"So this ruby…"

"The Rubercautous Amulet of Tri-Goon," the man corrected immediately, straightening his robe.

Jafar blinked. "Really."

"Yes. If one is to speak of something, one should use the correct terms," he said, voice rising with theatrical pride. "Especially in situations where the unknown is ever present!"

Jafar smirked. "You're just hype because you learned a new language."

"Well, yes, that too," he admitted with a grin. "But my knowledge is invaluable." He tapped the worn notebook tucked under his arm. "Without this, you'd be a puddle, my fair Blood Prince."

"That name's not gonna stick," Jafar muttered. "You can stop trying. Besides, Red Prince sounds better. And you're the only Outlander—"

"Outlander," He interrupted.

"What?"

"Outlander," the young man repeated, testing the word.

Jafar put a hand up. "Doesn't stick now, but calling us that instead of 'isekai'd people' or 'otherworldly types' sounds… cooler."

The scholar paused, considering. "Hmmm. Yeah, not bad. Outlander. That's your first good idea."

"My second, actually," Jafar shook his head, fighting a laugh. This man and knowledge were a match made in heaven—an endless ramble of facts and theories that somehow always proved useful. Annoying, yes. But never worthless.

Jafar had recently escaped the Blood Realms—if "escaped" was even the right word. Imagine if Caelid and Hell had a miscarriage that somehow survived. That was the Blood Realms. A place of molten rivers and screaming skies, where flesh grew on stone and time forgot to move in straight lines.

He'd clawed his way through it for what he guessed was five years—though in truth, it could've been ten or fifty. Time there didn't pass so much as drip, thick and uneven. Either way, he'd survived. Conquered, even. And now, for the first time since leaving Earth, he'd run into another human.

That alone should've been impossible. Every other sentient thing he'd met was a native—and usually hostile enough that introductions ended in blood. But this man was different. Insane, yes, but helpful. He'd saved Jafar's life, which earned him a cautious kind of gratitude.

He wore a weather-stained blue cloak that looked like it had survived a dozen worlds. His brown hair was a perpetual mess, his eyes the color of wet sand—steady but tired. About Jafar's height, but leaner, built for running and thinking instead of fighting. Jafar had wondered how he hadn't been eaten yet, but quickly learned that brute strength wasn't the only way to survive. There were other forms of power: knowledge, intuition, preparation.

They'd been traveling together for about a year—though here, that could mean anything. Time in the outer realms had a way of stretching, folding, and laughing in your face.

Still, it worked. They ventured into the unknown, claimed relics, and pieced together the puzzle of the multiverse one artifact at a time. The man loved to talk about it too—how realms stacked and bled into each other, how hopping between them without "syncing" your body was like surfacing too fast from a deep dive. Jafar hadn't fully believed him until he almost tore his lungs apart trying to leap through a wormhole without the right prep.

"Your story would've been very anticlimactic," the man had said at the time, deadpan, while handing him a breathing type mask. "Trust me, nobody wants to end on 'and then he exploded at the finish line.'"

Jafar hadn't laughed, but he appreciated the honesty.

He'd asked the young man's name once, and the stranger had just grinned. "You can call me C—-" he'd said something ridiculous.

So Jafar called him C.

And, to his annoyance, the name stuck.

Now, he and C were on the verge of acquiring an artifact they planned to use as an offering for a god they'd… found. Yes, found. Whole different story—long, confusing, and at least partly C's fault.

Right now, they needed this item. And according to C's notebook and whatever eldritch math he used to calculate confidence, he was eighty-eight percent sure it would help.

Only issue? The item was located deep inside Daqui territory.

The Daqui were one of the few sentient and structured species Jafar and C had come across in these outer realms—realm names still pending, since none of Jafar or C names stuck. The Daqui operated like a twisted Roman Empire: banners, marble cities, orderly roads, and an unholy amount of discipline. Their ruler, apparently, was named Vari.

C had spent the last few days gathering intel. According to him, the Daqui prided themselves on culture and aesthetics—they'd brought human-like traditions to the realm. They even looked human, more or less, if humans had smooth gray skin veined with yellow light. And they loved gold. Loved it so much they'd transmuted half their forests and hills into the stuff. The result was a landscape of metallic leaves, golden bark, and glowing dust that shimmered under the moons like a dream—and choked like poison.

Jafar rubbed his hands together as they crouched near a ridge overlooking the city's outskirts. "So. What's the plan?"

C's eyes lit up instantly. "Ah! Glad you asked. So—based on the patrol rotations I observed from the western parapet, and the wind direction shifting every four hours, we'll need to scale the aqueduct around dusk. From there, we can bypass the southern watchtower—because, you see, their guard rotations are staggered by—"

"So," Jafar interrupted, "we're going in through the sewer."

C blinked, offended. "That sounds way less exciting when you say it like that."

"Yeah, but it's accurate."

C sighed, closing his notebook with unnecessary drama. "Fine. The sewer. You absolute philistine."

Jafar smirked. "Eighty-eight percent sure this'll work, huh?"

"Eighty-eight point three, thank you very much. The difference matters."

"Sure it does," Jafar muttered, checking the edge on his blade. "Let's just hope it's the clean kind of sewer."

"It's not," C said immediately.

"Fantastic."

And with that, they set off—two Outlanders sneaking into a golden empire's underbelly to steal a relic for a god they probably shouldn't have found.

Sneaking in was the easy part.

C had a concealment ability that cloaked both of them in a thin shimmer of warped light—something between stealth tech and spiritual bending. They couldn't call it magic, though. Jafar had made that mistake once. C had spent the next six hours explaining—at lecture volume—how "magic" and "whatever the hell they used now" were entirely different energy matrices according to some man with blue eyes, in a ruin that may or may not have existed. Ever since, Jafar avoided the M-word altogether. It wasn't worth the migraine.

