Rise of the Reaper Sphere

By Christian Paige

If it wasn't for the timely message, the last of the Arc's Megastars would have sailed straight into the fearsome Reaper Sphere.

Toben Keyman was the newest Arc Star and felt most undeserving amongst such greats as Whitefire and Grim Holloway, the two most naturally gifted Rivawolders, and bitter rivals in the Arc.

All were left stranded, along with their extraordinary battle squads, in the middle of the Outlands desert with nothing but their wits and their Self-power.

But the Reaper Sphere was rising and, although they didn't know it yet, time was quickly running out for Rivawold - the incredible planet of the immortals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716708312

Book preview

encouragement.

1: An Urgent News Flash

It was the silence that made the old man look up.

He’d been rocking in his chair, paying no attention to the constant clamour of the viewport, holding his book purposely aloft so that it blocked out the hypnotic colours spewing from the screen. There was nothing as relentless, as mindlessly addictive, as Rivawold’s own, premier entertainment show – the Arc. Footage was broadcast day and night to a systemwide audience of billions and the viewers lapped it up. It was a constant feed of classic action from its astonishing shows, and daily interviews and real-time footage from its famous Megastars, interspersed with loud, excitable commercials, confidently proclaiming their upcoming live, prime-time events, and the Arc’s popularity grew only ever larger. So when the feed cut off sharply, bringing a curious silence to the room, the old man lowered his book a fraction and stared at the screen.

There stood a familiar figure, looking out of place in the middle of a vast desert.

An off-worlder, he grumbled. One of those blasted reporters!

The image was plain, there was no noise, only stillness; a stark contrast to its usual frenzy.

‘We apologise for the interruption to this week’s Arc Extreme Showstopper Classics–’

The old timer cursed under his breath.

‘Not again?’

‘–but we bring you important breaking news direct from the Outlands.’

The on-screen reporter swept back the loose strand that had fallen from his hair then clasped his hands together. There was urgency in his eyes. And something else, perhaps uncertainty.

‘I’m standing here, in the western plains of Rivawold’s vast Outlands desert, about ten kilometres south of the ancient Starsailors Hall – the venue for tomorrow night’s Main Event, Demolition.

‘Within the last hour, at precisely midday, the iconic stadium has erupted in, what is initially believed to be, a dense cloud of Twisted Self.’

Twisted Self. It had happened once before. The old man had lived through it.

‘Why do they keep raking this up?’ he groaned.

‘The blast wave is alleged to have killed four off-worlders; an engineering team and a NewsFly reporter, arriving from Teralex.

‘Also present were an estimated eight hundred Rivawolders, including the entire caravan of Arc Stars and their staff.

‘Oracles quickly arrived from the neighbouring sand towns of Great Warton and Evolea Hills, but they have so far been unable to have any effect upon what has been described as a towering, impassable wall of living, breathing Self-power. ‘

The reporter paused for breath, as if for dramatic effect, and the picture suddenly juddered, distorting his face for a brief moment so that it became a freakish, warped smile with uneven eyes. The old man frowned as a strange thought occurred.

I remember this!

‘It was almost a century ago that Self was first seen to become twisted. The first and only occasion before today. It was an event that shocked this world’s society and shaped their understanding of the core essence of all Rivawolder life. Twisted Self was said to be alive, a power impervious to attack, the remnant of which lasted six whole days and swallowed whole any that entered its confines, never to be seen again.’

A long creak erupted from a nearby floorboard.

‘This incident, unexplained to this day, happened in the deep recesses of the Dark Countries – the mysterious third continent of Rivawold – while today’s attack has left a remnant at an Arc stadium that is reported to be over four hundred times its size!’

The old man looked over his shoulder, but there was no one there.

‘Local experts at the scene, and over at New Central City are investigating what can be done to counter this terrible and awesome abomination of nature.’

The picture switched to a satellite view of the desert.

‘Pictures from Sky-Map,’ the old timer murmured, just before the very same words appeared on the screen.

‘How did I know?‘

He stared in bewilderment as a star-shaped building was engulfed by a perfectly spherical cloud of royal blue.

‘The explosion was powerful and vast enough to be seen from Sky-Map itself. The entire Starsailors Hall stadium, and a surrounding two kilometre circumference, can be seen being consumed by a sphere of Self energy – a seemingly impenetrable barrier – an area that many are now calling the Infected Zone.’

Again the picture juddered, but more violently this time. Everything in the room seemed to be vibrating now.

‘Rescue teams are desperately trying to blast a way into the Infected Zone or to establish communication with those spirits trapped inside. New Central City has deployed its best oracles to the area, but there has been no official word yet from Arc Central’s upper management or indeed from the flamboyant leader of the Arc, Chairman Griffin.’

The chairman’s bushy face filled the screen, but the old man didn’t even notice. His walls were creaking. His chair was shaking. He sat forward, alarmed now.

‘What is happening?’ he rasped, his eyes fixed upon the screen.

Hundreds of panicky people were running wildly around a town square.

‘While NCC citizens are in a state of shock, the city is in chaos, and everybody wants answers. Rivawolders are asking, how has this been allowed to happen? What will it mean for the future of the Arc? And what can be done to save its mega-celebrity Arc Stars from a terrible fate; a fate that many believe is already too late to prevent.’

He lifted his hands in the air. His chair had started to disintegrate.

‘NCC authorities must act fast and bring news to a shaken public, and return order to the normally peaceful planet of Rivawold.’

‘This is Hormel Black, reporting from the NewsFlies team for Galactic News, in the Outlands.’

He finally remembered. This was Hormel Black’s broadcast from weeks ago. Weeks ago! Hadn’t they since said there was nothing to worry about; that they’d feel the effects well before the Infected Zone engulfed their homes? Hadn’t they said they’d notice the distortion of time and how physical objects would fade and crumble around them? Only then they would need to consider retreating to the safety of New Central City.

Well, of course, he’d never run away from his own home, he had sworn. He’d never cross the sea and beg for refuge in that foreign continent because–

His mind wandered. It felt like someone was watching; observing.

–because everything had been just fine since Black’s damned transmission. And here it is again!

‘We apologise for the interruption to this week’s Arc Extreme Showstopper Classics, but we bring you important breaking news direct from the Outlands.’

But there were no more thoughts and there were no more words as the viewport had suddenly vanished completely, scattered into dust, as had the rickety old hut and the old man that once sat within it.

