"Would we have played with our lives for nothing but worldly gain? If our people had run after earth's goods and gold, Need they have smashed idols, and not idols sold?"
- Muhammad Iqbal علامہ اقبال
(1877-1938).
Hermes was late for her second period class. Mira nudged her on the shoulder, "so what do you think of that new student, he's pretty cute huh?" Hermes was perplexed: "Do you mean that Ungar kid?" The image appeared in her mind of a large 7 foot giant dressed in all armor, terrifying with red slits for eyes and a large black cape fluttering behind him, he looked like Sauron from Lord of the Rings. "Are you out of your mind? He's terrifying." Mira laughed: "Yeah but I bet he's a bad boy." A man with spiky white hair and the traditional school uniform walked up to them, it was the Sophomore, Talus. Talus had white spiky hair, green eyes, pointy ears and fangs but he was a down to earth guy he was followed by Phyron who was tailing him, they were close friends. "Did you guys study for the finals yet? I'm exhausted. I haven't been able to get any sleep, I've just been pulling all-nighters," said Talus. Hermes slumped her shoulders as they all turned the corner into the stairwell. "Don't even bring up finals," she groaned. "I opened my textbook last night and immediately fell asleep on it. When I woke up, I had the chemical formula for butane imprinted on my cheek. Yeah cliche I know, but I swear it happened."
Phyron chuckled softly behind Talus, his glasses slipping down his nose as he adjusted the stack of notebooks in his arms. "Better than me," he said. "I had a breakdown and color-coded my notes instead of actually reading them." "You always color-code your notes," Mira pointed out. "Exactly," Phyron said, pushing his glasses up again. "It's a cry for help. I don't have any other way to remember all this god-damn material." They reached the second floor just as the warning bell rang. "Crap, two minutes," Hermes muttered, picking up her pace. Talus smirked. "You know Mrs. Hanari will lock the door on you if you're even one second late." "I know," Hermes said, already jogging. "But it's not like she can stop me if I ninja-roll in." "She absolutely will," Mira said, barely keeping up. "And then she'll make you recite the periodic table backwards." Hermes groaned louder, "That bitch! Its like she wants us to do homework forever." Just as they reached the science wing, they saw him—Ungar. He stood in front of a vending machine, unmoving. Looming. Silent. The fluorescent lights flickered above him like he'd shorted them out just by standing there.
"Why is he just… staring at the chips?" Hermes whispered. "He's probably thinking about whether Cool Ranch or Spicy Chili Lime reflects his true inner turmoil," Talus said, completely straight-faced. Phyron snorted. Mira giggled. "I'm serious," Talus said. "That dude's whole vibe screams 'I have a tragic backstory and this snack decision will haunt me.'" Phyron was amazed: "You're serious?" They all tried to sneak past without being noticed, but just as they were about to round the corner, Ungar's head slowly turned toward them. The red lenses of his helmet eyes glinted under his visor. Hermes froze mid-step. Talus kept walking like nothing was happening. Phyron ducked behind him. Mira waved brightly.
Ungar lifted a hand. Not a wave. Just… a gesture. Like acknowledging their presence with the minimum effort possible. "See?" Mira said once they were out of earshot. "He totally acknowledged us. He's mysterious. That's… so hot!." "He's like a vending machine guardian," Phyron muttered. "Maybe he just wants a friend," Hermes added quietly. "Or a better snack selection," Talus said. "Same thing, really. Honestly if that's the case I'm with him 100%." They reached their classroom just as the final bell rang. Mrs. Hanari was already mid-sentence when they slid into their seats. She didn't even pause. Just flicked her pointer at the board. "Atomic structure quiz on Friday," she said. "And no, I don't curve. This is not a democracy. It's a dictatorship and I rule this class with an iron fist."
Hermes sighed and slouched in her chair. Mira leaned over and whispered, "Wanna sit near the vending machine at lunch and see if Ungar talks to us?" Hermes didn't answer right away. She looked out the window, at the cloudy sky and the cracked concrete of the schoolyard below. "…Yeah. Why not? Also why would he still be at the vending machine?" The cafeteria was chaos as usual. The line for karaage chicken snaked around the vending machines, someone was rapping over a beatbox battle in the corner, the man was rapping about "the government being corrupt," or something along those lines, and a tray had already clattered to the floor. Hermes sat down at the far end of the third lunch table from the window. Mira flopped beside her with a can of melon soda and a bag of shrimp chips. Talus and Phyron joined a moment later, both looking like they'd seen war. "They ran out of teriyaki bowls," Talus muttered, shoving his bento open with a sigh. "All that waiting, for a sad egg roll and half a pickle. You'd think they'd atleast have some fucking ramen. Jesus Christ." "You waited too long," Phyron said, neatly folding a napkin under his sandwich like the little academic he was. Hermes didn't say anything. Her eyes flicked toward the vending machines. He was there. Ungar. Still standing in front of the snack options like he was choosing a sword in a weapons cache. Today, he was staring down a single pack of seaweed crisps. Mira nudged her. "This is it. Big moment. What do you think he'll go for?" "Something that crunches dramatically," Talus said, stabbing at his rice. "He's definitely not a chocolate guy," Phyron added. "Too soft for the aesthetic."
"Bet," Mira said, opening her soda. "I say he picks the wasabi peanuts. Very 'I burn my enemies and my tongue.'" Hermes squinted. "Wait… He's reaching…" Ungar's armored hand hovered. A pause. Then, with the precision of a seasoned warrior— Clunk. Out fell… A pack of strawberry Pocky. The table fell silent. "…Huh," Mira said. "Did not see that coming, that was unexpected." Talus admitted. "Plot twist," Phyron muttered. Hermes blinked. For a moment, she thought she saw the slightest—slightest—tilt of Ungar's helmet in her direction. Like he knew they were watching. Then he turned and walked off, long cape dragging behind him, pink snack box in hand like it was a declaration of personal freedom. "Maybe he's not that scary," Hermes said. "Or maybe he's extremely scary and likes cute snacks to balance the terror," Mira offered. "You think he sits in his room with a Hello Kitty blanket? He probably listens to Death Metal in German, the guy looks like a freak." Talus asked. "No way," said Phyron. "Gundam sheets, minimum." They laughed, the four of them, and the tension dissolved. Hermes bit into her sandwich. The mayonnaise dripping from her chin. Maybe the new guy wasn't that bad. Or maybe she was just tired of finals stress and projecting her own nonsense onto a random transfer student with weird snack habits.
Either way, she found herself wondering something unexpected:
What would it be like to actually talk to him? Ungar walked over to them: "I don't actually eat, I'm incapable of eating food, I'm a Gettling which is like a race of reincarnated gods so I just like looking at the bag," said Ungar. Hermes laughed: "You don't eat?" Ungar took his helmet off his head and there was nothing there, nothing was under the helmet at all. This terrified everyone. He put the helmet back on. Mira thought it was awesome: "Wow you're other worldly, that's so mysterious." A man with white hair, round glasses and pointy ears walked over Nova, he sat at the lunch table. "Man that paper really takes a lot out of you." Hermes grew angry: "Yet you still have decide you're going to work for that fucking racist. Honestly I don't know how you put up with that wretch, Scott Greer,... yeah, Highly Respected my ass." Nova laughed: "He's not that racist." Talus smirked: "Last week he said black people were turning Chicago into the Congolese Democratic Republic." Nova sighed: "Okay he's pretty racist. But he is sharp. He clearly has an IQ of 187." Ungar proceeded to sit next to Mira.
