned her eyes toward him, hurt, theatrical. "I want her to be safe."

Brann's voice sharpened. "Safe isn't what she signed up for."

The holoview angle shifted, tracking Juna as she floated upward-still smiling, still celebrating-out of the breathable pocket and into open void.

For two seconds, it looked like victory.

Then her face changed.

The grin cracked. Shock washed over her. Panic clenched her throat. Her hands went to her neck. Her body jerked in sudden, helpless fear as the air abandoned her.

Brann lifted a hand toward the projection like he could grab her back. "Juna-"

Vaug's voice came out low and brutal. "No."

A booming announcement echoed through the holoview:

THE VICTOR OF BOUT 5... SUPERSTAR KOSHINATAA.

The crowd erupted. Juna vanished and reappeared in the ring on her knees, gasping, dragging air into her lungs like it was the first time she'd ever owned it. Koshinataa landed before her, smug enough to make stone itch.

Zala made a small sound before she could stop it; quick, bright, pleased.

"There," she said, and the word landed like a clean chip off a statue. "There. Now maybe she'll stop."

Brann stared at her like he'd just discovered a crack in bedrock. "Mother."

Zala's smile widened; not cruel to her, simply correct. "She needed that. She needed to learn."

Vaug turned his head slowly, each degree of movement heavy with warning. "You're delighted."

Zala lifted her chin. "I'm realistic."

Renn sat very still, caught between the instincts of a reporter and the instincts of a son. "Mom... I don't think that's-"

Zala cut him off, sweet as polished rock. "Renn, hush. See? She's fine."

Brann's voice went quiet, dangerous. "She isn't fine."

Zala leaned back and watched the holoview like it had delivered something satisfying. "She lost. She lived. That's the best outcome."

Vaug's cup struck the table, harder this time, a sound that rang through the cave like a gavel. "That's my granddaughter."

Zala didn't flinch. She just smiled in the light of Juna's failure, warm as if the loss had finally proven something she'd wanted proven all along.

And Brann; Brann watched his mother's smile and understood exactly where second place began in this family.

PRESENT

The holoview hovered above the same table, but it was sharper now; newer, tuned for detail, state-of-the-art. Zala never missed a chance to mention that it had been upgraded "for Juna," as if hardware could substitute for support.

Tonight, the projection wasn't Galaxy Station. It was another planet's arena; skies of darkness and the Kistal of Might floating in the darkness like a living island that refused to obey geology. The kistal shifted under Juna's feet, hot pink threaded with drifting flecks of white, reconfiguring itself every few breaths like it was trying to pick the most humiliating memory to throw at her.

Only four people remained in the cave for this match.

Vaug at the head of the table, stone cup in hand, sipping water like discipline.

Zala beside him, posture perfect, eyes bright, mouth already warmed up for commentary.

Brann by the archway, pretending he was only there because he happened to be passing through, as if the cave didn't have exactly one place where the air felt like family.

And Renn across from Vaug, a smaller viewscope orb hovering near his shoulder, recording, streaming, because Renn had been ordered to do a piece on "The Skipstones' Reaction to Their Superstar Niece."

He'd tried to refuse. His editor had laughed, while his mother had celebrated.

"I always said you'd come home for something important," she'd told him, as if being forced into unpaid emotional labor counted as destiny.

Juna's parents and siblings were out shopping at the market in Gemma; buying food, tools, cloth, whatever families bought when they didn't want to sit in a cave and watch someone they loved get hurt.

Zala had been furious about it for the first ten minutes and smug about it for the next ten.

"They go shopping during a match," she'd said. "As if the lava grub is going to sprint away."

Brann had muttered, "Maybe they don't want to watch."

Zala had smiled. "Maybe they can't handle it."

Now, on the holoview, the Kistal of Might rippled and reshaped, and Juna skated forward on soles designed to glide. Her breath puffed faintly in the cold. Her eyes were focused in a way that made her look older than thirty five years. She was barely an adult.

Renn glanced at the recording orb, then at his family, and sighed like a man reading his own sentence. "We're live," he said, voice already slipping into his professional tone. "If you could all-just-try to be normal for five minutes."

Zala turned her sweet attention on him instantly. "Oh, Renn. You're so brave."

Brann's eyes narrowed. "He's sitting."

Zala didn't look at Brann. "He's working."

Brann shifted, the old ache rising. "I work."

Zala's smile stayed fixed. "You loom."

Renn's mouth twitched as if he was trying not to enjoy it. Brann saw it and bristled. Renn always had that, Zala's approval, her fussing, her defense. Brann got corrections and doorframe assignments.

Vaug didn't participate. He watched Juna, as if her movement was the only honest thing in the cave.

Renn leaned slightly toward the table, framing his voice like a broadcast. "I'm Renn Skipstone, reporting from Gemma, where my family lives. Tonight, we're watching Superstar Juna Skipstone, my niece, face Superstar Koshinataa in a rematch a decade in the making."

Zala brightened at "my niece" as if it made Renn sound more important. Brann's jaw tightened at the possessiveness. "She's our niece."

Renn kept going, ignoring him like only a younger brother could. "With me are my parents, Vaug and Zala Skipstone, and my brother, Brann, Juna's uncle."

Zala leaned closer to the lens line of the viewscope. "Say how proud we are."

Renn glanced at her. "We're-"

Vaug cut in without looking away from the holoview. "Don't perform pride. Watch the fight."

Zala's expression flickered; hurt and offended, then quickly sweet again. "We can do both."

Brann muttered, "You do both even when nobody asks."

On the holoview, the kistal shifted suddenly. The alien arena blurred, then resolved into something painfully familiar.

A neighborhood of low hovels appeared, their shapes echoing Yuni architecture. The street angle was wrong, the details too clean, everything was pink kistal, but the feeling was unmistakable.

Vaug's old neighborhood.

The Kistal of Might had reached into Juna's memory and pulled out Vaug's stomping grounds like a weaponized photograph.

Renn's voice faltered mid-sentence. "Wait, that's-"

Vaug's cup paused halfway to his mouth. "My street."

Zala's eyes widened in delighted offense. "It has your neighbor's door wrong."

Brann blinked at her. "That's your concern?"

"It's disrespectful," Zala said crisply. "If you're going to traumatize someone, at least get the décor right."

Renn stared at her. "Mother. That's not-"

"Don't 'mother' me," Zala snapped, then instantly softened. "Sorry, Renn. It's just... stressful."

Brann watched that switch; the sharpness reserved for him, the softness saved for Renn, and something in his face tightened.

On-screen, Juna skated past a facsimile of Rockjo's Eatery. The kistal had recreated it with smug accuracy. Juna's gaze flickered toward it as if even in a death match she remembered breakfast.

Brann huffed. "She's hungry."

Zala sighed. "She always forgets to eat. I used to tell her-"

Brann cut in. "When did you tell her anything? You mostly told her what not to be."

Zala's smile sharpened. "And look. She's alive."

Vaug finally drank, slow and measured, and set the cup down with a thunk that warned everyone to stop building scaffolds around old arguments.

The arena changed again.

The neighborhood melted away like wax, replaced by a massive cage; bars crisscrossing a pitch-black sky, arcing down into a confined battleground. Inside, the space felt smaller than it should have been. The kistal wanted closeness. It wanted panic.

Koshinataa floated above, amused, as if the cage was a familiar joke. He opened a portal beside him and let a steel sphere drop.

It hit the kistal floor with a clang that reverberated even through the holoview. It bounced, once, twice, and with every bounce it grew.

Renn's voice went high. "Why is it getting bigger?"

Brann answered without looking away. "Because the universe hates us."

Zala lifted her chin. "Because she deserves consequences."

Brann snapped his head toward her. "For what? Being brave?"

Zala didn't flinch. "For being reckless."

The steel orb ricocheted off the cage bars, its mass doubling, then doubling again, until it was moving like a runaway planet with an agenda. It slammed into the kistal, shook the cage, and came screaming back toward Juna.

Juna dodged by millimeters; Quickening flaring, her feet skimming the surface as if air itself could become ground if she demanded it.

Renn's hand lifted unconsciously, like he could block the orb with a gesture. "She's going to get hit."

Vaug's voice was flat. "No."

Zala leaned forward, eyes bright. "If she gets hit, maybe she'll learn to stop showing off."

Brann stared at her as if the words had finally crawled out into daylight. "You want her to fail."

Zala's smile was small, controlled, and familiar. "I want her alive. Sometimes failure is the price."

Renn swallowed, caught between the job and the blood. He looked at the viewscope orb recording everything, then back to his mother. "You realize this is going out to the system."

Zala blinked innocently. "Good. Let them see I'm a concerned grandmother."

Brann's laugh came out sharp. "Concerned. Right."

Renn's shoulders tensed. "Brann, don't start-"

Brann turned on him fast. "Don't start? You've been back two months and you still don't see it? She treats you like you're made of fragile crystal and I'm a door."

Zala's eyes went wide, offended. "That is not true."

Brann's voice dropped. "Name three things Juna likes about you."

Zala's mouth opened, and for the first time in the night, nothing came out immediately.

Renn saw the hesitation and hated it, because it didn't just expose Zala, it exposed the whole family.