2: A Rude Awakening

He felt it was that time, in fact he knew it was, but still the Rivawoldan boy rebelled against waking up. Toben Keyman had been tossing and turning for several minutes now, that itch of gnawing reality building inside his head, reminding him that he’d soon need to get up.

It'll be alright, he promised himself. There’s still plenty of time. I won’t be late.

He buried his face deeper into the pillow and pulled up his covers, every touch on his skin was bliss. Surely nothing could be so important.

Suddenly there it was – the first infuriating wave of jarring laughter from a crowd of youngsters in the neighbouring blast grounds, just as always. Why did it seem that he was the only one that objected to the early mornings?

He willed his body into motion enough to turn onto his other side and plunge the pillow over his head.

Just five more minutes, he promised himself, trying to measure the importance of the day in his mind; trying to invent a good enough reason not to just go back to sleep.

Today was a travelling day. The usual delay at the flightport, the monotonous trip across the ocean to the Outlands, the chaotic routine of booking in and unpacking. Actually, he didn’t mind the travelling, but wasn’t at all looking forward to tomorrow’s Main Event. In fact, he dreaded it. He stubbornly considered staying in bed and letting the day simply pass by without him.

If only it was that simple.

He was an Arc Star now, whether he liked it or not, and he had a show to perform in.

He tried to console himself with the thought that he usually felt a lot better once the show actually started, once it was all in motion, but this logically-sound theory didn't hold any weight from the confines of his warm bed on this fresh, new morning. The bottom line was that tomorrow he was going to co-star in the Arc’s Main Event in front of a universal audience of a hundred billion.

With a hint of a frown across his pale face, he fell into a light sleep that was promptly disturbed by a long piercing whistle then a loud explosion from outside, signifying that some of the older cadets had awoken. This was immediately followed by frantic hammering as the weavers went about the reconstruction process. He swung his long, thin legs out of bed, groaning in tired frustration, then flicked a curl of black hair from his brow and opened his eyes for the first time.

Toben had quite recently become a midager. They say that Arc Stars hit their first prime in their twenties but, at thirty, fall straight into the deep, dark mid-ages. The second prime – the long prime, they called it – came later, but he considered he hadn’t even fallen into his first yet!

He knew he was not like the others; a midager freshman to the Arc. He felt like an unwelcome guest to a family of the universe’s most gifted individuals.

'In the Arc there are Kings and there are drones,' their instructor had told them on that terrifying graduation day, just a few short months back. And he knew exactly what he was – a drone. But the problem was that wherever he looked, he saw no others. All he saw was Kings. They were capable, confident people, obsessed with the continual excellence of the company and their individual quests to reach their own perfection within it, and rightfully so! The Arc was full of Great People. But in contrast he was quiet, self-critical. Practically anonymous.

‘I am so bad at this,’ he muttered to himself, shaking his head and absently scratching the stubble upon his chin.

His whole life, thus far, had been a series of petty ordeals and traumas all caused, he reluctantly conceded, by himself!

'You'll grow into yourself, Ben,' his unwavering guardian, Brennan, had assured him on so many occasions, and he did still have some hope that one day he’d find contentment.

‘Does it ever get any easier?’ he’d asked.

‘It’ll get easier,’ Brennan had smiled, nodding.

‘But I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be!’

He just needed people to actually like him, and that required him to do something useful, something different – just one extraordinary something that he could call his own; that would define him.

‘You don’t need to be anything but yourself,’ Brennan had chuckled, as though it was the simplest thing.

Toben slowly scanned the room until his chestnut eyes fixed upon the bedside window and he dreamily looked down upon the early morning gloom. Outside, the shifting, shadowy shapes of the arcusus trees brushed against the dark sky, awaiting the sunrise that would finally break the cool and crisp morning air.

There was another crash from not too far away. Breaking glass this time; possibly a window.

For any stranger visiting this world, he mused, with no idea of its uniqueness, they would undoubtedly believe a riot to be taking place. It was typical of him to consider the views and perspectives of others. But he knew that this was just a standard Rivawoldan morning. New Central City was always loud and chaotic, and destructive.

He looked dreamily into the shadows outside. Brennan had once said that qualifying for the Arc was special enough, but what if it had all been a big mistake?

The midager chided himself with a sudden tut.

I worry too much!

If his guardian had faith in him then the least he could do was try.

He sighed deeply, vowing to himself, as he always eventually did, that he would at least do that. He started to get ready for a day he had been dreading for quite some time.

The Main Event at the Starsailors Hall.

There was a great moan from the weavers as the panel they had just repaired was blown to pieces again, and then the inevitable sound of monotonous hammering. It shook him from his thoughts and he began to feel nervous about the day once again.

Great, he thought to himself. Another day in the Arc! And by midday, I’ll be back in the rigmarole.

But Toben had no idea that this wasn’t just another day in the Arc. This was to be the day that ended it.

3: The Starsailors Hall

‘Slaughter, mayhem, barbarity, mutilation, bedlam, betrayal, carnage. Welcome to Rivawold, Mr Bryant. Welcome to the Arc.’

*

He revealed the three long, sharp claws that were attached to his right hand. The blades had been designed to rip and to tear.

The grinning man flexed this clawed glove, threateningly. He was standing in a wide arena of sand and far above him, upon the red, hardwood wall, in the shadow of an enormous one-handed clock, an ornately carved sign read:

The Starsailors Hall – Erected 4350

The Rivawolder’s powerful build was accentuated by his short stature so that his dusty clothes looked ready to burst from his skin. Attached to his belt were several viciously serrated blades which, along with the claws on his right glove, sparkled in the light.

He peeled open his lips, exposing rotten yellow teeth, and he spoke with a dirty sounding drawl.

‘Neither a’yer walkin’ away from this.’

Across the arena, two figures stared back. One was a tall, muscular, dark-skinned man in a slick, all-black outfit, the other, a slim, athletic girl with red flowing hair tumbling down her golden leotard. Exuberantly sprawled across her midriff in red, jagged letters was her name, "Klonola". There was defiance, and a hint of fury, in her voice.

‘You can try and win the battle, Blade, but it won’t stop tomorrow’s war.’

‘Oh, wonnit?’ Blade grinned, mischievously.

The three mysterious characters stood within the walls of a huge ring of silvery sand, surrounded by a great, curved wall of beautifully varnished wood that rose up, not to the roof, but to a large expanse of night sky, although puzzlingly it was daylight inside. Around them there was a gleaming maze of towering glass walls, and at its very centre, highlighted by a particularly bright beam of light, sat a huge throne of silverwood and bone.

It was a vast arena of glass and sand. Of day and night.