Ungar sat down beside Mira with the mechanical weight of a cement mixer. The bench gave a painful creak. Nobody said anything for a moment. Phyron quietly moved his lunch tray an inch further away. Mira, still impressed, leaned toward him like they were already co-stars in a high school mystery anime. "So wait," she asked. "You don't eat, but you hang out by the vending machines for vibes?" Ungar didn't move. Then, after a long pause: "Correct." "That's honestly kind of poetic," she said, sipping her soda. "You're like a modern Alfred Tennyson," said Mira. "It's deeply concerning," Phyron muttered. Talus poked at his egg roll. "So you're a reincarnated god or whatever... but you still show up to P.E.? That seems beneath your station." Ungar nodded slowly. "I do not sweat." Hermes stared at him, then looked at Mira. "Are we seriously not gonna talk about the part where there was nothing under his helmet? Like. No face. No skull. Just void?" "I thought that was special effects," Mira said cheerfully. "I think I need to lie down," Phyron said, clearly shaken. The table went quiet again. Then Nova, the guy with the white hair and round glasses, dropped into the seat across from Hermes with a dramatic flop. His tie was askew and there were ink smudges on his fingers.
"Man," he sighed. "That history paper wiped me out. Why does writing about postwar economics feel like getting waterboarded by boredom? This is worse than when I had to write that paper on the Mughal Empire and the Islamic conquest of India, honestly what a headache." Hermes gave him a look. "Once again. Maybe you're tired because you work for Scott Greer." Nova raised a brow, clearly prepared to deflect. "Yeah, I said it," Hermes continued. "You're literally helping that guy publish essays. He didn't just call Chicago the Congo. He has said much worse. He called the Harlem Renaissance a 'cultural inflation.' He said black artists were a symptom of social decay."
Nova winced. "Okay, he's a little problematic. But everyone has their flaws, it's in the Gospel, the Buddhist Sutras, War and Peace, etc." Talus put down his chopsticks. "Last week, he said Black people were turning LA into the Magic City and referred to downtown LA as Mooncricket Street. And that essay he wrote last month, "No Campus For White Men," what a joke.'" Nova rubbed his forehead. "Look, I don't agree with him or his politics, obviously. But he's sharp. Like I said before he's got an IQ of 187." Phyron scoffed. "IQ doesn't mean anything if you're using it to categorize people like a eugenics blog." Hermes crossed her arms. "I just don't get how you stomach him. You always say you care about justice, then you let that fossil of a man spew nonsense while you ghostwrite his op-eds." "I'm trying to learn from him," Nova said defensively. "So I can dismantle the system better. From the inside. Scott knows about politics, if I learn from him maybe I can someday take down this entire corrupt government." "That's what everyone says before they sell out." Ungar looked between them. "Who is Scott Greer?" Hermes looked him dead in the faceplate. "A fascist." "I see," Ungar said. Then, without warning, he extended the pack of strawberry Pocky to Hermes. Everyone froze. "…Are you offering me this?" she asked. "No," Ungar replied. "I am sharing. It is symbolic." Hermes took one slowly. "Thanks?" Ungar tilted his helmet slightly, like a satisfied knight. Mira made a faint squealing sound. Nova sighed and popped open his lunchbox. "This school's weird." "You're the weird one," Phyron shouted, biting into his sandwich. "You're doing PR for white supremacists before calculus."
Hermes leaned back and looked at Ungar. "You know, for a god-being with no face, you're alright." Ungar didn't respond, but the faint glint of light off his helmet made her think he might've smiled—if he had a mouth. The bell hasn't rung yet, but the vibe at the table had shifted. The politics talk and the discussion on the highly respected Scott Greer discussion faded, replaced by the hum of idle teenage conversation—the kind that filled the cracks between tests, deadlines, and cafeteria meat that looked suspiciously gray. Talus leaned back and popped open his bottle of green tea. "Alright. Serious question. Which game's got the best pure boss fights: Elden Ring or Sekiro?" "Sekiro," Phyron said immediately, no hesitation. "More technical. No cheese builds. You either learn or you get destroyed." Hermes laughed, "I talked to Daniel the other day and he sold me on Sekiro." "Wrong," Mira said, licking shrimp chip dust off her fingers. "Elden Ring has variety. And the world's more open, which means you don't get stuck on one boss for four days and cry into your ramen."
"I liked crying into my ramen," Talus muttered. Hermes turned to Ungar, curious. "Do you… play games?" Ungar was silent for a moment. "Yes." That surprised all of them. "Wait, really?" Mira asked. "What kind?" Ungar placed the Pocky box gently on the table. "I have an Xbox Series X. I engage in digital combat through Halo Infinite. I once achieved a 34-kill streak on Bazaar using only melee and grenades. I recently bought the game where you play as the Monkey King, Black Myth: Wukong on my PC. I've already put about 15 hours into it." Talus dropped his chopsticks. "No fucking way." "I do not lie," Ungar said. Phyron looked him over, narrowing his eyes. "I believe it. He probably plays like he's roleplaying as Master Chief and Sun Wukong."
"I am better than Master Chief," Ungar added quietly. They stared at him. Mira was grinning. "Okay what about Warframe?" she asked. "You'd probably love that one. You literally play as ancient robot space warriors." "I play Trinity Prime," Ungar said. "I like the balance of violence and healing. Also, I enjoy fishing." "You're telling me you go fishing in Warframe?" Hermes asked, half-laughing. Ungar nodded. "It is calming. It reminds me of the void lakes of my ancestral realm." "Dude," Talus said. "You are a walking anime character." "Speaking of," Phyron said, "what's everyone watching lately? I'm finally catching up on One Piece, but it's such a commitment." "I'm rewatching Psycho-Pass," Mira said. "It hits differently after midterms. A lot of REM." "Inuyasha," said Hermes, a little sheepishly. "A classic," Ungar said with a slow, approving nod. "I admire Sesshomaru's composure."
"Of course you do," Talus muttered. "You are Sesshomaru in a mech suit." Nova, who had mostly stayed quiet, chimed in as he scrolled his phone. "There's a new trailer for the FPS, it looks pretty good," said Hermes. "I wonder if they'll let you customize armor," Phyron said. "I always like games where you can pick your look." "I have customized my Warframe to be black and pink," Ungar added. They all looked at him. "…That's adorable," Mira said, grinning. Ungar said nothing. Then Talus leaned forward, eyes suddenly serious. "Okay, real talk. Which Naruto character would win in a Fortnite match?" "Shikamaru," Phyron said. "He'd set traps and make the whole lobby hate him." "Rock Lee," Mira said. "All vibes, no range. But he'd build like a maniac." "Pain," Ungar said, without hesitation. There was a beat of silence.
"Of course you'd pick the guy who floated into the village and wrecked everything in ten minutes," Hermes said. "He would not build. He would destroy the map," Ungar explained. Everyone laughed. In that moment, between chip dust and sarcastic anime takes, the weirdness faded. Ungar wasn't just the terrifying new kid anymore. He was just another guy at lunch. One who didn't eat, possibly had no body, and mained a support class in Warframe—but still, somehow, fit right in. The bell rang. Time for class. Talus groaned. "Back to hell. Seriously Dante's layer of hell where people itch for eternity. I'd kill for that right now." "Anyone wanna hit the konbini after cram school?" Hermes asked, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I'm game," Mira said. "I need those taiyaki ice creams." "Same," Phyron said. "I need actual food that wasn't cooked under a heat lamp." Talus smiled: "I can't wait, I gotta get out of this damn school today, I thought we lived in the United States of America not Stalinist Russia." They all looked at Ungar. He paused. Then said: "I do not eat. But I will attend."