Zala recovered with speed. "She likes my cooking."

Brann stared. "It's not hard heating bugs."

Zala snapped, "Fine. She likes my care."

Brann's eyes narrowed. "She likes your approval. Those aren't the same."

Renn's voice tried to turn it into a segment. "Okay, so what we're seeing in the arena is the Kistal of Might manifesting personal memory-"

Vaug cut him off. "Stop narrating and watch."

Renn flinched, then pressed on anyway, because work was the only place he didn't feel like a child. "This is whom she lost to last time-"

Zala's eyes gleamed. "Yes."

That single word, bright with old delight, landed in the cave like a dropped stalactite.

Brann's face hardened. "There it is. You're happy when she loses."

Zala's sweetness returned instantly, too smooth. "I'm happy when she survives."

"You were smiling," Brann said. "I remember."

Zala's gaze slid to Renn, pleading for him to defend her the way he always did.

Renn didn't. Not immediately.

Because on the holoview, Juna did something different. She stopped throwing "attacks." Now, she was placing them.

Jade flame flickered into the air, not exploding, not chasing, just hanging, suspended like little green papuru stars that refused to fall. Another flicker. Another. The space inside the cage became a field of floating embers.

Koshinataa laughed and tossed steel feathers. The steel orb bounced, louder now, faster, a continuous gong that made the projection shiver. He suddenly teleports outside the cage.

Juna kept dodging, kept "missing," kept laying green light into the air like someone stringing a net. The Kistal reformed again dropping the bars, allowing the sphere to vanish into the darkness beyond.

Renn's voice softened despite himself. "She's building something."

Vaug nodded once. "She learned patience."

Zala's eyes stayed fixed on the projection. "She learned fear."

Brann snapped, "You always want to call it fear."

Zala's mouth tightened. "Because I watched her nearly die."

Brann's voice went quiet. "And you enjoyed the lesson."

Zala turned toward him, and for a heartbeat the sweetness dropped entirely. "You don't get to accuse me of enjoying pain when you've spent your whole life resenting the attention she gets."

The words struck Brann in a place he kept covered.

Renn flinched too, because it wasn't just aimed at Brann. It was aimed at the entire family story.

On-screen, Koshinataa finally noticed the air, green flame suspended everywhere, frost creeping outward as the jade began to crystallize the very atmosphere. Confusion creased his feathered brow.

Juna looked up at him and smiled. It wasn't the old, careless smile. It was smaller. Sharper. A smile you paid for in blood and time.

"Finally noticed?" she said.

Renn felt his throat tighten. He'd come here to report on reactions, but the truth was he was watching his niece become something he didn't know how to describe without sounding like he cared too much.

Juna spoke again, calm as a promise. "Since you asked so nicely... I call it Jaded Sky."

The suspended pieces of crystal air coalesced, twisting and spinning into a hypnotic kaleidoscope. It was beautiful in the way traps were beautiful, precise, inevitable, and built from patience.

Koshinataa stared upward.

His Thrice Sight, some magical sight ability, didn't save him from his vision itself becoming a weapon.

Juna doused him in jade flame while he was still looking at the sky.

He crystallized midair and dropped like a statue losing its pedestal. Juna caught him and set him down gently.

In the cave, Brann let out a breath he'd been holding like an old grudge. "She caught him."

Zala's hand rose to her mouth. For a second, awe broke through her performance, reluctant but real. "Of course she did."

Vaug's laughter rumbled out, low and bruised, and he tapped his foot once against the cave floor like an ancient heartbeat.

Renn's recording orb hovered, capturing it all: Vaug's pride, Brann's relief, Zala's complicated shine.

Zala's smile returned; perfect and polished. And softly, almost to herself, she said the same thing she'd said ten years ago, only dressed in nicer words.

"Good. Now she can stop."

Brann's head snapped toward her. "You're still doing it."

Zala blinked. "Doing what?"

"Waiting for the ending," Brann said. "Waiting for her to be smaller so you can breathe."

Zala's voice sharpened. "I want her alive."

Brann's voice matched it. "You want her manageable."

Renn leaned toward them, the old brother reflex rising, the one where he tried to fix the room because he couldn't fix the family. "Stop. Both of you."

Brann looked at Renn, eyes tight. "You don't get to tell me to stop when you've been soaking up her attention for fifty years."

Renn bristled. "I didn't ask to be here."

Brann's laugh was bitter. "No. You were called. Like you always are."

Zala reached for Renn's shoulder, soothing, possessive. "Renn, don't listen to him. He's-"

Vaug's cup struck the table; final, clean, undeniable.

Silence fell like a slab.

Vaug didn't look at Zala or at his sons. He stared at Juna on the holoview; standing on living kistal, victorious, breathing hard, not looking up for anyone's approval.

When Vaug finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough to make everyone lean in.

"She learned," he said. "Not because you wanted her to. Not because you were delighted when she fell. Not because you were jealous when she rose."

He lifted his cup, took one slow sip, and set it down.

"She learned because she's a Skipstone," Vaug said. "And because the universe keeps trying to break her."

Zala's eyes shone, not with pride exactly, and not with delight either. Something messier.

Renn glanced at the recording orb hovering near his shoulder, still streaming the family's fractures to anyone who wanted to watch. He felt suddenly sick of his own job.

"Do you want me to keep recording?" he asked Vaug, voice small.

Vaug's gaze slid to the orb, then back to Juna. "Turn it off."

Renn hesitated. "The piece-"

"Turn it off," Vaug repeated, and the words carried the weight of bedrock.

Zala started to protest, then stopped. Even she knew when Vaug's voice meant law.

Renn reached up and tapped the orb's control.

The recording light dimmed. The viewscope drifted slightly away, like a creature told to leave the room.

The holoview remained. Juna remained.

And down in the cave beneath the surface of Yon, where Yuni families loved heavy and argued harder, the Skipstones watched their granddaughter win on a world that didn't know their names, while the grandmother who had once delighted in her failure, tried, with a smile too polished to be honest, to convince herself that wanting an ending was the same thing as wanting her safe.

 

[papuru]

Kane (voiceover)
My fav part about this competition, so far, is being reunited with my best bud, Claude.

Kane Urasa and Claude of Styfe were relaxing in Kane's opulent Super suite at the galaxy-renowned Papuru Inn, eating food delivered by room service. The suite was decorated in the blue-and-gold colors of the competition and included two bedrooms, a kitchen, relaxation quarters, and a game room. They had claimed the last one.

Their feet were propped up in expensive Cy hoverchairs, and a ninety-inch holoview played an advertisement for the latest orb product in front of them. Kane ate his usual burger and fries, while Claude worked through a bowl of fruit, pausing occasionally to bite into a sweet-smelling rainbow melon. Their conversation was intense, hands moving as much as their mouths, neither willing to give ground.

Kane (voiceover)
I haven't had a genuine convo with someone I wasn't in a high stakes game of chance with, in a long time. With Claude, I didn't have to pretend to be some high roller, ladies man, or down on his luck rogue. Those personalities I save for opponents. Claude has known me since we were babies; seven years separation isn't enough to sever our bonds.

"You are an idiot! No way Joppa would defeat Hellbent. Not even Will Lord Drax could beat such a beast."

Kane leaned forward in his chair. "Hold up, bro. Will Lord Drax can beat any and every Superstar."

"Drax only won because it was the first tournament; the galaxy was still young and power styles were a new commodity. If he had lived even two hundred years ago and he and Crango were in the Final Bout, Crango would win."

"Crango?!" Kane stared at him. "Are you kidding me? Do you even play holostar?"

"No, I am not familiar with the game."

"Crango is the most useless piece on the board-"

"That does not translate into actual ability, Kane. Be real."

"And Crango only won because there were no noteworthy Superstars that year."

Claude didn't miss a beat. "I forgot you were there, so you would know."

Kane smirked. "I got a friend who hacked the Guilds' database. Not one mention of any Superstars competing in the 80th Competition."

"Yeah..." Claude said after a moment. "I heard a few theories about that..."

Kane (voiceover)
We argue all the time, but Claude has my back, no matter what situation we in. This may be a one on one comp, but I have a feeling all the action to come won't be contained inside a geodome.

Their discussion cut off when the theme music for Coalition Carnage blasted through the suite. A second later, Roxy's pink hologram shot up into view above the holoview, moving fast enough to feel like she had been launched instead of projected.

"Welcome back! Our next matchup have two unknowns butting heads, but first, we're going to our favorite Coalition Carnage Color Commentator, the one and only Grodin! What's going on, my Ksush?"

Grodin's image replaced Roxy's, the background shifting to a small village square. "Don't forget former host, Roxy. I'm here in the tiny village of Milanbery, located on the outskirts of the Zareil Kingdom. With no technology on Pia, how do the Pians keep up with the competition?"

He gestured behind him with his third arm. Over fifty people sat before a makeshift stage. A red fabric curtain hung from stone pillars at both ends and dropped down behind a fog-glass floor that served as the stage itself. High above it, a man sat on a strip of the same red fabric, swinging back and forth like a restless child.