‘Ready Nailer?’ the girl said, and the muscular man nodded.

‘Let it begin.’

There was just one brief moment where the scene froze, like a photograph had been snapped by a curious observer and then in a swift motion the man, Nailer, raised his arm and, as if from nowhere, he was holding a small cannon.

No, not holding – his arm had somehow become the cannon.

His skin had swelled into an engorged drum, his fist was a spinning whirr and his knuckles had peeled open to reveal bloody holes.

Razor sharp shards of splintered bone launched explosively from this impossible weapon and ripped into Blade's right shoulder as he dropped sharply with a cry.

‘Call that blasting?’ he yelled, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Yer gettin’ slow, old man!’

As Nailer steadied his gun-arm and Klonola moved in to cut him off, Blade dived behind the cover of a wall of thick glass – a sculpture of a group of battling warriors – and when it promptly smashed into pieces he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Be watchful K,’ Nailer warned, sensing danger, ‘he may have–‘.

But he had himself been fooled!

Directly behind him, somehow, a figure arose and lifted the three terrible claws on his gloved hand.

'Watch yerself, big man!'

He thrust the claws deeply into Nailer’s shoulder blade and down into his torso.

Blade grinned as the anguished man dropped to his knees.

His upper body had practically split into two.

*

‘Oh my! Right down the spine. They take no prisoners, do they?’

*

Klonola sprang into action, delivering a flurry of swift kicks in mid-air, whilst calling out a despairing cry to Nailer, as he collapsed.

Blade floated eerily backwards, avoiding the blows, so that they both glided over the arena floor as though tied to wires – kick, dodge, kick, dodge, kick, block.

Twisting his arms as he finally landed, an arrogant grin upon his face, he sent Klonola sailing past, but as she flew through the air her body contorted, her arms became legs, fur burst from her skin, vicious teeth filled her mouth and she landed on sharp paws.

A belthan tiger stood in the sand and growled menacingly.

*

‘Just keep watching, Mr Bryant. It’s only just begun.’

*

‘Shapers,’ Blade muttered disdainfully as he steadied his hand upon the ground to stand back up.

‘Hate cheatin’ shapers.’

The sleek, black-furred animal pounced with a furious roar as he staggered to his feet. It was on him before he could even react. They rolled around the ring, the beast sinking its red face into his shoulder and wildly ripping out chunks of flesh with its teeth. The downed man thrashed his legs wildly and the pitch of his scream rose an octave.

From within this frenzy, just as all looked lost, there was a sudden cacophony of slicing hisses and the menacing creature jolted away sharply, rolling and whimpering.

Blade rolled out from a cloud of orange wisp. A long line of daggers had erupted out of his skin, from his knee to his shoulder blade. Beside him, the wounded tiger melted into the sand and it was Klonola, instead, that was rolling on the floor, covered in her own blood.

He picked himself up and grinned widely, despite the fact that a bloody flap of skin was now hanging hideously from his neck. The line of daggers clanged to the floor as he moved, as though he was dropping body parts.

‘Payback,’ he growled as he staggered towards the bloody body of Klonola, reaching behind his back for his sword.

‘Cheatin’ shape shifters need t’be chopped up inta li’l pieces!’

Suddenly, amazingly, Nailer was back on his feet, although with a messy hole in his upper back! He charged at his enemy with a roar.

*

‘Truly, they are resilient beasts, Guri.’

*

Blade reacted quickly, twisting his waist and thrusting a handful of jagged knives at Nailer’s face, but the big man waved them away and blasted him backwards through a thick wall of glass.

Blade was scampering up again before the broken shards had even settled.

What followed was a blistering bombardment of attack versus attack. The pair danced around the arena, smashing the glass maze to pieces and summoning immense waves of energy from thin air. Blade was evasive and crafty, while Nailer, sturdy and unyielding; their blasts of energy glowed in vivid shades of gold and red.

The dizzying battle was breathtaking, but ended in a single moment. One of Nailer’s blasts seemed to obliterate straight through Blade’s shield and it sent him sailing away into the far wall, which he crashed headfirst into.

Nailer moved straight in, mercilessly, driving forward a red field of energy from his hand and reaching his brawny right arm back as a bone-like stalactite materialised into his closed fist.

Blade screamed a despairing ‘No!’ as Nailer reached up, his cold eyes staring down.

*

He had been slowly, desperately, inching his hand into his belt.

Blade yanked out a small, metallic object that slithered into his palm. It was a technology that looked very out of place in this carnal battle of blood and flesh and of blasts of colourful energy. He turned the pistol upwards, aiming it wildly.

There was a deep whine as the weapon discharged and Nailer became an instant statue, his stalactite raised high above his head, as Blade slithered from underneath.

‘Ha! Yer didn’ see it comin’ did’ya, yer dumb musclehead?’ he cackled.

Dusting himself down, and nonchalantly throwing the gleaming pistol to the floor, he climbed to his feet then gave a little jig of celebration.

‘Y’know yer problem Nailer?’ he cheered, kicking the pistol away, as if to hide it.

‘Y’only know t’play by the rules!’

Blade reached down and grabbed the big man’s head with both hands, which were bathed in a golden light.

‘Don’t y’agree?’

He lifted his thick neck then suddenly, violently, he blasted his skull back into the hardwood wall.

The thud of head on wood was hideous, as was the angle of Nailer’s broken neck. His cranium caved in and there was a torrent of blood.

‘I beat him!’ Blade shouted out into the arena, spinning around on the spot, his arms outstretched.

Nailer’s body slumped to the floor.

‘I beat ‘em both!’

He cackled gleefully, glancing around at the girl, still lying in a puddle of her own blood.

‘You hear me? I beat ‘em both!’

Dancing on the spot, he absently stroked a second brightly glowing pistol that had been secreted in his belt.

He stared off into the distance.

‘Oh, you wan’ me to finish the job? Is that it?’

He grinned down at what was surely the corpse at his feet before grabbing a handful of blood-clotted hair and dragging Nailer over to the enormous throne that was the centrepiece of the arena.

‘The Implosion Chamber!’

It was a majestic, glimmering throne with a tall, proud back and lofty armrests made of the purest silverwood; a contrast of sleek, dramatic lines and ivory bones that jutted untidily at peculiar angles. The throne sat within a metal cube, each edge supporting a transparent panel of energy that buzzed around its sides with power and life. The front panel was evidently a door, with a curved bone handle floating at waist height.

‘Can crush its victims ta dust, they say.’

On its roof sat a black bone propeller holding four golden globes of thick, blue liquid on its blades.