Back in the realm of Umi, Hermes walked over to an old woman who was sitting under a large tree. "Come here child." Hermes slowly walked over to her. "I presume you are one of the trials the dragon set as a road-block to stand in my way." The old woman nodded, "If you can lift me an inch off the ground my child, you may move onto the next trial." Hermes laughed: "Consider it done." Hermes tried to lift the old woman but something was off she couldn't lift her not an inch. "What on earth is going on?" thought Hermes. The old woman didn't move—not a flicker, not a shift of weight. She remained seated, serene, like a mountain in human form. Hermes tried again, this time focusing her strength through her core, her shoulders, her feet grounded in perfect stance. Nothing. The old woman raised an eyebrow, amused. "Power again?" she asked gently. Hermes stepped back, panting slightly, more from frustration than effort. "I don't understand. I've fought beasts, titans, gods. I've shattered the stone with a thought." "And yet," the old woman said, tapping her knuckle lightly against the ground, "you cannot move me. Because this is not a test of might." Hermes narrowed her eyes. "Then what is it?"
"A test of presence," the woman said. "Of understanding. Of weight. Not in the body. In the soul." Hermes blinked. She looked closer. The old woman was not just sitting. She was rooted. Her aura extended deep beneath the earth, like a tree whose roots pierced the crust of the world. Every attempt to lift her had been like trying to move a mountain with wind. Hermes closed her eyes again. She remembered the old man's words. Let go. Kill your pride. Strike with truth. She crouched before the woman, no longer seeing a challenge, but a mirror. Hermes stood staring at her hands like they were foreign. She flexed her fingers, rolled her shoulders, and adjusted her footing. Again, she reached under the old woman's arms and heaved upward with all the precise, disciplined force of a trained warrior. Nothing. Not even a wobble. Hermes blinked. "Okay," she muttered. "Okay." She stepped back, circled the woman once, scanning her frame. No hidden weights. No magical field she could sense. Just wrinkled skin, a wool shawl, and eyes that had seen too much. "Maybe it's an illusion," Hermes said aloud. "Maybe you're not really here." She drew a blade—nothing lethal, just a shard of focus—and pressed it gently against the woman's shoulder. It passed through like smoke. Hermes blinked again. "What the—" She turned and looked back at the path she had come from. Gone. Only mist behind her. She turned forward again. The woman was still there. Unmoving. Still seated.
Hermes crouched. "This is a trick." The old woman finally spoke again, but her lips didn't move. "Is it?" Hermes stumbled back. "You—what is this?" "You ask what is going on," said the voice, now distant and close at once. "But the better question is: who are you trying to move?" Hermes clenched her fists. "You. Obviously." The woman smiled faintly. "Then try again." Hermes moved forward. Tried to lift her. Again, nothing. Her hands slid through like wind cutting through fog. She shook her head. "What am I missing?" The woman's eyes glimmered, and suddenly— Hermes was holding a baby. No transition. No sound. No flicker. Just a newborn now, swaddled in her arms, looking up at her with eyes wide as moons. Hermes gasped. She dropped the child in shock—but it never hit the ground. It vanished. She looked down. The old woman was back. Hermes backed away slowly. "No. No, this isn't real." "Neither is what you believe about yourself," the woman replied, her voice echoing from behind Hermes now. Hermes spun. The woman was there too. And then again—off to the side. And again, up in a tree. And again, lying on the creek bed. Hundreds of her. All seated. All watching.
"Lift me," they all said at once. "If you know who I am." Hermes was shaking now. "What is this supposed to mean?" No answer. Just the wind. And then, her own voice—her voice—from every direction: "You can't lift what you haven't accepted." Hermes fell to her knees, gripping her chest. The truth slammed into her with cold precision: she was trying to defeat this challenge like all the others. With control. With certainty. With answers. But this wasn't a puzzle. It was a mirror. She had to sit with it. Not conquer it. Hermes took a breath. And for the first time, she didn't reach to lift. She sat beside the old woman. She looked into her eyes. And she listened. The woman nodded: "It seems you understand child. Very well, go on your way." Hermes was confused but she listened and continued on her journey to the tower.
It was the first real snowfall of December. Not that weak sleet that ruined sneakers and soaked hoodies—real snow. Thick, soft flakes floated down in steady spirals, covering everything in white like the whole world had just respawned. The city slowed. Trees looked like iced cakes. Storefronts had paper snowflakes taped to windows, lights blinking lazy red and green. Most of the group had agreed: it was the perfect day to hit the ice rink. The downtown outdoor rink was glowing under strung-up bulbs and low fog. The kind of scene you'd see on the back of a hot chocolate tin. Parents stood along the edge, snapping pictures with gloved hands, huddled in scarves, holding thermoses full of mystery drinks. Nova wobbled on his skates. "Okay, whose idea was this again?" "You volunteered," Phyron said, gliding past like it was his fifth winter in Canada. "You even said—what was it—'this'll be good for morale.'" "I meant, like, cocoa and presents morale. Jesus Christ I thought you guys would understand that. I never meant busting my tailbone on frozen concrete morale." Talus drifted behind them, trying to push Ungar onto the ice. Ungar, naturally, was wearing his usual suit of black and silver armor. "You can't skate in that, man. You'll crack the rink." "I have calibrated my internal gyroscope for uneven terrain," Ungar replied. "Also, this alloy is lighter than it appears."
Hermes was already skating backwards. "If he falls and cracks the earth, I'm blaming Talus." "I'll allow it," Mira called, drifting into a lazy circle. She had tiny Christmas lights woven into her hoodie strings. "This is actually fun. We should've done this last year."
"Last year we were stuck inside playing Genshin Impact and debating ethical capitalism," Hermes reminded her. Mark, one of their other friends who was there, chided her: "Yeah what a doozy that was, talking about that stupid liberal shit." Daniel laughed: "Yeah but it's better than being stuck at home with my parents." Suddenly, a loud voice broke across the ice like a brick through a window. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the resident U.N. Coalition." They turned. Striding across the ice in custom hockey skates and a red bomber jacket with USC PREP stitched on the back was the 'highly respected' Scott M. Greer. Same brunette undercut. Same smirk. He carried himself like the world was a podium and he was always seconds from delivering a far-right variant of TED Talk. Behind him were three other private school kids, all wearing matching red and white. The kind of teens who definitely got into crypto too early and thought Fight Club or The Kumite was a philosophy book. Nova's jaw clenched. "Oh God. What is he doing here? Great, my boss is gonna make me uncomfortable with my friends." "I thought rich kids only went to Aspen," Phyron muttered. Scott coasted up with ease, stopping right in front of Ungar with a dramatic spray of ice. "Whoa. What are you supposed to be? Some kind of magician?" Ungar tilted his helmet. "I do not know you." "That's because you've never been invited to the table, brother," Scott said, offering an exaggerated wink. "But hey—good to see Nova still slumming it with the commoners and the riff-raff. Even the ones with the tattoos, honestly I still don't understand how these harpies can stand being around an extremely online man like you or I." Hermes rolled her eyes. "You lost the debate finals last semester. Get over it."
"I didn't lose," Scott said. "I was disqualified for telling the truth. There's a difference." Talus muttered, "Yeah, the truth about phrenology or whatever the hell that was."
But Scott ignored them, leaning closer. "Anyway, I'm not here to start anything. I'm here to recruit. See, I'm assembling a team. A real team. For something big." "What kind of 'big'?" Mira asked, eyeing him warily. Scott grinned like a villain in a sports anime. "The American Martial Arts Tournament of the High Schools. First national bracket in ten years. Sanctioned. Broadcast. Fully legal." Nova blinked. "Wait, that's real? I thought that was an urban-legend."