Painted onto the curtain was an erupting volcano. On the stage floor, Pians wearing red clothing, or simply covered in red paint, wriggled behind scattered prop rocks, moving slowly to imitate lava. At the center of it all stood two performers: one dressed as Kane, the other as Claude. One held a bo staff. The other swung a white wooden sword at a pace far slower than the fight it was meant to represent.

"They hold plays of the battles," Grodin explained. "Right here in the village square. Let's watch a live scene."

The man on the rope raised his arms dramatically, never losing his balance. "The Earthling's attacks were wild and fierce, very uncoordinated. He was panicking, as Earthlings are known to do."

Kane straightened in his chair. "What the hell is this?!"

Claude bit into a piece of fruit, clearly enjoying himself. "A rendition of our battle, apparently."

Onstage, the actor playing Claude spun his bo staff overhead and brought it down in front of him. Just offstage, a short, hairy marsupial swung fans in all four of its arms, sending gusts of wind across the platform. A Pian painted completely blue ran toward the Kane actor carrying wooden shapes meant to represent a tornado and a lightning bolt.

"The Dycordian seized the advantage," the narrator continued, "summoning tornados of wind and lightning. The Earthling had to flee the funnels of death."

Two more Pians emerged behind the Kane actor holding a large loop. The one carrying the tornado and lightning props leapt through it, rolled, and sprang to his feet. From the opposite side, another Pian, this one wearing fur and long ears, jumped through and began dancing in an exaggerated, ridiculous way.

"In his fear," the man declared, "he manifested a giant ring of light to absorb the tornados. A hare was then conjured, revealing the Earthling's true inner self. He ran too much, instead of meeting his opponent and friend head on."

The Claude actor celebrated wildly, arms raised.

"The Dycordian, believing himself victorious, celebrated prematurely," the narrator said. "He believed his friend would honor the wager of men, made before witnesses and the gods. Alas, he lowered his guard."

The rabbit-costumed Pian charged the Claude actor, crashing into him and sending both tumbling to the floor. The Kane actor stood and began dancing.

"Thus was brought down by the one he called friend," the man concluded. "By one whose word meant nothing. And so, the first battle drew to a close."

The audience applauded. The performers bowed. The holoview refocused on Grodin.

"They're getting a faithful reenactment, in my opinion. I'm going to watch the rest of this. Back to you, Roxy."

Kane had already risen to his feet, staring at the holoview. "Faithful? When did I dance?! And Jack the Rabbit is an old cartoon I used to watch with my dad, not some inner subconscious."

Claude stayed relaxed. "This is nothing to get so upset over. I was not upset about you reneging on our deal."

"OMG. I apologized for that," Kane shot back. "I have got to win this thing, Claude. Not for my benefit, but Earth's."

"Deep breaths, Kane."

Kane dropped back into his chair, irritation still written across his face. "This is why I hate remakes. Creative liberties my ass."

As he spoke, the holoview split to show two new competitors. One was a Coojur, rolling happily through a bed of flowers. The other was a shell-backed Winsker, digging steadily into the earth beside a five-foot blue mushroom.

Kane let out a long sigh. "Oh, this will be riveting. Why do they keep getting Winskers to compete? And what's up with that Coojur? He's chasing a butterfly."

Claude glanced down at his holopad. "The Winsker is called Crimson. The Coojur is Rampage. Codenames, obviously."

"Names that don't fit," Kane said. "The only rampaging that guy is doing is to those flowers."

Two silent holograms of Roxy floated down beside each competitor, clearly trying to prompt them into action.

"A thousand years and they still haven't figured out Winskers aren't interested in fighting, just digging stuff up. They should be left out."

"Equal representation, Kane."

"Even if they don't want it?"

Rampage finally stood and walked calmly through the forest of mushrooms. Some were no taller than grass blades. Others towered like trees, glowing in colors that covered the entire spectrum. Crimson kept digging, his shell turned toward Roxy.

"The SRC didn't specify what Power Style Rampage uses," Claude noted. "That, in itself, is unsettling."

"Thought so too. That's why I put my money on him."

"Kane, it is forbidden for Superstars to place bets during the competition."

"I know. That's why I use private bookies. Should I be saying this to a priest?"

"Confession is good for the soul. Ask Gaia for forgiveness."

"Maybe later. Look, the Winsker-"

"His name is Crimson."

"Whatever. He's on the move."

Crimson burst into a run, tearing through the mushroom forest until he spotted the oddly named Rampage kneeling among yellow flowers. The split visuals collapsed into a single view as Kane switched between holoscopes, each angle showing Crimson closing the distance while Rampage lifted a tan-furred hand in a friendly wave.

Roxy's voice cut in. "Superstar Crimson charges Superstar Rampage, a look of rage upon his face! Superstar Rampage better be prepared to defend himself or he will be impaled on his aggressor's shovel!"

"NO ONE TOUCHES MY TREASURE!!!"

The shout was loud enough to jolt both Kane and Claude upright. Crimson's left eye glowed gold and fired a beam straight into Rampage's chest. The Coojur screamed, body twisting in the mushroom grass.

"A blast from Superstar Crimson crumples Superstar Rampage where he stood! Time to count. One... two... oh, he's getting up. And he's smiling."

"Bad move. You're not going to like what's coming."

Rampage's eyes darkened, turning blood red. His whiskered face pushed forward into a canine snout. Fangs multiplied and lengthened. His slim, catlike frame thickened with muscle, growing taller until he stood over nine feet. Tan and brown fur darkened into black streaked with white.

His whip-like tail shrank away, replaced by two leathery black wings tearing out from his back. They snapped open and flapped twice. Rampage's red eyes locked onto Crimson, who stared back, frozen. The roar that followed shook the forest, twice as loud as Crimson's earlier bellow.

"Holy-"

Rampage launched.

One powerful beat of his wings sent him flying toward Crimson, talons stretched forward, jaws wide. Crimson slammed his shovel into the ground and heaved, throwing a massive wave of dirt, grass, and shattered mushrooms into the air. It barely slowed Rampage. He smashed into Crimson, driving both of them into a twenty-foot mushroom that burst into flames on impact.

They tore straight through it, splitting the burning stalk in half and skidding across the green plain. The shovel handle jammed between Rampage's teeth as Crimson flipped their momentum, slamming the creature onto its back and straddling it.

"MY TREASURE!"

Crimson raised the shovel triumphantly, clutching it like the prize he had sworn to protect. A massive fist smashed into him, launching him shell-first into a ten-foot mushroom crackling with electricity. The impact sent arcs of light snapping across his body before he collapsed to the ground, smoking.

Rampage came again.

This time, silver light flashed from Crimson's right eye. It struck Rampage square in the torso. The creature roared in pain, clutching at his head as Crimson leapt onto his back and drove the shovel down into the base of his neck.

"What am I looking at?" Kane said. "Is that Winsker using magic or something? He's not supposed to be able to use Soul Style, right?"

"Historically, something about mental capacity," Claude said. "This Rampage though, remind you of a past Superstar?"

"Hellbent."

Rampage shook violently, throwing Crimson off. He wrapped his arms around a tree-sized mushroom that instantly caught fire. The flames burned his flesh down to raw, bloody muscle, but he didn't slow. He ripped the mushroom free and hurled it like a projectile.

Crimson dodged as the burning mass sailed past him, the flames dying midair. He charged straight back toward Rampage without hesitation.

"None of this is making sense," Kane said. "He was a Coojur before."

"I have no knowledge of either culture having abilities such as these," Claude said. "Rampage does look half Tarlkin now."

"And everybody knows Coojurs and Tarlkins get along like cats and dogs," Kane said. "Oh, maybe Rampage is some forbidden love child between the two. That would be awesome!"

"Possible, but unlikely," Claude said. "At any rate, these two, after only a couple of minutes, have shown to be among the most formidable. We must be wary."

A sharp ping sounded from Kane's holopad. He waved a hand over it, pulling up the image of a gray-haired Human with a strong jaw and deep lines carved into his face.

"Mr. President. It's an honor, sir."

"The honor is mine. Have you been watching the competition?"

"Uh, yes sir."

"Tough group this year. How do you think you will fare?"

Kane glanced back at the holoview. Magma now flowed through the battlefield, bending to Crimson's will. Rampage, most of his fur burned away to exposed muscle, inhaled deeply. His chest expanded far beyond what should have been possible before he exhaled a stream of red flame. It slammed into the magma, the two forces grinding against each other.

Kane turned back to the holopad, forcing a confident smile. "I can take them. No worries."

"That's what I like to hear, Kane, my boy. Pay strict attention to this and the next match. Plan ahead and make Earth proud."

"I will, Mr. President."

"Good luck, my friend."

"Thank you."

The connection faded. Claude never looked away from the battle, and he didn't see Kane's smile fade with it.

Kane (voiceover)
I wasn't feeling as confident as I sounded. Claude was right about the level of competition. It won't be a breeze getting to the Finals. But it will be fun.

Kane's smile returned, steadier this time, as he watched the clash continue.

ELSEWHERE

In the Oval Office of the White House, President Julius Gilbert waved a hand and Kane's image vanished. He leaned back in his chair and turned toward a row of hovering holographic heads, each labeled with the name of the sky country it represented. The first to speak was Olan Highland, Perceiver, his deep accent steady and dismissive.