‘Never bin tested. Not on a ‘wolder!’

Around the sides of the extravagant chamber, at its diagonals, lay four shallow coffin-like beds, each filled with a nasty surprise of its own. One contained jagged shards of glass, another was a pit of metal spikes, wriggling blood-worms lined the third, and the fourth was a pool of purple acid.

‘No time like the present!’

With a wicked grin spreading across his face, he lifted Nailer by his broken neck and tossed him into the nearest coffin. The body clattered into the tomb and glass shattered and crunched around it. Nailer’s neck lolled onto his slumped shoulder.

‘S’game over, big man.’

With a pull of the bone handle he opened the chamber door, which swung smoothly shut behind him. He eased down into the silverwood throne, finding a satisfying posture.

A kingly posture.

The grinning man reached to his side, to the largest bone that protruded from the armrest; the activation lever.

The corpse’s eyes shot open.

Blade, preparing to pull down, roared in victory, but caught something in his peripheral vision and turned around to face a ten metre tall, golden-scaled dragon, which opened its fanged mouth and sprayed molten lava through the framework of the chamber so that it vanished in a cloud of fire and smoke.

There was a loud, slow clapping.

‘Excellent Show!’

A colourful voice from close by sounded impressed, but strangely unconcerned.

From beneath the giant clock, two men entered the arena, one standing head and shoulders above the other. The smaller one, a middle-aged bald man in a loose, royal blue tracksuit, strode casually into the carnage, clapping eagerly now. Only a Rivawolder would appear so unconcerned among such deadly slaughter. The other man, however, following close behind, had a guarded stride and an awestruck expression that suggested exactly the opposite. He was clearly an off-worlder. The giveaway was the snake-like headscarf that spiralled from his head down to his waist, covering his smart wear in a faint blue glow; his protective exo-suit. Behind him, a pair of shielders watched his back, wary and eyes low.

The off-worlder whispered under his breath, ‘Oh my! Oh my indeed!’

‘Cool moves K! The Gargus Dragon attack, I mean! I never thought you had it in you!’

The round man in the tracksuit jogged excitedly through the chaotic scene, passing Nailer’s lifeless body and a screeching Blade as he rolled around in flames.

Weavers were appearing now from the sides of the arena, sweeping up the broken walls of glass and reviewing the huge dents in the wood with quizzical faces.

The man in the tracksuit turned to face the dragon as it morphed back into the female form of Klonola. She was beaming with pride.

‘Oh it was nothing, Guri. Just a li’l somethin’ I was working on,’ she boasted casually with a dismissive wave of her hand.

A trio of stratagem analysts walked between them now, fervently discussing the recent battle in loud, informed tones.

‘They do try to tell you, don’t they, but still... I never believed they’d be that good,’ gasped the suited man, his glasses glimmering in the flames.

Squads of reselfers, cloaked in radiant light, crowded around the wounded Arc Stars and encouraged waves of golden energy into their battered bodies.

‘Perhaps, as Chief Overseer of the Arc, I should introduce you to the Arc Megastars,’ Guri Artpride chuckled with an excitable snort.

‘Who’s the suit?’ Klonola asked, fixing him her best glare, ignoring the reselfers crowding around her.

‘This is Mr Bryant, our latest resident NewsFly!’ Guri replied. ‘Just arrived from Teralex. Bit of a surprise really! He wasn’t expected until the end of the quarter. Replacing Gordon who’s been demoted…’ – he scoffed – ‘…to report on their war.’

Klonola pulled a face.

‘About time. That sour faced–‘

‘Hitched a lift with some Teralexian techies just to come and see the Arc Stars in training today.’

Loud banging and fierce blasts of concentrated heat saw the glass walls being somehow rebuilt, shard by shard, by solemn-faced weavers.

‘We all know your powers are strong…I mean, we know you’re special, even for Rivawolders…but, oh my, was I not expecting that!’

‘Yes, they are that good Mr Bryant,’ interrupted Guri, snorting again. ‘These are the most powerful of all Rivawolders…and the Arc owns them all. Our product is not a publicity stunt, contrary to certain accusations from certain news sources I shall not mention.’

He added a meaningful cough.

‘Each Arc Star has practised and polished their own unique powers to near perfection. There’s no need for trick photography or special effects as the Stars of the Arc are the genuine article, as you have now witnessed yourself. No 'wolder has ever before shaped into something as...elaborate as a Gargus dragon!’

‘Indeed. A great achievement, K,’ Nailer agreed, whilst lifting himself up from his glass tomb and then crunching his broken neck into the correct position.

He waved away his reselfers and limped forwards from the smouldering Implosion Chamber, which appeared to be undamaged by the recent inferno.

‘For what was supposed to be reversal training.’

Bryant found himself staring in wonder at the Arc Stars before him. Their bodies were healing so fast. Nailer’s face was already regaining its normal shape following his severe beating and his chest was mending, new flesh forming over his neatly repaired rib cage. His heart was visible for a few more seconds, pumping the blood around his body as the colour rushed back to his face, and then there was just skin reforming, layer on layer.

Nailer sighed and his tone was weary.

‘Mr Bryant. It looks like you have something to say.’

‘It’s just that…I didn’t think…But you’ve nearly healed already!’

Nailer smiled coyly, but Klonola tutted and rolled her eyes.

‘Oh please! Don’t tell me you got fooled by the after-show snippets? "A bloody Klonola suffers the pain of victory..." ’

She had put on her deepest mock-commentary voice.

‘ "...a broken Nailer hangs on to life!" Please! Didn’t Gordon tell you the way it really works?’

‘The damage isn’t real?’

‘Of course it’s real!’ she sniggered, rather condescendingly.

‘What is it about off-worlders in suits? The damage isn’t real! But that’s why we do the ‘views in the outer wings, gettit?’

Bryant looked blankly at her.

‘The fact is it’s not easy to harm a Rivawolder at an Arc stadium, Mr Bryant,’ Nailer said, standing next to Klonola now.

‘The arenas were deliberately built upon the planet’s spirit wells so our physical bodies are healing the instant they are damaged. Here, in this spirit well, we are near invulnerable.’

Guri had looked a little uncertain at their casual revealing of trade secrets, but now he beamed widely.

‘Off-worlders seem to be eternally confused with the concept, but I can guarantee you that it’s very simple. If your off-worlder body falls, it breaks. If you touch fire, you burn–’

Bryant frowned, feeling rather patronised all of a sudden.