"Dead serious," Scott said. "Regionals start next month. Only the top sixteen schools in each division get in. I'm heading USC Prep's team. And I'm gonna make sure we dominate the competition. The current reigning champion of all state martial arts tournaments is some kid named Zaiyal, he's an animal, and I need everything in my arsenal to take him down." "Of course you need it," Phyron said. "Because nothing screams martial arts like reading Julius Evola mixed with Winklevos twins." Scott just smiled wider. "Keep laughing. But there's real money in this. Sponsorships. College scouts. Futures." He turned and began to skate away, calling over his shoulder: "Hope your school even qualifies. Would hate to crush you before finals! But consider it a mercy that I want you to join my team and that I thought you guys had any potential to begin with." His crew skated off behind him like synchronized jerks. The group stood there in stunned silence. Snow fell harder now, swirling under the lights. "…Martial arts tournament?" Mira finally said. Nova adjusted his gloves, looking unusually thoughtful. "Yeah. And if it's what I think it is… we're gonna need to start training." Hermes crossed her arms. "And you're not joining his side." "Hell no." Ungar stepped forward. "Maybe we should." Talus nodded. "I agree, I've heard a lot about this Zaiyal kid and he's no joke." Mira grinned. "First we dominate this rink. Then we dominate regionals." "God bless America," Phyron muttered, skating after them. And with that, the war for the American high school martial arts crown had quietly begun—right there, under Christmas lights, beside hot chocolate stands, on a rink made for holiday selfies. Because sometimes, the road to revolution starts with skating.
No one spoke for a minute. Then Talus said, slowly, "You don't understand. Zaiyal isn't just some competitor." Nova looked over. "You've seen him fight, Talus?" "Only once. On a live stream from the NAGA finals last year. I had just finished stalling from doing my homework, I watched an episode of South Park and I had just finished watching the newest episode in Dragon Ball Z. The long awaited Goku vs. Frieza fight in the Namek saga. When the episode was released and finished I turned over to the livestream out of curiosity. It was nothing short of incredible. He wasn't wearing gear. Said it 'slowed his awareness.' Some kid from Michigan tried to bait him with spinning kicks—Zaiyal stepped into it, caught the leg mid-air, and just… ended it. One strike. The ref didn't even count it out. They just called medical." Hermes raised an eyebrow. "What's his deal?" Talus hesitated, then said, "Okay. Imagine if Bruce Lee was raised in a lab built inside a Siberian monastery. That's Zaiyal. But honestly I don't know. He's apparently from a long line of royalty on a planet called Solarias, part of the Solarian race. He's short, has black spiky hair and a real attitude, he's very cold in his demeanor, that's at least what I remember about him."
Ungar nodded solemnly. "I have studied footage. He uses no wasted motion. Every attack is predictive. As if he sees two seconds into the future." "Dude's seventeen," Mira said, almost whispering. "What kind of seventeen-year-old moves like that?" "His school doesn't even compete in normal circuits," Talus said. "They only enter underground qualifiers. Invitational-only stuff. No social media. No TikToks. Just one grainy YouTube clip from three years ago of him breaking a watermelon in half with his fingers. And the occasional livestream." "His fingers?" Nova said. "Middle and ring. Like scissors," Talus replied. Phyron scoffed. "Okay. What's next? He trains with monks in the Andes?" "No," Talus said quietly. "Kyokushin Buddhist Shaolin monks. Mongolia. Eight months. And rumor is he got expelled for beating the instructor."
The snow hissed softly as it hit the rink. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed, oblivious. Nova swallowed. "So we're not dealing with a teenage athlete." "Nope," Talus said. "We're dealing with a teenage weapon." And for the first time that night, it wasn't just the cold that sent a chill down their spines. Daniel replied: "So it's decided I think we'll take Scott up on his offer." Kazan ran up to them with her parents, Lupus and Ashley who stood behind her. "Sorry guys I was just at the Temple with the Rabbi practicing for my Bat Mitzvah. Sorry I'm late Babe," she said this looking over at Mark. "That's fine babe, but I think you should be caught up to speed," said Mark.
Hermes didn't wait around for the full download. As the others circled up, buzzing with talk of training schedules, fight footage, and obscure bracket rules, she peeled off with a wave and headed for home, her mind already spinning. She biked through the cold, her scarf flapping behind her like a frayed flag. The conversation echoed in her head—Zaiyal, the tournament, Scott's smug little monologue. She couldn't shake the feeling that something bigger was coming, and not just in the bracket. Something off. Like they were walking into a story they didn't write. By the time she reached the cracked sidewalk in front of her apartment, her hands were numb, her cheeks stung red, and her thoughts were a chaotic punch-combo of memory, speculation, and low-level panic. Inside, the warmth hit her like a body slam. Her mom was on the couch, wrapped in a heating blanket and watching a Korean drama on her tablet with the intensity of a sniper. Her dad, still in his security guard uniform, was hunched over the kitchen table grading someone else's creative writing portfolio with a red pen and a bitter expression. "Hey, Hermes," her mom said without looking up. "Want pho?" "No thanks," Hermes said, kicking off her boots and setting her skates by the heater. "Hey. Can we talk?" Both parents turned to her—slowly, like synchronized owls. Her dad narrowed his eyes. "Are you pregnant?"
"What? No. Jesus. Why is that your first guess every time? It's getting old." "Because it's always something," her mom said, lowering her tablet now. "So what is it this time?" Hermes folded her arms and said it as plainly as she could: "I want to enter the American High School Martial Arts Tournament." Silence. Her dad blinked. Her mom stared. Then her dad put down his pen. "…That's not a real thing," he said. "It is," Hermes said. "It's sanctioned. Regionals start next month. Our school's gonna try to qualify." Her mom frowned. "Why? You don't even do martial arts." "I mean, I've done some. I'm rusty. But everyone's training. Nova's serious about it. We're even joining Scott's team." Her dad leaned back, exhaled slowly through his nose like he was preparing a monologue. "So let me get this straight. You want to fight teenagers from across the country. On live TV. Training under that notoriously racist student, Scott M. Greer. In what sounds like a bloodsport hosted by God-knows-who. Instead of... studying?" "Yes. But I'll still study." Her mom raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
Hermes paused, trying to find the words. "Because it's happening. And if I don't do it, someone else will. Look I've been bored for a long time, I think if I join the tournament it will give me some sense of purpose." Her dad stared at her like she'd started speaking a foreign language. "Let me explain it differently," Hermes said. "This isn't about martial arts. Not just. It's about the next four years. Who gets to represent us. Who gets the spotlight. Who shapes the future. This is like... if the Hunger Games were designed by Twitch streamers and foreign policy majors. We don't get to sit this one out." Her mom stared for a long second, then turned to her dad and said, "Honestly, that was better than her last Model U.N. speech." Her dad rubbed his temples. "Are there waivers?" "Yes." "Health insurance?" "Technically. More or less." "Is anyone else doing this?" "Half my friends. Talus. Mira. Ungar. Nova." "…Nova's involved?" her mom asked. Hermes nodded. Her mom sighed, then got up and handed Hermes a bowl of steaming pho anyway. "Fine. But you're still seeing Aunt Thelma for acupuncture before any training starts. And if you get concussed, I swear to God, we are suing somebody."