"He is posturing. He is outmatched and only just realized it now."

Ling Xi of Shangri-la followed without hesitation. "I concur. I still do not understand why you replaced Blair with this Kane fellow."

"He is going to fail," Emma Weber of Endure said bluntly. "We can't rely on such a youth in trying circumstances as these."

The face above the title Majesty shifted forward next. Jesse McDonald spoke calmly, though Gilbert wished he would choose this moment to stay silent. "I'm not as unsure of Kane's prowess as you three. I've seen him in action. He fought Blair and won. Despite that, I believe we should increase production of heligium."

Jerry Lake of Utopia cleared his throat. "That is risky. If you believe in Kane, let's wait until the Finals before deciding on that."

"Majesty can't wait," McDonald replied. "We only have around four hundred days of heligium left."

Baruch Amur, Kingdom President, joined in. "We have one hundred days more than them. Jesse is right. If Quil continues raising prices every year, heligium will soon be out of Earth's price range. We either produce it ourselves or stockpile it now while prices are still manageable."

"I spoke with our handlers earlier," Gilbert said. "They are unwilling to compromise."

"They are banking on our ability to produce the heligium," McDonald said.

"I do not appreciate the term handler," Highland said.

"What else do you call a person a president would answer to?" Lake asked.

"Either way," McDonald said, "they only care for themselves and their own personal power. If we fell out of the sky, they probably already have contingency plans to save themselves and their families. We were elected by the people of Earth. We owe it to them to ensure survival."

"It is why we should not have replaced Blair," Xi said.

"Forget about Blair," Lake replied. "What's done is done. I agree with Jesse that we need a plan B regardless of Kane's outcome. But increasing production is not the answer. Heligium is dangerous enough when handled correctly. Rushed production-"

"Then we appeal to Quil," Weber said. "The Finan are greedy, and certain officials can be bought."

"I was thinking the same," Gilbert said. "The Harvas family will represent Quil during the Dycordian visit. Jesse and I will approach them."

"Why McDonald?" Highland asked.

"I might be able to learn more about their heligium production, if the price is right," McDonald said. "I am to try."

"Our handlers will not be pleased if they learn of this," Amur warned.

"What are they going to do?" McDonald asked. "Kill us?"

Silence followed.

"No," Gilbert said finally. "That would draw attention to plans they would rather keep hidden. But they can make our lives difficult, so we proceed carefully. Until then, be safe, and go with God."

MEANWHILE

Back in the suite, Kane and Claude continued watching the battle, Roxy's voice rising with excitement.

"These two big beef sons of bitches are going all out now! The Fungi Forest has been terraformed by their encounter!"

The battlefield was unrecognizable. Mushrooms lay crushed, burned, and scattered, the ground split and blackened like the aftermath of a violent quake. Rampage, his skin fully healed and fur growing back, scanned the ruined forest.

"Where'd he go?" Kane asked.

"Underground," Claude said.

"Of course. I'm an idiot."

Crimson erupted from beneath Rampage, driving his shovel straight into the creature's chest. Rampage growled and wrapped his massive arms around him.

"Despite the mortal injury, Superstar Rampage was able to apply a bearhug!" Roxy shouted. "I think I can hear Superstar Crimson's shell cracking!"

Smoke poured from Rampage's nostrils. His mouth opened wide.

"It's over now."

Deep red fire blasted from Rampage's mouth, engulfing Crimson and his own arms. When Rampage released him, his arms were burned down to white bone, and Crimson stood motionless, wreathed in flame. The fire flowed back into Crimson's mouth. He swallowed it whole and belched black smoke.

"Now that was unexpected," Claude said.

"I've seen something like that before."

Crimson unleashed both gold and silver beams, forcing the beast backward as it howled.

"Superstar Crimson is mounting a comeback!" Roxy cried. "Those rich looking rays of light have Superstar Rampage about to fall!"

"Maybe he's not really a Winsker," Kane said. "Maybe he's some Liv-Tek model or something."

"No," Claude said. "They have safeguards against that."

"Safeguards can be compromised."

"I do know that."

Rampage swung wildly, fists the size of hovercars smashing into the air. His wings beat hard, lifting him briefly before he slammed back down. The entire geodome shifted, the image tilting for viewers across the galaxy.

Crimson stumbled. Rampage landed a brutal punch, snapping the mole face back. Another strike launched the Winsker into the geodome wall, which hurled him straight back. The creature swatted him aside, sending him crashing into another massive mushroom. Electricity surged and faded, leaving the shelled humanoid face-down in the dirt.

"A bone-shattering combo off the geodome! Amazing!" Roxy shouted. "One... two..."

Rampage leapt into the air for the finishing blow, then vanished mid-strike as the showrunners teleported him away.

"...nine... ten! Winner of Battle Seven, Superstar Rampage!"

"That was informative," Claude said.

Kane stared at the holoview in silence.

Kane (voiceover)
Sometimes, I wonder if entering this competition was worth the mental anguish that goes along with it. Going to alien worlds, fighting powerful beings, learning Soul Style, it all adds up fast. My mother warned me not to go looking for revenge. I should have listened.

"Still think you can win?" Claude asked.

Kane (voiceover)
I smile at my friend, who didn't seem at all worried about facing challenges like that. His confidence helped inflate my own.

"Damn right."

Claude laughed, and they bumped fists. Time passed quickly as they talked through what they had seen. When they finally paid attention again, Roxy was selecting the next geodome. A frozen wasteland appeared on the holoview.

"It's the staple of Mirrgrif, the Battle of Souls," Roxy said. "The site of a decisive war between two races, and now another meeting of warring Superstars. These two have met before in Coalition Carnage history. It's the final battle of the day. Superstar Ramza versus Superstar Nor!"

"That's it," Kane said, snapping his finger. "Now I know where I saw that fire-eating technique Crimson used earlier."

"I do too," Claude said, nodding. "It's been ten years since we've seen him. I forgot about him."

"Me too." Kane frowned at the holoview. "The Godsend. We just watched a Winsker use the Godsend."

A handsome man appeared on the holoview, hair flowing, muscles taut, his presence calm and overwhelming at the same time.

"The same Godsend as our resident deity." Kane exhaled slowly. "Can you believe that on top of everything else, we have to fight a god?"

"At least it's a god we know."

Yeah." Kane leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the holoview. "A decade ago. The question is, can a god improve on perfection?"

 

[papuru]

My name is Plunk. I am a Pixan, six inches tall by honest measure, with wings no longer than a thumb joint set neatly between my shoulders. I have lived for roughly fifty thousand years. Most of that time was spent walking the soil of my birthworld, Oym, and drifting through its many locals, which remain, in my estimation, the most instructive places a thinking being can observe. I am, in every practical sense, unexceptional. The sole reason these pages exist is that my closest companion happens to be a god.

His name is Ramza. His title, Deity of Unluck, does him no favors. It suggests petty cruelty or careless chance. The Ramza I know embodies neither. He is compassion given structure, and his affection for living things shaped him into a benevolent presence among us on Oym. This was not a rebellion against his father, the Ancient, who is also my creator. The Ancient was not cruel. He despised violence so thoroughly that even his son was subject to that doctrine. Where that philosophy left him unmoving in moments of crisis, Ramza chose to act.

"There is a time for peace," Ramza once told me, "and a time for confrontation." He said it plainly, as if it were an observation rather than a creed. He could not watch suffering and remain still. When danger pressed close, his abilities surfaced without spectacle, bending chance, matter, and moment just enough to preserve life. He never called it heroism. He treated it as maintenance.

I first met Ramza nearly twenty thousand years ago. I could recount his deeds until the dust of Oym itself forgot my name. Many of those stories I will pass over. They explain how a god thinks about mortals, but they do not explain Ramza. One incident does both. At the time, it had no title. Centuries later, others would call it the Arrival. The name lacks imagination, but the event itself does not.

Ramza and I were hosting the Sandmen of Beaith, beings of living grit who valued order above all things. They believed routine was virtue. Ramza, naturally, disagreed. He proposed we teach them amusement, a concept they examined the way one inspects a cracked tool. Flight, he reasoned, had brought him and me nothing but joy. So I added a pinch of pixie dust, always eager to help my friend.

The Sandmen grew wings and what followed was predictable in hindsight. They took to the air without coordination. Collisions followed. Clouds of sand fell from the sky and settled neatly over a Gnomini village's food stores. The villagers were not amused.

The thunderclap came without warning. Lightning struck the ground between us, and I nearly folded my wings in panic. The Ancient stood there, dark eyes veiled by long gray hair, his presence bending the air around him. Moisture gathered at my brow as I glanced at Ramza. My friend, infuriatingly, was smiling.

He explained his theory of fun with enthusiasm, gesturing toward the still-falling sand. "Life without it," he said, "is like a desert without sand. Empty. Technically present, but missing its purpose."

The Ancient said nothing at first. He ran his hand through his heavy beard and studied his son. He stood taller than Ramza by at least a foot, his dark robes giving him a severity he did not always earn. Then he laughed, softly, as though indulging a child's clever mistake.