‘–If you are run over, you are crushed, flooded with water and you drown, ripped apart and you die. And so on and so on. Your bodies are weak! But not so for us! Physical damage is nothing but an irritation and death – well death is just an inconvenience.

‘Our primary concern is ensuring that our Arc shows remain fresh and entertaining with great feats such as Klonola’s tremendous shape shifting. Another first for the Arc…and the ratings will be off the charts tomorrow night, what with Gargus dragons, Evil Wheels and of course, the spectacular Implosion Chamber!’

Suddenly the glass door of the smouldering chamber swung open and the charred body of Blade staggered out. He looked oddly comical.

‘What about my rate-in’s? What chance’d I have? Two ‘gainst one an’a flamin’ dragon? It’s a set-up for you cheats to m’prove yer records’, and in a seething undertone, ‘and yer rate-in’s.’

Nailer smirked.

‘Interesting viewpoint, chump, considering the whole purpose of reversal training is to familiarise our Self – not to experiment with unapproved Self-tech.’

He looked down at the small pistol jutting out of his belt, then accusingly at Guri who just held his hands up with a guilty smile.

‘...or to mess with the show’s set piece.'

Guri looked offended this time.

‘Oh, come on! We weren’t going to let that happen!’

'He would’ve sent Nailer deep into the spirit plain,' Klonola cried in disgust, but Blade just grinned, infuriating her.

‘...and ruined the whole show!’

'If K hadn't stopped you,' Nailer added, wiping the smile straight from Blade's charred face.

'It's almost as if you were trying to make a mess of Griffin's show.'

‘Ha! Griffin's show? You’ve no idea. Griffin don’t own the Arc no more. S’all a part’a Lord Grim’s master plan.’

For a second, his face revealed he’d said too much, but then he turned and headed uncomfortably to the exit, snarling.

‘At Dem’lition, I will defeat the dragon, and then you Nailer. I’ll make sure yer pay.’

Blade limped out of the arena, his clothes smouldering.

‘Ha! So even the rivalries exist off-screen,’ enthused the news reporter. ‘And I thought it was all fake!’

‘We are not all fake, Mr Bryant,’ Nailer retorted disapprovingly before turning and pulling Klonola away with him.

'Off-worlders!' he tutted loudly before moving in close to her.

‘The dragon, K?’ he grinned, speaking softly. ‘In reversal? Seriously?’

Klonola grinned back, mischievously.

‘Do we need to have another chat about resourcing?’ he added, eyebrows raised.

‘After beating that dorkus, I feel great, Nay! ...but – yeah, you’re right of course.'

‘Oh Mr Nailer,’ Bryant called from behind them just as they were about to leave the arena.

Above them, the single hand of the giant clock pointed down and to the right.

‘Whitefire – when is she expected to arrive?’

Nailer turned back, solemn again. The off-worlder reporter’s glasses glimmered in the daylight.

‘When you are the most powerful being in the entire Lone System, you don’t need to announce your travel plans to the world Mr Bryant.

‘Excuse me gentlemen, we need to rest.’

The two Arc Stars marched away from the ravaged arena and disappeared from their view.

*

‘We’ve crossed the Great Ocean,’ Whitefire called out.

Toben Keyman looked up anxiously at his caputant.

She was perched imperiously on a high stool, side-on to the cabin, and didn’t look up once from the wall-set terminal as she spoke.

‘Into the Outlands,’ she added, eagerly.

He was already feeling nervous. He didn’t need to be reminded!

The Bumbledrone was ferrying them to the Starsailors Hall to join the other Arc Stars. The large, wedge-shaped vehicle hovered low over the desert sands. They’d be there within the hour.

He scratched the light stubble that seemed to be a permanent feature upon his chin.

‘So get your game faces on.’

Another shiver of dread washed down his back. Game faces. It was an expression that she used often – just before something serious and scary was about to happen. He watched his team leader as her eyes, full of self-importance, flitted to and fro between the scattered sections of the terminal display, projecting from the wall. He could see the various items splashed around the screen and he recognised them to be, typically for Whitefire, work-related. There were carefully orchestrated battle stratagems overlapped by sprawling, secret messages between Chairman Griffin and the other senior managers, no doubt. He could see an animated geo-map of the Outlands, a holographic presentation of last night’s Minilition event, (of which Whitefire would inevitably deliver a clinical analysis to them, once they arrived), and, the midager cheerfully noted, secretly hidden in the bottom corner of the display was a comic strip representation of an ancient, epic battle between Ultimo and Arcus Aridius. Something that certainly wasn’t work-related!

The young Arc prodigy eased back into her seat with a sigh, her trademark ivory cloak draped dramatically around her. She was the youngest Arc caputant the company had ever owned. Her famous, distinctive black hair – an exaggerated ‘M’ shape – reached high up and flowed down her slender neck, accentuating the serious expression that so often adorned her bronzed face. Whitefire was the most famous entertainment figure in the entire system, known to almost every living soul, and arguably (the topic of literally millions of daily arguments all around the Lone System) the greatest Arc Star who had ever lived. For her young age she always looked very stern, even while relaxing, and most people were drawn not to her trademark ivory cloak or her distinctive, inimitable hair style, but to her severe demeanour and her sharp eyes, which seemed to contain an understanding of worldly matters that others could simply not even begin to comprehend.

Or at least, he considered objectively, that’s what she wants them to think.

Toben watched as her brow flickered as she studied the screen. He wondered why she always kept so busy, if she ever found the time to relax and wind down, if she ever gained enjoyment from such constant–

He nearly leapt out his skin. She was glaring directly at him!

His eyes snapped apologetically away and his face began to burn bright red. He stared forwards, head down, pretending to look back at his hands and the playing cards that sat within them.

Toben was sitting opposite Arc Star, Injexion (known to all as Jex) and had been playing a card game that he’d introduced to their Bumbledrone journeys – Brennan’s idea – called ‘Communion’. What was supposed to have been a quiet game of cards to pass the time had become somewhat boisterous, much to his despair.

In his peripheral vision, while his cheeks blazed, he could see the experienced Arc veteran, Yo-Haan Chtat, peacefully meditating in a makeshift hammock in the corner, seemingly unaware of all the noise. He suspected that Whitefire would prefer them to be following his example instead.

He would have to tell Jex soon.

Toben breathed out a breath he had not deliberately been holding as he noticed Whitefire’s attention had returned to the wall terminal, but his relief was short-lived as, with the picking up of a playing card, he felt a firm hand cup his shoulder and a loud roar of laughter erupted from Jex.