Her dad waved the pen at her. "And you're still writing your college essays. Fighting Zaiyal or not." Hermes grinned. "Deal." Then she slurped her soup and stared out the window at the dark, cold street, her heart thudding. It was happening. It was real. The next morning Hermes walked out of the house and in an instant a collection of scenes appeared in her mind, it was her punching a wolf like creature into the side of an alien ship, her and group of heroes including some of her friends fighting a giant monstrous caterpillar, fighting some titan in the ocean and her standing over someone with a beautiful sword. After the short transe, Hermes shook her head, "That was odd. What the hell was I thinking about?" Kazan ran up behind her. "Hey Hermes, wait up, let me walk with you to school!" Hermes smiled and chuckled: "You got it."
Back in the realm of Umi, Hermes continued to walk through the forest until she came face to face with a mysterious elf, who stood there. Hermes smirked, "let me guess you were sent by the dragon?" The elf smiled, "Very observant. Yes I'm the last trial before you reach the trial." Hermes asked calmly: "What do I have to do?" The elf replied: "Simple. Push me. Even if it's only half an inch." Hermes thought: "Let me guess I won't be able to move him." She began to do so but it wasn't just that it seemed impossible to move the man even half an inch but it was like pushing someone or something that wasn't even there. Hermes grit her teeth, veins surfacing across her arms as she pushed with all her might. But it was like shoving against air—no friction, no feedback, just nothing. The elf didn't even blink.
"Tch...!" she growled, sweat starting to bead on her brow. "You're not using magic... I can't even feel you!" The elf chuckled lightly, brushing a strand of silver hair behind his pointed ear. "You're correct again. I am here, and yet—I am not." Hermes took two steps back, rolling her shoulders. Her fiery red aura flared to life, crackling around her like an angry storm. "Fine. Let's do it this the hard way." She darted forward, lightning-fast, throwing a spinning elbow toward the elf's chest—but she phased right through him. Her momentum carried her forward, making her tumble awkwardly before flipping back to her feet. "What the hell…?" The elf turned, still smiling. "This isn't about force. It's about presence. Until you realize what that means, you can't touch me. At all." Hermes clenched her fists, but then paused. Presence...? Her mind flashed to Mozi's lessons:
"Your strength is nothing if your will isn't anchored. Don't just be there—own the space."
Eyes narrowing, Hermes took a breath. She placed her palm on the ground. "No more tricks." Her voice was steady now. "I'm not here to try to move you." A pulse of energy surged from beneath her feet. The forest leaves rustled. The elf raised an eyebrow. "I'm here to make it impossible for you to stay still." Suddenly, Hermes' aura turned white-hot. The air grew heavy, trembling under the weight of her resolve. The trees groaned. Even the ground cracked slightly beneath her. The elf's smirk faded. Hermes stepped forward—and this time, her fingers touched fabric. The elf budged. Not much. Maybe a quarter of an inch. But it was enough. He exhaled sharply. "You did it." Hermes smirked. "Told you. The loud way always works." The elf stepped aside, bowing with respect. "Then go. The dragon awaits. But beware... he knows your heart better than you do." Hermes' expression darkened, her gaze sharp as steel. "Good. Then he knows I'm coming to conquer his trial." She stepped through the trees—toward the final test.
Back in Timeline B, after school let out, Hermes met up with Kazan. They made their way to the outskirts of town, where an open field stretched beneath a wide, cloudless sky. Waiting for them was Kazan's father, Lupus—a towering Izadoran warrior whose bloodline traced back to a feared conqueror. Lupus stood with his arms folded, long shadow cast behind him, golden eyes fixed on the two. The wind blew softly, grass swaying around his boots. "No one around for miles," Lupus said. "That way, if things get messy, no one innocent gets caught in it." He stepped forward, the ground crunching beneath his feet. "If you want to have a shot at winning that martial arts tournament, you need to stop holding back. I'm not here to go easy on you." He raised a single hand and gestured them in. "So come on. Both of you. Show me everything you've got." Hermes exchanged a glance with Kazan. Then they struck. Kazan charged first, sprinting in with a sharp jab combo—left, right, spinning kick. Lupus blocked each blow with casual precision, barely moving his feet. Hermes followed immediately after, dropping in from the air with a diving knee aimed at Lupus's head.
Lupus tilted his body just enough to dodge, then fired an elbow into Hermes's ribs, sending him skidding across the grass. Kazan yelled and fired a burst of energy from his palm. Lupus caught the blast with one hand, held it in the air for a split second, then crushed it—smoke curling from his fingers. "You're going to need more than that," he muttered. Hermes reappeared behind him with a flying kick. This one landed—barely—pushing Lupus a step back. Kazan joined in, both girls launching into a furious combo. Hermes swept low. Kazan struck high. A clean tag-team rhythm—mirroring each other, anticipating the other's moves. Lupus started to sweat. Just slightly. He ducked under Kazan's kick, grabbed Hermes by the arm, and hurled him like a missile into Kazan. Both hit the ground hard. "You're improving," Lupus said. "But not enough."
Hermes and Kazan pulled themselves up slowly, bruised but grinning. "You ready?" Hermes asked. "Let's finish this," Kazan replied. They moved in perfect sync this time—Hermes grabbing Lupus's arms and locking him in place while Kazan gathered his energy. His aura flared violet-blue, his eyes burning. Lupus struggled, but Hermes gritted his teeth and held tight.
Kazan launched a high-powered blast—direct, focused. At the last second, Lupus twisted just enough to break one arm free and knocked Hermes into the path of the energy wave. "Damn it!" Kazan's blast clipped Hermes instead, knocking him unconscious. "You hesitated," Lupus said. Kazan's hands clenched. "You're going to have to choose next time," Lupus added. "Win, or protect. Warriors don't get to do both." The wind carried dust across the field as Kazan stepped forward again—alone now, but eyes still locked on Lupus, fire in his veins.
Kazan stood alone now, breathing hard. Hermes was down, body sprawled across the grass, smoldering from the side blast. Lupus lowered his hand, the smoke from the deflected energy attack still rising around his fingers. "You came at me together, and it still wasn't enough," Lupus said flatly. "What do you think you're going to do now—by yourself?" Kazan didn't answer. His stance shifted—lower, tighter. He launched forward with a war cry, fists blazing, aura pulsing violet with each strike. Lupus blocked most of the blows, but Kazan's speed had changed. Faster. Sharper. More rage than technique now, but it was working. He landed a solid punch to Lupus's jaw. Then another. Then a knee to the gut. Lupus staggered back a step, more surprised than hurt. "Hmm," he muttered. "So you've still got something to show me." Kazan didn't let up. He shot upward into the air, energy charging in his palms. "Crinorian Burst!" he shouted, releasing a double-blast of compressed light.
Lupus crossed his arms and took it head-on. The explosion shook the field. When the dust cleared, Lupus stood—arms slightly burned, clothes torn at the sleeves, a smirk on his face. "That almost felt like pressure." Then—he vanished. Kazan blinked—too late. Lupus reappeared behind her and hammered a fist into her back. Kazan hit the ground hard, bounced once, then rolled to a stop. Lupus hovered above, watching. "You're getting stronger. But your anger is wild. Unfocused." Suddenly, a hand shot up and grabbed Lupus's ankle. Hermes. Burned, battered, but back on his feet. "You talk too much," Hermes growled. In a flash, he threw Lupus down while Kazan, who had faked being unconscious, leapt into the air with a charging strike—a spiraling knee to Lupus's gut. The move landed clean. Lupus grunted, wind knocked out of him for a split second. It was the opening they needed. Hermes wrapped his arms around Lupus from behind—tight grip, full lock.