"My son," he said, "you have much to learn about life. What delights one being does not always delight another."

Ramza was about to retort when the sky suddenly darkened, an impossibility given Oym's twin suns. I heard Ramza ask his father what was happening before the ground shook around us in a manner I have never experienced before. Our twin suns, Rumas and Ramus, were gone in streaks of light. To our astonishment, other stars followed suit, millions of bright white lines filling the now midnight sky.

I could feel the air vibrate around my body and Ramza lost his footing, landing on his backside. The Ancient, however, had taken to the air, ascending almost as fast as he descended earlier, and was gone from my sight faster then my poor addled brain could comprehend he had even left. Ramza, once he regained his footing, took off as well. When Ramza wants to move, he can really go, much faster than any being on Oym, save for maybe his father. Even if I tried to follow, there was no way of knowing where my friend went, so I merely float in place, shock, fear, and uncertainty keeping me from moving.

The planet quakes lessened in intensity, which I believed at the time was the Ancient's doing. He later denied this was the case, saying he was trying to stop or reverse what was happening only to fail at every attempt. It didn't make me feel all that great at knowing my creator was as helpless as his creations. The Sandmen were also huddled together in awe of the spectacle.

The quakes ended up lasting several hours and it was soon after they stopped altogether that I saw father and son again. Ramza came back first, looking no less tired then when he left. I knew he had been off helping any who needed it around the world without having to voice the question. When the Ancient returned, teleporting directly to his son's side, he held a look of worry that was absent from his offspring's features.

"We have stopped moving. I don't know where we are but there were other worlds here, with more arriving by the moment. I count ten so far."

Ramza rose into the air but his father called out. "Hold, Ramza. I have calmed the scared minds of those planets inhabitants. They are in no further need of assistance."

"How can you be so sure, father," Ramza responded in a calm, measured tone. "They could have suffered the same planet quakes we did, with greater severity. Calming them is adequate, but any mortals trapped in collapsed structures need help now. I must go."

I knew Ramza as well as the Ancient and knew there was no quelling his need to help. I spoke up then, vowing to look after a being who needed no looking after, before the Ancient nodded. As I flew up to my smiling friend and cling to his golden hair, the Ancient spoke again.

"If you encounter any being who appears to be on the same level of power as yourself, retrieve me at once. Do not confront. You may be powerful, but you are far from invulnerable."

"I have no interest in fighting, father," my friend said, then we were headed to the edge of Oym's atmosphere.

It was moments like those that made me fortunate to know this Deity, who held the well being of all in high regard. That no matter who was responsible, Ramza would protect the lives of those unable to protect themselves. That is why, to this day, I still cannot comprehend how and why the Coalition Carnage Competition existed in the first place. Or why, after almost a thousand years and ninety-eight competitions, that Ramza would insist on being Oym's Superstar. His first attempt ended in the Finals at the hands of a powerful mage, but after ascending to Tier Beta, his participation in the 100th competition was practically cheating.

I must admit, when the Ancient invited me to watch the competition in his company, my pride filled to overflow. Me, an ordinary Pixan, rubbing elbows with the god who gave me life. His home was in the clouds, an absurd notion to us mortals, to be sure, yet it also somehow fits a being who not only wants privacy, but to be close to his creations. The structure that sat on a bank of clouds looked to be composed of ivory, like those that grow on the backs of hippophants in Oym's flatlands. It held the faintest of violet from the star's light.

Inside was simple yet elegant in its setup, furniture made of white or dark clouds; very comfortable. Refreshments sat on clouds all around when I first arrived in time for Ramza's encounter. The Ancient sat in a gray chair of clouds, feet propped on similar material. He held a glass of some liquid, which he held up in greeting at my entrance.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Plunk the Pixan," my god had a wide smile, but his eyes never left the view of a female Tilris displayed on whiffs of fog. "Make yourself at home. You must try the hykinberry wine I just created. Out did myself, I did."

The sight and sound of all this had me speechless. A supreme being acting like a common mortal from an undeveloped society. I never seen such a look on his face, that of excitement. I took a seat just my size to the Ancient's left and a drink magically appeared in my hand. I glanced toward him as he took another sip, his gaze fixated on the massive image before us, which now held the visage of Ramza. His heroic pose was something I suggested at the previous competition; it looked a bit ridiculous in person but on the fog before me, he appeared quite remarkable, a hero of the people. My smile joins the Ancient's as our favorite deity was going out to show how much he has improved.

Rather predictably, Ramza slips and falls off the cliff on which he was heroically posing. I wondered briefly if he would remember he could fly, before the thought is banished by the sound of Ramza hitting the snowy ground. We both grimace and Ramza pops to his feet, obviously unhurt and not a hint of embarrassment on display. Unfortunately, his unluck worked against himself as much, if not more, than those around him. I can attest to being put in danger by it thousands of times, only for my friend to save me at the last second. Yet the number of times I've seen him trip over something or break someone's priceless heirloom on accident far outweighs the number of dangerous predicaments he has rescued me from.

The site chosen for this confrontation was known as the Battle of Souls by most who I've ever heard speak of the place. It doesn't seem that hospitable, with its grayish snow and dark skies. I'm not much for Mirrgrif history, but, supposedly, it was ground zero of some cataclysmic bomb, taking the lives of millions of Mirrgrif's inhabitants some centuries back. The light and the heat of the Papuru Star is blotted by the black clouds that send down ash colored snow that cover the plains. Crumbling structures stood out here and there, along with the husk of dead trees.

A piece of metal twice as long as Ramza is tall, came from the ruins of a building directly ahead of him. It looked to be composed of multiple metal fragments and sharp enough to pierce even Ramza's steel like body. I felt no fear of his safety, for I have seen my friend evade much swifter attacks, this one, however, Ramza evaded not. Instead, he raised his right hand and energy sprang forth so quick I did not see it travers the distance to the would be spear, which exploded in a shower of shards. The shrapnel froze in mid air, to my astonishment , and came in at Ramza striking his still form at every angle. My friend smiled and a piece of metal bounced off his snow white teeth.

"We have done this before, Nor of Magnetism," Ramza's voice issued from all around the Ancient and I as he spoke to his hidden assailant. "You had no luck then and you certainly will not now. Give up so this farce of a contest may end with both our dignity intact."

In response to his declaration, the ground shook violently and I cover my eyes for I knew Ramza would be on the ground in a second. When I reopen them, he was getting to his feet as twin sections of that very ground broke free of the rest. They each had to weigh at least sixteen wignets, (that's about thirty-five tons, respectively,) meaning my friend's assailant was powerful indeed.

"Ho! Ho! Superstar Nor has grown in power as well. Or is it the cold that's helping him."

At the time, I couldn't recall who Nor was except that he competed in the previous competition, in which he and Ramza battled once. Since I wasn't recording his anecdotes at the time and he had sixteen battles that year with a 14-2 winning record, Nor's losing effort never stuck in my mind.

Snow whisked off the mini mountains as they came at Ramza, their size making them appear to move slower then I'm sure they actually were. My friend tensed his muscles before meeting one of the objects in the air and disappeared inside. He didn't emerge from the other side, opting to blow the thing from within. The smaller chunks rainbowed the area with some even homing in on Ramza's glowing figure floating fifty feet above the snowy landscape. They smashed harmlessly against him as well. The second massive boulder came on anyway, with Ramza's hands raised towards it.

I believed he would shoot some blast to rid himself of it, not try to slow its progress. But slow it he did as he came down lightly on his toes, holding a piece of land tens of thousands of times his size. He was showing his opponent and all watching that he was to be taken seriously. An object came at him from behind, passing him without seeming to touch him. His arms lowered and he vanished beneath the weight of his load. He exited from the top, scanning the area.

A creature rode on a slab of metal, it's grotesque appearance jolted the faded memory I had of the Ninshu from planet Myst. He or she, (I'm never sure when it comes to the Ninshu) used a power style based around magnetism. His thin, wiry body was clothed in combat attire adorned with expensive looking jewelry. This contrasted its nightmarish face with its mouth full of inch long teeth and five inch long claws. Its smile sent shivers through my wings and its voice was as cold as their battleground.

"Bet you felt that, god," it held up its claw. "All I need is a small nick and I will win."

Ramza floated in place while Nor zipped about, looking for an opening. Ramza placed his hands on his hips. "You will have to try again, Nor of Magnetism," my friend said with a smile and booming voice. "For the only nick you received was from my clothing."

"Damn, you're right," Nor said with a heavy sigh. He lands, disembarking his crude metallic ride. "It's no use."

Ramza nodded approvingly and floated down to where Nor stood. "So, you concede?"

The Ninshu nodded its craggy head. And my friend, prone to form, smiled wide as he landed and strolled toward him. I felt the Ancient bristle on his cloud next to me. "My son always lets his guard down."

"Because he is not a fighter," I respond with the shake of my head. The Ancient didn't respond as his son suddenly had over a dozen thin needles sticking from his body. Ramza's smile faded once he noticed.

"Small sharp objects, if moving fast enough, can pierce the toughest of hides, unlucky god," Nor said with a hint of delight. "Those are poisoned, by the way."