‘Ha! Three tricks an’a joker. Looks like I win again, dorkus!’

Jex celebrated, cackling in front of his gaming opponent, and holding out his palm triumphantly to accept a defeated handshake.

Toben automatically shook it, but a sudden indignation prompted him to speak.

‘I do still have one more turn though, Jex.’

‘So why ya shakin’ ma hand then?’

Toben, face blazing again, placed down one of his cards and was tossed a new one.

He registered the card with a long glance, swept back a thick curl of hair from his face and laid down his hand, speaking in a low voice.

‘Four tricks. Looks like I win again…dorkus!’

Jex theatrically waved his muscular arms in disbelief, the sleeves purposely rolled up to expose them. Toben had won five games in a row now and he could not believe his luck.

Yo-Haan, sitting cross-legged in the corner, looked up from his meditation and a flicker of a grin appeared before his wise face returned to silent contemplation.

‘No way!’

Jex stood up to look out the window at the desert landscape scrolling past.

‘I had nuthin’ but bad karma since we left NCC. I loathe these Outlands.’

He put such a theatrical emphasis in his words that Yo-Haan opened his eyes once again. This time his face was more animate and his balding head sprang forwards, swinging his long ponytail behind him, although his hammock remained somehow stationary.

‘These are my home lands, Jex. I could not feel more content now that we are travelling over the sands of the forgotten.’

Jex span round at the Outlander and smirked cheekily.

‘Yeah? So why you dozin’ old man?’

He whooped at his own impudence, but the Arc veteran just smiled warmly.

‘As you well know, the Chtat do not... doze – they contemplate. I was in the middle of contemplation.’

Jex sniggered.

‘Yeah, contemplatin’ to wake up now or take annuver five!’

He followed it up with a babbling laugh.

Yo-Haan chuckled and laid down, still cross-legged. Toben really liked the old Rivawolder. He never got upset by Jex’s abrasive sense of humour. Sneaking a glance, he noticed that even Whitefire was smiling discreetly now that the old man had joined the banter. She was holding a scan rod in her steady hands and studying its holographic projection.

He felt a weight off his chest for a rare moment. The day before an Arc event was always stressful. As soon as they landed Whitefire would be pushing them in training. She always trained her team harder than anyone else. As caputant of the Wildhawks, she made it her staunch duty to make certain that her battle squad was always a clean cut above the rest.

There was another loud cackle – Jex's laugh was sometimes painfully penetrating – and Toben had that look again. It was a look that commonly urged people to ask if he was all right, or to tell him not to worry so much about things.

'Maybe we should pack it up, Jex? Now we’ve reached the Outlands.'

'Why?' he yelled back. 'What else we gonna do? Hang ‘bout like herders?'

He desperately wanted to change the subject now, wary of the attention they were drawing, his voice becoming timid and withdrawn.

‘Just one day to the M.E.’

He practically whispered the acronym. M.E. It was Arc-talk for Main Event.

‘If we’d gone with the others we’d have been there by now.’

‘Eh?’ Jex exclaimed, not really listening.

‘Instead of having to do Minilition, I mean. Bit of a waste of time, don’t you think?‘

'We don’t prep the schedule to fit around you, Keyman,’ Whitefire snapped irritably, breaking their conversation. Her dark eyes burned fiercely.

‘There’s a lot of things going on higher up that you don’t need to know about.'

Toben turned bright red this time and nodded an 'OK'. He hadn't meant to criticise or complain. He particularly hadn’t meant for Whitefire to hear him!

Feeling ridiculous, he tried to cover his burning face with his hand, but Whitefire had already moved on and was talking to Yo-Haan.

‘Morning reversal is over. I finally got through to Flax. Nailer was booked in first session, private training. They’re finished up now.’

‘And K,’ Jex bellowed, peering up. ‘They won, right?’

With a knowing smirk, Whitefire nodded and it caused Yo-Haan to smile.

‘I expect it was a brutal battle, Whitefire.’

Jex jumped to his feet.

‘Jus like us brute’ly kickin’ the Lords' butts yest'day!’ he bellowed, grabbing Toben’s hand once again for another triumphant shake.

‘Thanks t’da magic man, Yo-Haan!’

The old man looked up, smiled and gave a sudden wink, but Toben was shocked.

‘Careful! Grim might hear you.’

‘You think I care ‘bout what that gutless, no-good, son of a–’

‘No,’ Toben defensively retorted, suddenly feeling singled out. He stood up.

‘Where ya goin?’ Jex shouted.

‘Just to prepare,’ he murmured.

Toben received a wallop on the back and left the cabin to the sounds of Jex’s good-natured insults.

*

Klonola lay on a bed pulled out from the wall while her personal reselfer perched on the end, washing her body with waves of revitalising healing power.

She sighed contentedly.

It had been half an hour since the Arc Star had battled and her wounds had healed significantly, but the physical appearance was only the dawn of the recovery process. The reselfing chambers were ideally placed in the catacombs, directly beneath the Starsailors Hall, which encouraged Self-power to flood back into her veins.

She knew the Outlands stadium was one of three in the desert continent. The original building had been constructed centuries before Arc combat was even dreamt of, back in the days of the Ancients, but since the Outland society had collapsed it had been converted and was now used solely by the Arc.

Klonola was just a part of the latest generation of Arc Stars. For hundreds of years they’d taken part in astonishing contests that were sold to an expectant public around the Lone System.

Arc combat was an especially brutal and violent form of entertainment where Rivawolders, (or ‘wolders, as they were also called), competed against each other in spectacular fights to the death, but no ‘wolder could be killed. They could be slain, they could be broken, but they were always able to travel in spirit form to one of Rivawold’s spirit wells, rebuild a new physical body and return to it.

Rivawold philosophers believed that this ability existed because of their symbiotic relationship with the planet itself. It provided them with a limitless natural ability, referred to as Self, that all ‘wolders could call on to enhance their abilities, to heal their bodies and to craft weapons and tools in the form of physical manifestations, Shadows of the Self, unique to their character and shaped by their mind.

The Arc possessed the strongest Rivawolders with absolute mastery of their Self-power – always one hundred – and they were treated as superstars. The Arc – as its owner, Chairman Griffin continually liked to remind people – was the greatest entertainment mega-industry in the known universe.

There was a shadow at the door.

‘Could you give us the room please, Paniola,’ Nailer sighed, striding into the lavish chamber and beckoning for the reselfer to leave.

She skitted away with a sheepish smile, while Klonola bade her a farewell. Nailer sat down in her place.