"Now, Kazan!" Kazan's hands lit up with energy again—this time denser, more focused. A spiral lance of condensed force. "I'm not holding back this time!" Kazan shouted. Lupus thrashed, but Hermes held firm, gritting his teeth as the energy flared around them. "DO IT!" Kazan roared as he launched the blast—dead center, straight through both of them. The energy tore through the field, kicking up wind and fire. Silence followed. Smoke curled around the crater where they stood. Hermes collapsed, the front of her shirt scorched through, blood on her lip. Lupus lay at the center, his armor cracked, one knee down, breathing ragged. He looked up at Kazan, who stood trembling, fists still glowing. Lupus smirked. "Now that… was more like it." He dropped to both knees, then fell flat. Kazan ran over to Hermes, helping him up. "You good?" Hermes coughed, then gave a tired thumbs-up. "Yeah. Just remind me never to hold him again while you do that." Kazan grinned. "Deal."
Afterwards they drank some water and Lupus encouraged them: "You two did great I thought we'd have to cover way more of the basics in just one short month, but you both proved me wrong, you're naturals." Kazan smiled: "thanks dad." Lupus grunted: "You are my little princess after all, but you're a warrior and you're no slouch either Hermes." Hermes looked down and then a voice was heard in the distance it was multiple people. It was Sun Wukong in a blazer along with his wife Guanyin, their daughter Yuebei Xing (Moon-Comet Star) and their sons Jidu and Louhou. Close behind them was another figure, Scott M. Greer. The group landed before them, Yuebei Xing was a close friend of Hermes but not Scott Greer. "Uh, I have to deal with you again." Scott laughed: "Well you are in my martial-arts team, if only you'd lazer off those sleeve tattoos and take the Greerhead Pledge." Hermes snapped and she was angry: "In your dreams you freak!" She began to growl but Lupus put his hand up which calmed her down. "What brings you here?" said Lupus to Scott. Scott laughed: "I can't speak for the monkey and the family but I've come to deliver great news, if we win this tournament we're going to the International Martial-Arts Tournament of all High Schools under Heaven in Japan." Scott pulled out a floating metal ball, this was called a Sythball, they were essentially a computer, a cell phone, and a bunch of electronics rolled up into one. It showed a countdown from the hologram it projected as well as the screen of the webpage about traveling to Japan below.
Scott's smug grin widened as the Sythball floated beside him, casting a cold blue glow across the field. "Thirty-two days," he said. "That's how long we have until the American finals. After that? If we qualify—Tokyo Dome. Global stage. Eyes of the world. And guess who gets top billing?" He pointed at himself with both thumbs. Hermes stepped forward, brushing the ash off her shoulder. "You really think I'm going to let you be the face of our team?" Scott turned his back and started to walk away, hands on the back of his head. "I don't care who the face is. Just as long as the name on the win screen says 'Greer.'" "You're lucky I don't knock that name off your teeth," Hermes muttered. "Save it for the ring, tattoo girl," Scott said without turning around. "Coach Wukong wanted to say something."
Sun Wukong stepped forward now, tail twitching beneath his blazer. His golden eyes scanned the field, amused, but sharp. "You two held your own against Lupus," he said, nodding at Hermes and Kazan. "That's not nothing. Don't think that's the final test." Guanyin floated gently beside him, radiating calm. She placed a hand on Yuebei Xing's shoulder. "The road to Japan is paved and will be a hard one." Yuebei crossed her arms, smirking at Hermes. "You still throw that punch like a brawler," she said. "But your aura's grown. I can feel it from here." Hermes raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to insult me or compliment me?" "Both," Yuebei said with a wink. Jidu and Louhou—Wukong's twin sons—were already sparring in the background, trading teleport strikes and afterimages so fast they looked like flickering ghosts. Then Guanyin raised her hand again, and the twins froze in midair. "We didn't come just to warn you," Wukong said. "We came to test you." Hermes blinked. "Wait. Right now?!" Guanyin nodded. "Every year, three Tokyo candidates are selected for pre-ascension trials. You and Kazan just earned two of those slots." "And the third?" Kazan asked. Wukong turned his head slightly. A shimmer rippled across the sky. The wind grew cold. From behind the tree line stepped a figure—barefoot, black coat, blindfold over their eyes. White hair. No aura. No sound. Just pressure. Scott stepped back. Even he wasn't grinning now. "That," Wukong said with quiet reverence, "is Zaiyal, he's known to have killed several of his opponents in the past, he's no one to take lightly." Hermes's spine tingled. Zaiyal's presence was like standing in a vacuum even though she had not even met him yet. Her breathing hitched. Kazan clenched her fists. Even Lupus tensed.
"No aura," Kazan whispered. "Is that even possible?" Guanyin replied: "Zaiyal doesn't suppress energy. He cancels it. This is a well-documented fact for an individual so secretive." Wukong narrowed his eyes: "Just know what you're stepping into, this is serious after all. Zaiyal is a killer." Hermes narrowed her eyes at the silent figure, who had already turned and vanished without a sound. Kazan leaned in. "Are you sure you're ready for that?" Hermes nodded: "Yes." Then she looked up at the Sythball, countdown ticking beneath the words: "AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL MARTIAL ARTS TOURNAMENT – 32 DAYS UNTIL GLOBAL FINALS." Hermes grinned but she turned her attention to Greer: "Okay Greer you can be the team manager but I'm the leader, fair!" Scott laughed: "Done." Hermes nashed her teeth: "Honestly, the fact that I'm giving you anything is insane, its unbelievable that in the year 2026 we still have bigots like you running around. And those things you said about the South African migrants the other day on your show. Honestly it makes me wretch." Scott giggled: This is a common confusion among shitlibs on immigration. Let's clarify: It's good to take in White South African migrants. It's bad to take in black people. This is because they're better than black Africans because white people are better than black people in every way. Black Nationalism is bad because black people make bad countries, White Nationalism is good because white people make good countries. Hope that helps," said Scott. This made Hermes fly through the roof. She turned into a Chibi and began to scream at him: "YOU RACIST FASCIST PIECE OF SHIT! THE FACT THAT YOU SAY SUCH VILE…" Lupus put his hand on her shoulder… "That's enough, you may not like him but you have to get along with him," said Lupus. Scott sighed: "Anyway I'll be introducing you to the rest of the team tomorrow, so be ready."
The sun dipped below the mountains, throwing long shadows across the training field. The Sythball's blue light flickered off as Scott turned and strode away like nothing happened—like he hadn't just dropped a nuke in the middle of the conversation. Hermes was still vibrating with rage. Her chibi form snapped back into her full height, fists clenched tight enough to crack stone. "He says one more thing like that…" she growled. "I'll break his jaw with you," Kazan said, eyes locked forward. She wasn't smiling. But Lupus didn't speak. He just watched the horizon, arms folded. There was a storm brewing behind his golden irises—like he was remembering a time he couldn't erase. Guanyin stepped forward again, calm but firm. "Hatred is like wildfire. Left unchecked, it devours the field. Focus. Don't let him live in your head." Sun Wukong smirked, crossing his arms. "That said… if you do knock him out cold in the semis, I won't stop you." Yuebei laughed. The Hermes had visions flash through her mind. She held her head, what was happening?