The Ancient shook his head. "I told him he was not invulnerable."

Many see Ramza as, not only too friendly, but overly naive. I don't share this sentiment, but understand why it could be applicable. For instance, back during the Arrival event, Ramza and I returned to Oym after journeying to the other sixteen planets in this newly formed solar system. The thrill of visiting other worlds for the first time in my long life, I cannot fully explain with ink and parchment.

Having never seen snow nor experience cold, Ja'ir held our attention long enough for us to encounter one of its natives. The white fur of the quadruped helped it blend into the icy terrain before it sprang its trap on us. We, or rather, Ramza easily subdued the husky, hulking beast. Only it wasn't a beast, for it spoke to us in a language we didn't understand right into our heads. In fact, nearly every species we encountered spoke an alien tongue, limiting communication to the point we felt we had to return to the Ancient.

We found him exiting a chamber with a red door within his castle. This was the first time I witnessed the mysterious red door which, unbeknownst to me at the time, would play an extraordinary purpose in future events. Since the only striking feature was its color amidst the white clouds and golden trim, it held my attention for only a moment before I focused on what my friend was relaying to his father.

"Two of the alien species spoke our language," he was saying. "One even look like us, father. They are called Braloorians and their world Braloor. The other held people that resemble the reptiloks on Mount Cedir. They used some type of metal object to communicate. They said only the name of their world, Prees, before asking non-stop questions about that purple star in the distance. What do you make of it, father?"

"That for the first time in your life, my son, you will have to resort to violence."

This drew an audible gasp from me as well as Ramza. The 'no violence ' rule of Oym was adhered to even by wild animals. Oym is a world of herbivores for anyone who has never heard of us. Which is why Ramza, who never used his great power to harm even an insect, objected so adamantly.

"I don't understand. Violence is for lesser mortals who are not smart or brave enough to use other solutions."

"Normally, I would agree. But those responsible for a feat such as this," the Ancient paused, staring hard into his son's eyes. "Not even I could accomplish this. For the last several hours, I have been attempting to reverse it, if only for this planet, to no success."

I felt a cold chill flow through my nervous system. I don't know how I knew, but I just knew he was afraid. He turned to point up at the sun that took on a light violet hue at that distance. "The power that bought us here and holding us here is that. I don't know what type of energy that is nor how such a celestial came to be."

He turned back to us now, face a grim mask. "But it's not natural, that I can be sure. Which means the intelligence behind it has a purpose. We must prepare for the fruition of that purpose."

"And we will, by learning all we can about that star and how it works. I'm not a scholar, but me and Plunk know a few Pixans who may be smart enough-"

"Ramza," the Ancient interrupted softly, despite the stern look he held. "I love all my creations and will possibly have to give my life for them. But this is beyond the capabilities of wish fulfillers, no matter how clever. You must accept the fact that the time of peace is approaching an end; if you have visited the other planets, then you know I speak truth."

Images of the Ja'ir ambush came to mind, followed by terrifying visuals of Myst, planet of monsters. If I ever get the courage to recall those adventures for documentation, I must be sure not to antagonize the Sandmen, so they can take away the accompanying nightmares. Ramza's response revealed to me his thoughts paralleled mind.

"I admit, it looked a little scary out there. But they pose no danger as long as they stay contained to their worlds. As for those who are responsible, they can be reasoned with once we know what they want."

"The more powerful the being, sometimes can be the most unreasonable. I understand your stance on the subject, but it will soon be out of your hands. It will be a time of war."

"And I will be there to prevent it." The look in Ramza's eyes frightened me then, not that I haven't seen it before, it was because he was looking at his father. It meant he would do what he wanted, even if it drew ire from the being who gave him life. Without another word, he turned and flew through the ceiling of the chamber, passing through the clouds without blemish. I follow as quickly as I could, knowing he'd be long gone, but I didn't feel right crowding my Lord in that stressing time.

The look the Ancient held then was not too dissimilar to the look he had now as he gazed at the image of his son picking out thin nails from his arm . Radiant light issued from the punctures, shocking me from my silence.

"What sorcery is this," I demanded with more volume than I originally intended.

"Deities do not bleed, Plunk. Not liquid, at least." He didn't seem fearful for his son at all. "I don't think Ramza has been hurt before, even the three losses the previous decade left him without injury. This Nor has learned much since then. The ingenuity of mortals."

I wasn't holding this particular mortal in high esteem as he laughed rising into the air. Ramza brushed the rest of the needles off, light now replacing them to disappear out of the view of the cloud display. For a moment, he looked a bit comical, especially when he posed and suddenly burst into a fit of laughter.

"So this is pain. Not too bad a sensation. Tingly."

"That's the poison. As you lose feeling, it will return with the sensation of fire, before your heart explodes." He laughed again.

"What happens if I don't have one?"

"What?"

"A heart."

"Everyone has a heart, idiot!" The Ninshu was beginning to appear agitated. "If it bleeds it has a heart."

Even as Nor spoke, the light beaming from Ramza's wounds fade to nothing. Ramza still in his heroic pose.

"I don't have blood or any wounds now. Also, poison doesn't work on me. Care to give up?"

The Ninshu fell to its knees, a look of despair made its face even more demonic. "It's no use," it cried. " I've tried everything. It's not fair you get to compete again!" Its howls drew a look of pity from my godly friend, who walked up to his defeated foe.

"It's not the end of the world, Nor of Magnetism. You can believe me when I say this will be your last time having to compete in such a barbaric contest."

"Your going to kill me!?" Its eyes grew as big as dinner plates. It raised its arms to plead.

"No no," Ramza said hurriedly. He approached more slowly, the Ninshu held out its hands as if to ward off a blow. "I mean when I win, I will abolish -"

Wavy energy sprung from its palms into my friend, who jumps back in surprise. He looks at his hand, arms, then all over as the near invisible energy washed over him. "What is this," he asked, curiously.

"Reverse polarity magnetic pulse." The ground erupts under Nor and he was now airborne, riding a piece of rock. "Magnetized your godly self to attract every piece of metal inside the geodome."

Twisted steel beams from crumpled buildings streak into view, alongside broken earth beneath Ramza. Only Nor and the ore he rode on were unaffected. My friend was soon buried under tons of metal fragments that formed a sphere around him.

"Hey, Roxy," Nor was yelling at the hologram woman who was in the middle of a play by play. "Get to counting."

She didn't get half way before the ball of metal exploded in a rain of shrapnel, which itself was overshadowed by the rays of light coming from Ramza's fingertips. One finger seemed to produce half a dozen streams, the energy playing across the area, leaving pure destruction in its wake. When it splashed against the geodome, it came back to add to the mayhem. When Ramza lowered his arms, he was breathing hard. I knew his fear of dark, enclosed spaces was the basis for such a display of power.

But my friend recovered quickly and was next to a downed Nor, who had fallen at some point and was rising to its lavishly booted feet. He grabbed the lapels of Nor's tunic and picked him up, all smiles again.

"I give up," was Nor's reply. "For real this time."

"And there you have it," Roxy Boss's holographic image took over the visual, smiling in a most exotic fashion. "Sometimes a show of strength is all it takes. The winner: Superstar Ramza!"

I cheer my friend as his father rose off his cloud. "Show of strength, indeed." I wasn't sure what he meant by the comment. That show was called claustrophobia and it caused the Deity to lash out in a panic. My creator sighed heavily. "Now I have to relocate another geodome."

"I didn't think Ramza capable," I said. He had always been powerful, but rarely relied on such levels of destruction, him being a pacifist. "I have been meaning to ask, my lord, how did you ever change his mind about fighting?"

"I didn't," the Ancient responded casually. "He came to me on his own twelve years ago and said he would be Superstar from now on. So I let him."

With that, my god walked out of the room, the fact he walked on clouds not the reason for the bounce in his step. A look back at the screen revealed Roxy flashing that brilliant smile again as she announced the end of Day One of the Coalition Carnage Competition.

 

[papuru]

The canoe drifted without wake or sound.

Claude sat at the bow, his feet dangling just short of the water, hands wrapped around a fishing rod that had not twitched once since they arrived. Across from him sat the Fisher, older by decades, maybe centuries, his blue skin weathered and calm beneath a wide yellow hat whose rim shaded eyes that never seemed to blink. Their lines vanished into water so clear it barely felt real, blue-green glass stretching outward in every direction.

The lake reflected the sky perfectly. Dark purple overhead. Clouds white as polished bone. No shore. No ripple. The horizon curved gently in every direction.

Neither of them moved.

When the Fisher finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of certainty, smooth and deep, unbroken by age or hesitation.

"Do you know why I brought you here, Claude?"

Claude didn't look at him. His eyes stayed on the mirrored sky below the surface.

"I do not," he said. "But could you make it quick? My friend, his mom just died. He needs me."

The Fisher's mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile.

"You will only be gone a second," he said. "Time is kinder here. Still, your concern speaks well of you. Friends matters."

Claude frowned.

"Friend," he said. "As in one."

"You will have more," the Fisher replied.

Claude shook his head, dismissive. "Friends are trouble. Except Kane."

The Fisher nodded once, as if that name confirmed something long settled.