‘You were right, Nay,’ the girl said, brushing the flowing red hair from her face. ‘Totally drained! Gonna have at least another cycle with Pan.’

‘We’ll be mixing up our tactics tomorrow, K. We’ll discuss this evening.’

‘Should feel better after another cycle, but– Blade could’ve really ruined it today, couldn’t he? Guri needs to come down much harder on them. I mean, he could have taken you out of the–’

‘I don’t trust the Arc Lords as far as I can blast them,’ Nailer interjected angrily. ‘Blade was right. They may have something planned for our battle.’

‘Something planned? What do you mean?’

‘Just reading the signs. Grim’s confidence. The way that Minilition got organised.’

Klonola opened her mouth to speak, but Nailer had not yet finished.

‘And Guri. Allowing Blade to bring in illegal Self-tech, to interact with the Implosion Chamber set piece!’

She gawped.

‘And as for the off-worlder – flying into the grounds; walking into the arena during our private reversal set. This is the middle of the Outlands, not Arc Central! He shouldn’t be within ten k’s of this place. What was he thinking?’

Klonola sniffed loudly then waved her hand for him to leave.

‘I’m going to get another cycle...alone! I don’t like it when you’re this serious.’

Nailer stood and Klonola grinned.

‘We get enough of that from Whitefire.’

A deep, infectious chortle erupted from his belly.

‘True that, K. True that!’

He turned on his heel and left her. Shoulders back and neck high, he always smiled as he walked. Some thought that he looked smug and arrogant, but he didn’t pay them any attention. Whitefire and her battle squad would be joining them at noon and the thought cheered him. They’d been kept back for "Minilition"; last night’s warm up show at Arc Central before the major. These pre-event teaser shows were common, but this one had been organised in such a hurry after Grim Holloway had confronted Chairman Griffin, and Nailer, a naturally suspicious soul, distrusted his motives.

He sauntered along the long west wing corridor, heading towards the room he’d been provided.

Eventually the corridor ascended to the Great Lobby, in the south of the complex; a cavernous dome of marble and gold architecture that was brightly lit by several pools of sparkling electric blue Self-power etched into the ceiling and walls.

‘Shh! Look who it is!’

There was a hushed, spellbound silence as the few people, wandering carelessly upon the vast, silverwood floorboards, noticed the big ‘wolder striding through, towards the golden elevators.

‘Step back. Step back please,’ boomed the shielders, clearing the way.

‘Arc Star coming through!’

Suddenly a slow clapping escalated into a vigorous round of applause as the big man strode through. He nodded and waved although he recognised no one.

Above their heads, people peered down over the vortexways as they were speedily transported through the upper levels.

‘Just runnin’ n’ gunnin’, ‘wolders!’ Nailer boomed, waving a big hand in the air, and there were excited whoops at his popular catchphrase.

He reached the elevator and leaned over the lobby desk, partly to escape the rowdy crowd, but partly to catch the attention of a familiar face while he waited for it to arrive.

Miss Flax had been an ever-present at the Arc for the last fifty years, and as Head Administrator she interacted with all the Arc Stars on a daily basis. Without even looking up from her thick-rimmed glasses she responded to Nailer's slapstick gurn.

‘I’ve just spoken with Whitefire on the vine. They are on schedule, as expected. Arriving... shortly after midday. Communal reversal training is set to begin in ten minutes, although I suspect you shall be resting after your morning exertions. Is there anything else you would like, Mr Nailer?’

‘You have been most efficient once again, Miss Flax!’ Nailer smiled, stepping towards the elevator doors as they opened.

He saluted flamboyantly at the grinning ‘wolders that came out before heading up to the fourth floor, where he exited, walked down the corridor, opened the door to his room, lay flat on his bed, closed his eyes and sighed heavily.

*

The Starsailors Hall arena was pristine again.

The glass walls and sculptures had been re-erected, the singed and strewn sand had been renewed and, at its very centre, sat the majesty of the Implosion Chamber. There was no indication that its golden throne had been recently scorched by dragon fire nor that an epic battle had taken place around its glass walls.

Everything was quiet in the vast arena. There was not a sign of life, nor a flicker of movement.

On the enormous clock, high up on the hardwood wall, the single hand was heading inexorably towards midday.

4. The Twisted Spirit Plain

Nailer’s sleep was restless. In his mind he could see the entire planet from space. One hemisphere was entirely water, but in his dream the globe completed a lazy half turn and he could see the three island continents of Rivawold, huddled closely together on its equator.

Rivawold was a water world, almost entirely covered by its single liquid mass, not surprisingly referred to by Rivawolders as The Great Ocean.

He winced. He’d always feared to be this far from his home planet, not that he’d admitted such a weakness to anyone. But his instinct wanted him grounded.

One of the only real dangers for ‘wolders was to be slain whilst the body was off-world. In this circumstance the soul could become lost, forever searching for a spirit well to rebirth. Nailer was mightily relieved to find himself drifting back down.

There was a loud, striking bong that stirred the air. It was a bold sound that resonated from afar.

Comfortably lower now, there was a tranquil beauty to his home planet from this height and he marvelled at it, but then he realised that something was not right – he was shaking – and his descent began to quicken.

Now he could see the detail of the three landmasses quite clearly. His eyes switched immediately to the first island, New Central City – NCC – the city island of Rivawold. He loved his home country with a passion, with its beautiful gardens and ornate palaces, its busy, bustling city centre, and the wonderful Arc stadiums, with all their history and glamour. But he was aware he wasn’t at his home.

There was a second bong that struck more loudly than the first.

He was abroad and his bed was shaking.

His eye was drawn to the east and to the mysterious second island continent – the Outlands. This barren desert contained old secrets and dangers that time had long since eroded. Its people seemed to perhaps have an understanding of these riddles, but their way was to keep themselves to themselves, to keep their secrets, and they were commonly misunderstood by their NCC neighbours. Only in recent centuries had they allowed the building of safe shuttle track routes through the perilous sands and new stadiums to rival even some of NCC’s great masterpieces.

A third bong crashed through the air around him, shaking his body.

Nailer was falling even faster now, towards the Outlands, and didn’t have much time to see the third mysterious continent of Rivawold, to the south. A sprawling, shapeless cloud of an island, compared to the near circular shape of New Central City Island and the rectangular vastness of the Outlands. The perilous Dark Countries looked more like a monstrous squid from above, with tendrils spouting out of its central mass at sheer angles. These uncharted lands were fiercely avoided, even by Rivawolders, due to the density of its Self. It was proven impossible to retain a physical form in these unformed lands, and there were feral beasts that roamed in abundance. Nailer could only imagine what was beyond the walls of the three stadiums they’d forged along its north coast.