In Seattle, Washington, the teenage warrior Zaiyal was training in a state-of-the-art training facility. He was in a caged room, his foster-father Nezha stood on the other side grinning: "Let's see what you can do Zaiyal." A group of Ninjas appeared around Zaiyal; there were at least forty in all. Zaiyal didn't blink. He didn't crouch or square up. He just stood there. Still. Relaxed. Eyes half-lidded. Like he was waiting for a bus, not surrounded by masked killers. The lead ninja signaled. Forty bodies moved as one. The cage exploded into chaos—blades flashing, fists slicing the air, smoke bombs hissing as they popped and blanketed the floor in vapor. But Zaiyal… was gone. A whisper of motion—then a blur. The first ninja's mask cracked inward with a crunch, his body folding backward like paper. Before he hit the floor, Zaiyal was already behind the next three. One strike—three collapses. No wasted motion. No theatrics. He didn't channel qi. No aura. Nothing. Just fists. Knees. Elbows. And each one hit like divine retribution. A katana slashed his neck. Zaiyal twisted, tilted his head two inches, and caught the attacker's wrist mid-swing. He didn't throw. He didn't punch. He tapped the ninja's arm—and it bent the wrong way with a shriek of bone. Then he was in the air. Feet parallel to the ground. Spinning. Two bodies were down before he touched the floor again. Nezha's grin widened. "Perfect control. Zero projection." Another ninja launched a chain weapon. Zaiyal walked toward it. Not ran—walked. Each link of the chain slowed as it neared him, as if it lost speed in his presence. It wrapped around his shoulder—and fell limp. He moved through them like a ghost made of steel. Eight, ten, fifteen were already groaning on the ground. Some didn't groan at all. One ninja tried a smoke bomb point-blank. Zaiyal stepped into the cloud, vanished… and a second later, the ninja flew out of the other side of it, hit the bars with a metallic clang, and dropped. It wasn't a fight. It was a dissection.
By the time the last ninja stood trembling in place, blade rattling in his hand, Zaiyal paused. His foot tapped the floor. The ninja's legs snapped sideways, not from a strike—but like gravity had shifted just for him. Silence. The cage was a graveyard of breathless bodies. Zaiyal exhaled once. Nezha clapped slowly. "Forty-two down. No aura. No mercy. Not bad for a Tuesday." Zaiyal finally looked up. His voice was low, not menacing—just factual. "They weren't serious." Nezha's smile faltered. "Send real ones next time." Zaiyal turned, sweatless, calm, and walked out through the twisted door—bent from when a ninja hit it at full force. He didn't even glance back. He walked out of the caged room with his arms crossed. "Honestly father, I'm growing quite tired of how easy it is to conquer my prey." Nezha stroked his beard: "That's the cost of being a superior life form my son. You shouldn't be surprised." Zaiyal laughed: "Oh no I'm a well aware father. And soon I will be seen as who I truly am, the strongest man on Planet Earth and soon to be the strongest in the Cosmos. If there is a God then he is indeed good, for he has given me the gifts to conquer all others in strength. A strong man stands tall and conquers everything before him. Alexander, Caesar, Temujin, and Zaiyal in that order. It will be very clear very soon that I am number one." Nezha's eyes gleamed at the declaration—not with pride, but with something colder. Calculating. "Confidence," he said. "Good. But don't confuse dominance with divinity. You've only crushed toys in a cage." Zaiyal stopped mid-stride. He tilted his head, just slightly, like a wolf catching a scent on the wind. "Toys can bleed," he said. "But gods? I'll make them kneel." Nezha stepped through the bent cage door behind him, boots clicking softly against the concrete. "Then it's time we stop playing games." Zaiyal smirked: "I couldn't agree more father."
Back in the Riftlands Farabius and the other demons continued to walk through falling commits into the void of an incredibly bizarre space. "I totally don't understand where we are?" said Farabius. Seregrin replied: "This is the Hyperverse, it's basically a collection of different worlds the smallest are the size of a continent, the largest are the size of a Spherical Mass (what some might call a Cosmos). So they vary." Zelanius responded: "And how many are there?" Seregrin laughed: "It's unknown as far as I'm aware. But as far as you and I are concerned it might as well be infinity, the number is beyond mortal or even immortal comprehension. We're about to enter the Wire-Realm in a minute. Stay close, that realm is full of warlords." Farabius itched her head: "The Wire-Frame?" Basel said: "We were just there, its basically a dark void from large cubes everywhere if you fall off the edge you'll fall to your death for over 1,000 years some of these cubes are the size of small continents or large islands but many are the very small, so we need to be careful." It wasn't long before they all entered the Wire Frame. The ground wasn't ground—it was a black metallic plate the size of a football field, hovering in empty space, humming with faint electric pulses. Everywhere else: void. No sky. No up. Just floating cubes like broken code, some spinning slow, others anchored with gravity that didn't seem to follow any rules. Farabius landed first, crouched. His boots scraped the black surface. Behind him, Seregrin floated down in a swirl of smoke, touching down like a shadow finding its owner. Basel and Zelanius followed, alert and quiet. Then they heard it. Thoom. Thoom. Not footsteps. Drumbeats. But they came from above.
From the darkness a small blue creature ran into Faribus. Seregrin thought to himself, "is that an Arcturian?" Farabius began to scratch his head: "Who the hell are you, and what's your problem?" The blue creature stood up, "My name is Xenos I can't remember much about myself, its hazy but I'm being chased by this mad-men he's trying to enslave anyone who ends up here." Seregrin: "You're an Arcturian." Xenos simply replied: "What's that?!" Seregrin smiled: "It's an alien race from Quadrant 45, it doesn't matter how close is this fiend?" Out of the darkness walked a humanoid figure with pale grey skin, pointy ears and red eyes, he was followed by two anthropomorphic-lizards with human clothes. "Who are you, have you escaped from the plantation as well?" Farabius replied: "What plantation?" The man replied: "Don't play dumb. I am the Master Melkior of the noble Maturidite estate. Anyone who claims they don't know who I am is fibbing."
The moment Melkior said "fibbing," the void cracked with tension. The black cube beneath their feet began to hum louder. Seregrin's eyes narrowed—he had seen this before. This wasn't just a confrontation. This was a stage. A battleground cued to collapse at the first strike. Melkior raised a single gloved hand. The two lizard-men stepped forward in unison, synchronized like programmed assassins. Their jaws opened, revealing data-tethered tongues flickering with static. Xenos shrank back. Seregrin muttered under his breath, "Get ready. He's not just talk. You should know that better than anyone, Xenos." And then it started. The first lizard lunged. Farabius ducked low, spinning on one knee and driving an upward palm into the thing's gut. It screeched in a digital echo and flew back—but didn't fall. Gravity here bent like ribbon, and the lizard twisted mid-air, rebounding off a floating shard of cube with zero friction, landing back like a glitch corrected.
Zelanius was already in motion, twin spears forming from condensed wire-matter around her arms. She stabbed at the second lizard, who blocked with its own armored forearms—flesh turning to scale-like steel. Sparks flew. Basel flicked his wrist and unleashed a current—hexagonal light-plates spiraling toward Melkior. The nobleman raised his hand and with a snap of his fingers, the spell dissolved mid-air. "Please," Melkior said. "You think I rule the Wire-Realm without mastering its laws? Are you truly that ignorant?" Then he moved. Not fast. Beyond fast. His figure flickered. Seregrin caught a flash of motion just in time to intercept with a shadow burst—but even then, Melkior's hand was already at his throat, lifting him off the ground. "You're a shadowcaster," Melkior said casually. "I eat your kind for breakfast." Seregrin's face twisted with effort. His shadow erupted from under Melkior like a live serpent, wrapping around the man's legs and yanking—hard. Melkior faltered just enough for Seregrin to vanish into the dark like mist. "We need to go," he gasped, reappearing beside the others.