"They will be good for you," he said. "For both of you. Fifteen years from now, the two of you will meet others. Some will begin as obstacles. Some as threats. Circumstance will reveal which ones are worth keeping."

Claude turned then, brow creased. "What are you talking about?"

"You've heard of Coalition Carnage," the Fisher said.

Claude scoffed. "Who has not?"

"You and your friend," the Fisher continued, "will be Superstars in a future one."

Claude's eyes lit instantly.

"Cool!"

FUTURE

Year 1050
Day 2

The Papuru Inn smelled faintly of polished crystal and recycled air.

Claude walked beside Kane through the corridor, their footsteps muted by a carpet woven in alternating bands of purple and grey that ran along the floor and curved seamlessly overhead. The ceiling rose high, interrupted only by hanging crystal fixtures that refracted soft light across the white walls.

At measured intervals, holographic profiles of past Superstars shimmered to life, figures frozen mid-pose, names and records scrolling in clean glyphs beside them. Species varied wildly, covering nearly every one found within the galaxy.

A serv-tek glided past, scrubbing residue from the base of one display. Nearby, a cluster of employees leaned close, whispering animatedly until their manager rounded the corner. They scattered instantly, expressions snapping into professional blankness. The serv-tek did not react. It simply continued its work.

Claude slowed, eyes tracking the displays. Kane glanced at the figures lining the hall, then forward again.

"Our images will be up here after this is over," he said.

Claude's gaze lingered on the glowing figures along the corridor. "Hopefully not postmortem," he said.

Kane snorted. "You're not losing faith now, are you, buddy?"

"Of course not," Claude replied. "When you said 'our,' I assumed you meant all the Superstars. I get the sense some of them won't last to the end."

Kane nodded slowly. "With people like Van Black and Rampage loose in the bracket, that's not exactly pessimism."

Claude's attention shifted to a particular hologram further down the hall; its form heavy with white fur, four powerful legs, and broad body with mechanical attachments, unmistakably Ja'ir even in static projection.

"The Ja'ir Superstar still hasn't shown himself since the Opening Ceremony," Claude said. "If memory serves, he's even more formidable than before."

Kane grimaced. "Those Ja'ir and their hypernetic implants. You think he's upgraded since last time?"

"There's nothing new in the SRC," Claude said.

"Huh." Kane scratched the back of his head. "Any ideas for dealing with a walking mech suit?"

"Not yet," Claude said. "You?"

Kane's smile turned crooked. "Going full Van Black. Break everything until something important stops working."

Claude exhaled. "There's one matchup I'm not eager to face inside a geodome."

Footsteps cut through the corridor.

From the opposite end, a slim figure closed the distance with purpose. Avia moved fast, long ears pulled back, expression set hard enough to part the air in front of her. She stopped a meter from them and stared in silence, eyes flicking between the two men.

Claude glanced sideways. Kane was already looking at him.

Kane spoke first. "Uh oh. What did you do?"

Claude raised an eyebrow. "I was about to ask if you'd been caught spying on her again."

Avia's stare sharpened.

"Why were the two of you following me yesterday?" she demanded.

Claude looked to Kane again. Kane sighed and faced her.

"Hard not to notice someone jumping from building to building," he said. "Thought you might be up to something."

"How generous of you to assume," Avia replied.

Claude stepped in smoothly. "We were involved in a terrorist incident before the Opening Ceremony. They threatened to detonate a bomb at the Tower of Laws. Given the timing, it was an easy mistake to make."

Avia continued to glare, though the tension in her face loosened slightly.

"Pians get around the best way we can," she said. "Better than riding those flying devil disks."

Kane blinked. "What is it with you people and hating technology?"

She shot back instantly. "Why do you rely on it so much?"

"Makes life easier."

Avia scoffed. "That explains why your two species are as soft as Cycloids. Strip away your shiny metal devils and you're helpless as newborns."

Kane tilted his head. "Are you always this hostile?"

"Have you always had such a punchable face?"

Claude closed his eyes for a brief second.

Kane smirked. "Maybe you should go talk to The Dawn. You'd get along."

Claude stepped in before Avia could respond. "Technology has its place," he said calmly. "Not everyone clings to it the way you assume."

Her gaze shifted to him. "You mean yourself."

Claude inclined his head. "Those of the Spirit Caste live with minimal modern comforts. It keeps us fit for communion with planetary spirits."

Avia stared. "What kind of nonsense are you talking about? What are planetary spirits?"

Claude smiled.

Kane groaned aloud. "Oh no."

"Come with me," Claude said.

"We were heading to Gambler's Hall," Kane protested.

"You can gamble any time," Claude replied.

"The battleball game starts in an hour on Earth."

"And you knew Dycord runs on universal time," Claude said. "That one is on you. No Syncs to blame."

Kane pointed accusingly at the sky. "I blame your planet's lazy rotation."

They exited through the hotel's main lobby into the courtyard. The open space buzzed with low activity. A few patrons lounged near the sitting section or clustered around the outdoor café. Lergi trees stretched overhead, their blue bark catching the light while red leaves filtered the sun into shifting patterns below.

Beyond the courtyard's security shield, a distant crowd of carnies spotted them. Shouts and excited screams carried faintly through the barrier as fingers pointed and hands waved.

Avia glanced toward the noise, then stiffened as wind surged beneath her feet.

She gasped as the ground fell away.

Kane rose beside her, eyes wide. "Hey, this wasn't agreed on."

Claude lifted smoothly between them, calm as the air was before. "It's me," he said, voice steady.

Avia's panic eased as they climbed higher. Below, the carnies erupted, some cheering, others shouting in disbelief, all eyes fixed on the three figures drifting upward.

Avia continued to glare, though the tension in her face loosened slightly.

"They really do love you," Avia said, watching the distant crowd shrink beneath them.

"You as well," Claude replied. "Superstars are well regarded here."

The wind carried them away from the sprawl of Topaz City and out over open water. Kane noticed Avia's posture stiffen as the ocean stretched endlessly below. He felt a small, petty sense of satisfaction and said nothing.

Land returned beneath them soon enough.

Beacon City rose into view, its structures squat and elongated, clustered close to the ground. Sunlight struck the metal surfaces at shallow angles, causing the buildings to gleam with a steady brilliance that lived up to the city's name.

Claude slowed them above the largest structure at its center. A cathedral dominated the skyline, set near an embankment overlooking the Serhipoth Ocean. Claude guided them down in a controlled descent until their feet met solid ground. No one spared them a second glance.

"This is my home," he said. "The House of the World Voice."

Kane blinked. "You live in a church?"

"It isn't unusual," Claude said. "Some prefer modern residences. I value the quiet."

Dycordians moved through the plaza wrapped in their own thoughts, expressions subdued. Some passed through the cathedral's heavy double doors, each etched with intricate markings and operated by hand rather than automation.

"This is where you worship your gods?" Avia asked.

"Not only here," Claude said. "Every structure in the city serves a faith. This cathedral belongs to the World Voice. Pilgrims from across the galaxy come here to learn how to commune with their own planets."

He paused before continuing.

"And I wouldn't call it worship. We listen to what the planet speaks, tend to its people, and act as its voice."

Inside, Avia frowned at the off-white interior.

"And this planet spirit of yours doesn't mind all the metal?"

"Why would he?" Claude said. "Metal is born of the planet's minerals. Nothing off-world was used that might offend."

They moved through winding corridors, Claude explaining the artwork as they passed. Murals and paintings depicted Dycordians receiving visions, answering unseen calls, or sitting in deep meditation.

One portrait stopped Avia cold.

It spanned nearly the entire wall. A Dycordian stood before a vast, fog-shrouded figure that consumed most of the canvas. Light poured upward from the speaker's mouth toward the towering presence.

Claude joined her as Kane lingered nearby, visibly restless.

"Speaker Omal of Wirth," Claude said. "Painted over eight hundred years ago by his son, Baylith. It shows Omal persuading death itself to spare his child and succeeding."

Avia studying the work. "The wrist articulation is flawless. The texture work says everything about his state of mind. He was devoted. What became of them?"

"They both went on to win Coalition Carnage," Claude replied.

Avia's ears twitched. "Impressive. Which years?"

"Thirteenth and fourteenth."

She nodded. "So Omal of Wirth defeated Redgewiir."

Kane frowned. "Who's Redgewiir?"

"Pia's Superstar at the time," Avia said.

Kane shook his head. "And I thought I knew obscure Superstar lore."

"I know every Superstar to come from the Zareil Kingdom," Avia said.

Claude glanced at her. "Is that your homeland?"

"Yes."

Kane's eyes widened. "Wait. Your last name is Zareil?"

"What gave it away?"

He gestured vaguely. "The resemblance to Zella Zereil. Plus, you act exactly like a royal pain in the-"

"I live back here," Claude said suddenly.

Claude gestured them through a stone archway into a narrow hall lined with doors.

As he moved ahead, Avia slowed, her eyes tracing the stained-glass windows set high along the walls. Each panel depicted a different planet in vivid color. She paused at the far end, studying Pia's likeness longer than the rest.

Claude opened the last door on the right. Inside, the room was nearly empty.