He stirred as a fourth bong struck the air.

As the hazy imagined forests, mountains and swamps of the Dark Countries disappeared beyond the southern horizon he realised he had fallen into the dusty desert’s Starsailors Hall – the exact place where his body was reselfing – and then, all of a sudden, he was back.

*

There was screaming from afar and an awful throbbing noise. It was not just his bed that was shaking, the walls were shaking – the whole stadium trembled.

Bong!

Five o’clock. Midday.

Nailer’s eyes snapped open and he listened intently for a moment. The throbbing noise was getting closer. He sat up quickly, deliberating his dream, deliberating that he didn’t normally dream, and then abruptly, whether he was still dreaming, but then the building alarm triggered, sending pulsating red shadows around the walls of his room, and he knew he was awake.

He jumped from his bed and sped to the door. He swept down the stairs in a series of controlled vortexes and emerged beside the entrance doors of the Great Lobby to observe the terrifying scene.

Hundreds of frantic ‘wolders were storming past him, all in the same direction, and then a thick, blue blob emerged from behind them. It oozed forwards, morphing right through the entire length of the far wall and reaching out with probing tentacles. They grabbed, wrapping around waists or snatching flailing limbs, and dragging victims deep into its consuming mass where a terrible series of rips silenced their terrified screams.

A trio of defiant Arc weavers fought back, but were promptly whipped up and pounded into the unforgiving marble ceiling before they too were dragged inwards, being ripped and torn apart.

‘Help me,’ wailed Miss Flax, the Arc's ever-present overseer, as blue tendrils of Self-power wrapped around her; the entity visibly twisting into her own Self.

‘Help me,’ she called again, oddly, as though time had repeated, but it was already too late. There was that obscene series of rips again and it had devoured her leaving nothing but her frozen statue, hanging in mid-air where she had tried to turn and run.

It surged forwards, unnaturally, greedily, into the lobby, twisting itself around each new victim as though stalking them, surrounding them, before tearing everything away with frightening ease. It had all happened so quickly.

Tendrils sprang out towards Nailer.

Instinctively he summoned a vortex, whipping himself and a handful of panicked ‘wolders from the lobby, through the glass doors behind them and outside into the bright glare of the midday sun.

Armed herders stormed passed them, assuming attack positions and firing screeching containment beams into the murderous mass, but it just grasped the rays before yanking the now-statuesque Rivawolders in with an unbearable crescendo of tearing.

Nailer’s group fell to the sandy desert floor, well clear of the building, and the big ‘wolder landed neatly on his feet. Beside him, a fellow Arc Star, Sixth Syn, clad in his distinctive silver knight’s armour, recovered himself and looked begrudgingly from his rescuer to the Starsailors Hall.

‘What kind of damned wraith is it?’ he growled.

Nailer’s eyes were wide in disbelief. A fifty-metre high, and twice as wide, dark blue shadow was climbing the walls of the Starsailors Hall.

The entire Arc stadium was being consumed.

‘That’s no wraith. We need to–‘

Suddenly, as some ran away, and others tried in vain to attack the thing, it exploded in a wave of terrifying energy, which swept across everyone in the scene instantly, freezing them into statues and slaying them all. The noise faded away into the desert sands, and suddenly there was complete silence.

*

Their bodies were demolished. Everyone within two kilometres of the Starsailors Hall was caught. Their skin was ripped into shreds, their bones smashed into fractured splinters and their internal organs imploded into pulp. The Rivawolders were broken into pieces, but worse was to come. For all the Arc Stars, their colourful entourage, their resident Outland hosts, the travelling Rivawoldan fans and reporters, and the nearby neighbouring Outland sand people, their spirits detached to go in search of a nearby spirit well and became instantly frozen as there was only one spirit well in this new world of the Reaper Sphere and it was damned; contaminated by a dark and sickly Twisted Self that could do nothing for them but tear away their Self-power altogether. The impossibility of their situation closed their minds and there was no hope among them, just a thousand comatose spirits of Rivawold, and the thing at the very centre of the Starsailors Hall was already stirring.

*

Nailer gazed across the scene of devastation. Hundreds of Rivawolders, captured in their final acts as though frozen in time. Left behind were the shadowy shells of their former selves, congregated around the Starsailors Hall like ghostly statues in a memorial ground.

Some had fallen to the floor, while others were still standing, held fast by the blue substance that consumed them. The gentle desert wind brushed against the eerie silence for minute upon minute.

What just happened?

The statue that was Nailer stared silently through the thick, blue mist. He was slain, his body was just a broken shell.

So why haven’t I detached? he thought, no words coming from his mouth.

He was a Rivawolder. It was natural for a slain spirit to detach and roam to a spirit well to reform, but something was holding him back; something intangible.

It had prowled around them like a predator.

He tried to force his spirit free, confused to find himself frozen inside a tomb of a dead body.

Its Self had wrapped around them.

He calmed himself down and concentrated. He’d made a career by focusing his superior Self-power.

I’ll be damned if I can’t…

Something interrupted his focus as though recognising his defiance. There was a distant mocking purring that seemed to emanate from every direction. Something alive, something aware, was in there with them.

And its power had been overwhelming; undeniable.

It made him recall the awful ripping sound that had accompanied each attack. Every time it had touched someone it had stripped their Self away.

What had it done to them?

He had witnessed the creature’s own Self-power tangling with their spirits, ravaging their Self, twisting around their–

–twisting around their Self energy.

And devouring it...

Twisted Self.

In a rather frantic moment of focus he suddenly found his spirit stumbling into the desert sand in front of him.

Only it was no longer hot sand, but a carpet of golden cloud, and his hands and feet sank smoothly into the spongy material before settling.

Nailer stood up to his full height in an unnatural movement that defied gravity. After all, he was now a weightless ghost on a sea of cloud. Behind him, precisely where he had been standing, was a scattering of rocks from where he had finally detached.

Nailer had entered the spirit plain.

The big ‘wolder frowned, or at least he assumed his face was frowning. He held his spectral hand out in front of him and twisted it one way then the other. He had never seen the spirit plain in such clarity. The spirit plain: The place that was no place. It coexisted with the physical plain, but it was beyond comprehension. It was a dream; it was ethereal. But here, he could see, he could feel – and he could think.

I need to reform.

The feeling of rebirth, of reforming a physical body, was comforting and inspiring, like the