"Retreat?" Farabius spat. "We just got here." "Wrong battlefield," Seregrin said. "He made this one." Xenos screamed—Melkior had his hand out again, pulling at the boy's mind with a red tendril of energy, trying to force submission. The cube beneath them began to tilt, rotating slowly, threatening to dump them all into the abyss. Zelanius drove one spear into the plate, anchoring herself. "We're not getting out unless we create a breach." "Basel," Seregrin barked. "Wire-leap protocol. Now." Basel gritted his teeth, slammed his palms together, and a ring of code bloomed around them—glowing teal. "Five seconds. Hold him." Farabius turned to Melkior with a grin. "You want a memory? Take this one." He charged. Melkior met him with grace, their fists colliding in a shockwave that cracked the floating cube clean in half. The fragment split, and Farabius tumbled through an open void—but not before launching a wire-grenade back toward the others. Boom. The explosion gave just enough cover. Seregrin yanked Xenos into the ring. Zelanius used his spears to vault inside. Basel shouted, "NOW!" as Melkior's hand reached for him— Flash. They were gone. The cube fragments floated in eerie silence. Melkior stood alone, the tips of his boots balanced on a wire-thread of gravity. He looked into the place they vanished. "…Interesting," he whispered. "They didn't run. They calculated." He smiled. "I'll enjoy seeing them again."
Back on Umi, Hermes finally stood before the tower. She closed her eyes, "Finally." She shot up through the air cutting through the clouds, in a few minutes she was at the top of the tower which was a Pagoda. Hermes saw a figure standing there, the man had a beard and simply showed Hermes a cup of water on the table. Hermes drank the water and she awoke in the middle of an ocean with a woman with large breasts, green hair and a trident this was the Dragon. "Well Prophet, we meet at last." Meanwhile, back in a vacant space Xeres floated in silence meditating until she felt something, "is that Hermes, how did she get so strong?! Wait there are two strong power-levels, what is this?!" Xerxes smiled, "Well I guess our bout will start sooner than I thought little sister."
Back in the Wire-Frame, Seregrin narrowed his eyes, scanning the digital horizon for signs of movement. The virtual grid shimmered around them like a living nervous system, pulsing with raw data. "You're sure it's them?" he asked, his deep voice edged with caution. Alestria nodded, fingers dancing over a projection in the air, tuning the signal. "It's them. I'd know that energy signature anywhere. It's distorted, like they're phasing between dimensions—but it's them." Seregrin turned his attention outward, his massive frame tensing. "Then we've got two minutes to lock this zone down. I don't want anything jumping us before they arrive." Suddenly, a sharp tremor rippled through the Wire-Frame. Both froze. Something was forcing its way into the space—a crack opened in the lattice like a wound. Out of the breach stepped a figure: lean, cloaked, face hidden beneath a mask of jagged code. "Who the hell—" Seregrin raised his fists, but the figure simply raised a hand. "I'm not here to fight," it said, voice flickering like static. "I'm here for the Prophet. And you're in the way."
Out in the endless sea, Hermes floated just above the surface, the Dragon circling her lazily in the water. The ocean churned under the woman's presence, her trident glowing faintly with ethereal green fire. "You drank from the Cup," the Dragon said, eyes like whirlpools. "That means the Tower accepts you. But it doesn't mean you're ready." Hermes didn't flinch. "I didn't come here to prove myself to you. I came to understand what comes next." The Dragon's laugh was deep and ancient. "What comes next, Prophet, is truth. And most mortals aren't built to survive it." She held out the trident, pointing it at Hermes. "So we test you. Body, mind, and spirit." Hermes gritted her teeth. "Then bring it." A column of water erupted beneath her, launching her skyward. The Dragon vanished beneath the waves—and seconds later, the sea exploded upward in a spiral as the beast's true form surged forth: a serpent over a mile long, armored in emerald scales, eyes glowing with the knowledge of centuries. Back in the void between spaces, Xerxes opened her eyes fully now, golden airises gleaming with intensity. "She's awakened from the Dragon Trial. And someone else has broken the Code Barrier. This is happening too fast." She stood, folding her arms, black hair billowing as if caught in a silent wind. "No matter. The rules are changing, but I still know how to win." Back with Xerxes her eyes opened suddenly, and she smiled, "Gotcha! Both their energy signatures are clear as day!" Behind her, a shadow shifted—a mirror of herself, but cracked and incomplete. "You really think she's ready for you?" the shadow asked. Xerxes smirked. "No. But I've never waited for readiness. I move when the board's still being set." And with a snap of her fingers, she vanished.
Back in the Wire-Frame a large ship appeared; it was a battleship, very advanced in its technology. "That's it, we're ready to board," said Alestria. After this the group dematerialized and then rematerialized in the ship. A large ogre like creature squealed, "Alestria, I'm surprised you wished to stop scouting so soon." Alestria smiled, "It's just a change in circumstance. But I'm glad you guys are here." A boy with short brown hair, cat ears and a cat tail with a strange uniform and a red arm-band walked up to the group. "Who are these guys, meow!" Alestria laughed: "Let me introduce our new comrades, Farabius, Zelanius and Seregrin from the Void (Demon World), and a little blue Alien named Xenos. And my crew, well we have a little over two hundred crew-mates in all but these are the top players: Nyan-nyan (にゃんにゃん) Akane Kropotkin にゃんにゃんあかねクロポトキン.hes our favorite Bolshevik martial-artist and Catboy, then we have Sergey Kharkov Сергій Харків a warrior from the Ukraine he was born in the year 2527 and survived the Chechyan Empire's invasion of Ukraine as a child our favorite devout Orthodox Christian Slavic muscle man with a heart of gold and the power to grow his hair at will and use it as a weapon, and for now we'll leave it at Avery the falcon, Gonzo the Dwarf and Tartus スピード Supīdo. Sergey Kharkov was a freakishly strong 6 or 7 foot giant with a Ukrainian flag and an Eastern Orthodox cross tattooed on his chest and a beard and mustache and a thick Slavic accent. "Nice to meet you, I'm sure we'll get along well." Avery the Falcon, an Anthropomorphic-Falcon man who had an English accent, nodded: "Same as Kharkov here, I'm sure we'll get along well." Gonzo the Dwarf was a Dwarven warrior with a long brown beard, "Any friend of our captain is a friend of mine, as cliche as that sounds it's the truth." And finally Tartus rubbed her finger under her nose, "I'd like to introduce myself, I'm the god of speed and the fastest thing alive, so even if you're stronger you're not faster than," said Tartus. Seregrin grinned with his demonic teeth, "Duly noted."
The air inside the battleship shimmered with static energy as the new arrivals adjusted to the transition. Zelanius, tall and cloaked in shadows that slithered at the edges of his form, scanned the chamber with narrowed, burning red eyes. "So this is the mortal tech you're so proud of," he said, voice like cracking stone. "It's… quaint." "Quaint? You haven't seen the particle cannon yet," Nyan-nyan chirped, tail flicking. "Wanna spar later? I've got a new suplex I've been dying to try." Farabius, a broad-shouldered demon with spiraling horns and armor made of interlocking obsidian plates, crossed his arms. "You've got guts, little cat. I respect that. But if you lay a finger on Zelanius without warning, he might end your bloodline by reflex." Nyan-nyan's ears twitched. "Meow~ I'll take my chances."
One of the men on the control panel began to shout, "Captain, there's an energy signature that's coming at us at moch speed it'll be upon us any minute." Alestria was stunned, "Is it that Melchior fellow?" But just as the thought crossed her mind, on the front of the ship visible to everyone in the cockpit was an elf-girl with black hair, it was Xerxes. Xerxes looked at the two beings who had the high power levels they were: Farabius and Xenos. Xerxes thought to herself, "Neither of these are Hermes?"