Kane and Avia both stopped short. A single cot rested in one corner, a thin mattress laid over it. The tiled floor was bare. No decorations. No devices. No personal effects.

Kane looked around once more, just to be sure.

"This is it?"

Claude nodded. "I do not truly need the bed. Sleeping on the floor does unpleasant things to my back."

Avia folded her arms. "Not even a shadow-puppet setup. What do you do all day?"

"I pray."

"All day?"

"Until recently."

She studied him, then gestured vaguely at the room. "And what does the world say back?"

Claude didn't answer. He met her stare evenly, saying nothing.

Avia huffed. "Right. Same as this place. Nothing."

"Do Pian deities answer you?" Claude asked.

"I don't pray to imaginary gods," Avia replied huffy. "That's your people. We get where we are through our own strength. Nothing else."

Claude inclined his head. "As you say."

Kane threw his hands up. "My God, Claude. You can't possibly live like this. You need a holoview or games table. Something."

"The mind weakens when it consumes irrelevant stimuli for too long," Claude said.

Avia nodded. "He's not wrong."

Kane shrugged. "Then don't watch reality shows."

PRESENT

"I won't even have a holoview?!" Child Claude said, incredulously. "I'll just sit around talking to you all day?"

The Fisher remained calm. "You'll come to understand the value of meditation."

Claude bristled, shifting hard enough to rock the canoe.

"I like holoviews," he said.

"More than playing outside?"

"Every time."

The Fisher's lips curved slightly. "Even if you and Kane raced your friends around the world?"

Claude nearly dropped his fishing rod.

"For real?"

FUTURE

Year 1050
Day 3

At the edge of Topaz City, a towering metal cylinder stood planted in the open ground, twenty feet tall and alive with blinking lights. Beyond it, at the far end of the skyline, the immense topaz gem loomed, its mass eclipsing the city beneath it. Claude stood still, head tilted upward, watching the jewel as he always did. As the violet sun dipped toward the horizon, its light dulled, scattering across the gem's surface in muted bands.

Carnies crowded the perimeter, held back by the ever-present shield barrier maintained by the Dycordian Defense Force. The line of soldiers stood roughly sixty yards southwest of Claude's position, disciplined and unmoving.

Ten meters to his right, the media cluster buzzed with activity. Floating orbs called viewscopes hovered above reporters' heads, their lenses adjusting constantly as they fed images across the galaxy.

A familiar holoform descended from above.
Roxy came to a smooth stop in front of him.

"Superstar Claude," she said brightly. "You didn't need to come here alone. We were prepared to teleport the competitors in at any moment."

"It's fine," Claude replied. "The walk helped me loosen up."

"Walk?" Roxy blinked. "From the hotel?"

"Yes."

"That's nearly thirty kilometers," she said. "And you're about to race."

"Don't worry," Claude said. "I'm not fatigued. I feel excellent."

Roxy hesitated, then smiled. "If you say so. Give your fans a wave."

Claude turned.

The response was immediate. A cluster of spectators, mostly Dycordian women, erupted into shrieks. Shirts bearing his likeness and name filled the front rows. Claude raised a hand. Someone collapsed backward, and others screamed louder.

He turned back, but Roxy was gone. Her voice returned a moment later, amplified until it rolled across the plains.

"Goooood evening, carnies!" she called. "We're three days into the competition, and today we've got another challenge for you and our Superstars. This time, it's a race around the planet Dycord!"

The crowd detonated into cheers.

Roxy hovered before a massive holoview suspended fifty feet above the ground. Competitor profiles flickered to life behind her.

"Introducing first," she announced, "our host planet hero! Ranked second with an SRC score of 378, the Battling Priest himself, Superstar Claude!"

Claude walked toward the marked starting area, waving casually. Beyond him, the Wild Lands stretched outward in clean, uninterrupted plains. No structures broke the horizon. Clusters of lergi trees dotted the west, their height barely rivaling the city buildings behind him.

"Next," Roxy continued, "from the world of Pia. An SRC ranking of 342 places her seventh, but that won't slow down the Princess of Violence, Superstar Avia!"

A dull flash marked Avia's arrival. She scanned the terrain, eyes narrowing briefly at the towering beacon before locking onto Claude. She started toward him without hesitation.

"The next contestant hails from a planet of geniuses," Roxy said. "Despite his relaxed demeanor, he's a sharp mind in his own right. With a star ranking of 293, placing him ninth, give it up for the Leaping Lucha, Superstar Fritz!"

A green-scaled Preesling materialized a dozen meters behind Avia. Fritz immediately flipped into the air, waving enthusiastically. No trace of injury lingered from his recent battle with the one-armed Dagon.

"And next," Roxy said, "a man from Earth, carrying the will of his planet and its people. His star ranking of 258 does not reflect his chances today. It's Superstar Kane!"

Kane appeared in a flash, already in motion. He wore a blue-and-white tracksuit and white athletic shoes, jogging in place until he spotted Claude and Avia. In a blink, his Quickening carried him beside them.

"What's good?" he said.

"The fact that I will win this race is 'what's good," Avia said with a smirk.

Kane cracked his neck. "Then you'd better be quick. Hey, Claude, where were you this morning?"

"I went for a walk," Claude said. "Prepared myself."

"For a race I'm going to win."

Claude smiled faintly. "Do not be so certain."

Avia snorted. "You shouldn't be either. Your species is too soft to have real endurance."

"Keep talking like that," Kane said, "and you'll finish third."

Avia turned sharply, slamming her fist into her open palm. Her right ear twitched.

"Want to skip the race and settle this now?"

Kane raised his hands. "I barely know you. Dinner first, then we'll talk."

She blinked, clearly thrown. Color rushed to her cheeks. She glanced at Claude, then past him as a tall, avian figure approached.

"Is this a private brawl," Koshinataa said, "or may others join?"

Kane smirked. "Look who finally thawed."

"That was my Sync," Koshinataa replied. "The real me operates above your level."

"Still beatable," Avia said. "A Sync isn't far from the Base. If it falls, so would you."

Koshinataa stepped closer. "I can make this race one Superstar shorter."

Roxy appeared instantly between them.

"Easy," she said. "We have fans to entertain and sponsors to satisfy. Take your places. Everyone's present, and I'm about to explain the rules."

She vanished again.

Claude moved to his assigned position and counted heads. Eight Superstars total. Fewer than expected. He knew prize money was Kane's reason; Avia, royalty or not, raced for pride. His own reason had been even simpler. Koshinataa and the others likely chased the same thing Kane did.

Roxy reappeared.

"Race rules," she announced. "Once you start, you may not stop or reverse direction. Violate that, and you're eliminated. Leave the course boundaries, same result."

She lifted upward, gesturing toward the towering metal tube.

"You must pass within five meters of each landmark beacon to register progress. Miss one, you're out. First to reach the fourth and final beacon wins a c-chip worth one million in currency. Second place earns half a million. Third gets one hundred thousand."

Claude, positioned third from the right between Kane and Nor, heard the Ninshu emit a low, greedy purr.

Avia raised a hand, pointing at Koshinataa. "Hold on. He can teleport."

"Power use is encouraged," Roxy said. "But-"

"I won't rely on magic," Koshinataa snapped. "I don't need it."

"Superstar Koshinataa can only teleport about fifty yards at a time," Roxy continued. "If Superstar The Dawn were participating, additional restrictions would apply."

"That's useful," Avia said.

"Mind your tongue," Koshinataa warned the hologram.

"It's in the SRC, which is public," Roxy replied.

"She's a Pian," Koshinataa scoffed. "They're too dense to read it."

Avia smiled coldly. "Don't need foresight to know I'll beat you later."

"Try it, stick figure."

"Ready?" Roxy called.

"Not quite!"

The voice arrived a heartbeat before its owner.

Ramza streaked down from the sky and landed in a dramatic crouch. Viewscopes snapped toward him instantly. Ratings were guaranteed when he was around.

"I'd like to join the festivities," Ramza said with a bright smile.

Roxy's eyes widened. "A last-second entry. The Papuru galaxy's very own Deity, Superstar Ramza!"

Nor groaned. Kane leaned toward Claude.

"Guess this is a race for second," Kane muttered. "And I was planning to bet big on the battleball finals."

"Perhaps luck will favor us," Claude said, nonchalant, "to match his unluck."

Ramza took his place next to Avia; the opposite end of Claude, settling into a runner's stance. Muscles tensed beneath a plain white tunic and trousers. His long blond hair lifted in the breeze Claude stirred deliberately.

Claude laughed under his breath.

Kane heard it anyway. "What's funny?"

"Thinking about how enjoyable this will be."

"Ready," Roxy called.
"Set-"
"Go!"

PRESENT

Child Claude sat rigid in the canoe as the Fisher finished speaking. His fishing rod remained perfectly still, mirroring the water around them.

Then the lake rippled as Claude began bouncing in place.

"Well?!"

"Well what?" the Fisher asked.

"What do you mean, well what?" Claude demanded. "Do I win?"

The Fisher smiled faintly. "That is a story for another time. For now, let us enjoy the quiet."

Claude slumped back with an exaggerated sigh, the canoe rocking gently.

The Fisher's smile lingered.