Anyway, the sneaking.

The city above was beautiful in a sterile, golden sort of way. Its glow made the horizon look aflame, and even Jafar—who had seen enough horror to be numb—had to admit it had charm. They both half-considered stopping just to look at it. But the streets were too clean, too quiet, and too Daquian—Jafar's term, which C had begrudgingly written down as "acceptable".

The place was art, opulence, and arrogance welded together. Also, the Daquian were the only "race" allowed to walk the streets. No other species in sight. The message was clear: outsiders weren't welcome.

The sewer entrance wasn't hard to find, tucked behind a marble shrine and hidden under the illusion of running water. The hard part was being in the sewer.

It stank—but not of waste. The Daquians, it seemed, didn't even defecate. No, this stench came from death. The tunnels were lined with corpses. Not Daquian corpses—at least, not mostly—but of a lesser race C had dubbed the Bouln.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

"Interesting species,'" C muttered, jotting notes by the dim light from his wrist lamp. "Though 'interesting' may be generous."

Jafar waded behind him, his black-and-green cloak slicked to his legs. He didn't have shoes—the robe had been ripped halfway up his calves—but the muck didn't faze him. After the Blood Realms, this was practically a spa.

The Bouln, small and hunched, had wide, blank eyes that glowed faintly green. They kept to the shadows as the pair passed, flinching at the faint pulse of Jafar's aura. Aura. Not "Ryunic Field" or "Conceptual Resonance." Just aura. Jafar refused to rename basic things for C's taxonomies.

Still, the sight of the corpses made grim sense.

"This isn't waste disposal," C whispered, crouching by a crumbling grate. "It's a dumping ground."

Jafar glanced up as another body slid down from a chute above, thudding wetly beside them. "A burial site," he said.

"Execution pit," C corrected. "Gladiator disposal, if I had to guess. Vari's empire thrives on combat rituals. Losers fall. Quite literally."

The next corpse proved his point—a Daquian, not a beast. Limbs torn but not severed, eyes still glowing faintly. A few Bouln crept closer, sniffed, then tore into it with hollow hunger.

C didn't flinch. He flipped another page, his pen moving in furious loops. "Note: the Bouln appear domesticated, likely slaves. Collars indicate containment protocol—bound to this level, possibly via curse or embedded code." He took a sample of the golden fluid pooling beneath the corpse, muttering to himself.

Jafar watched him, half-amused, half-uneasy. There were times C felt less like a traveling companion and more like a data-hungry automaton with ADHD and god-tier curiosity. But Jafar had learned it was faster to let him work. Trying to stop him meant losing twice as much time.

"You done yet?"

C glanced up, his face a mix of focus and childlike thrill. "Never. But this will suffice for now."

"Good," Jafar said, gripping his weapon. "Let's get going then..."

And somewhere above them, through layers of gilded streets and sanctified blood, the Daquian drums began to thunder.

The closer they got to the exit or what seemed like an exit, the heavier the drums became—deep, resonant thuds that made the muck ripple around their ankles.

Jafar's eyes glowed faintly, cutting through the dark with streaks of red-black light. It wasn't quite night vision, not quite aura-sight—something between. C had already decided he'd study it later, possibly while Jafar was asleep.

"There," Jafar said, pointing ahead.

Down the corridor, a faint shimmer broke through the darkness. A golden platform hovered just above the sewer's sludge, its light reflecting against the walls like sunlight. Two soldiers stood on it—Daquian, by their build. Their armor was a regal mix of black and gold, engraved with script that pulsed like veins. Each carried a spear wrapped in silver runes that flared faintly in rhythm with the drums.

C squinted. "Interesting. Either they're here to monitor the disposal chute—highly inefficient use of manpower—or they're performing a purification rite to keep the Bouln population from rising too high. Or…" He tilted his head, notebook half-open. "They're guarding something."

"Or," Jafar said, rolling his shoulders, "they're just in the way."

C looked at him over the top of the notebook. "You're suggesting violence as a solution again."

"I'm suggesting violence as the fastest solution."

C sighed, half in resignation, half in amusement. "You know, I can't argue with results. And while I could list at least seven reasons why this is a bad idea—"

"—you're gonna say yes anyway," Jafar finished, lips twitching.

C weighed the options for all of two seconds. "Sure," he said finally. "Just… try to make it educational."

"Always do," Jafar said, stepping forward, aura beginning to hum around him like a rising storm.

C clicked his pen. "Wonderful. Let me get my notes ready."

The soldiers' heads turned toward the sound of feet sloshing through the murky water—too late.

Both their heads were off before they could react.

Jafar moved like a ripple—two steps, two flashes of red light—and the bodies never had the chance to understand they were dead. Their helmets clattered down the golden platform a heartbeat later, he held their severed heads, which he caught easily by the hair.

He turned, smirking at C. "Handled."

C opened his mouth, ready with some scolding or academic observation—probably both—

when the entire tunnel vibrated.

A low boom rolled through the sewer, followed by the rising wail of horns. Lights along the corridor flared bright gold, one after another, like an artery lighting up from within.

Jafar glanced down at the heads in his hands, the grin fading.

"…Whoops."

He dropped them with a wet thud. The faces that stared up at him weren't Daquian—too gaunt, too sunken, eyes still faintly glowing green. Bouln.

"Clever ones, these Daqui," he muttered. "Using their slaves as decoys."

C pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something in three different languages that all sounded like "I told you so."

Above them, the drums changed rhythm—no longer ceremonial. Now they pounded in warning.

C looked up. "So, same plan as before?"

Jafar rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. "Yeah. Kill whoever shows up next."

C sighed. "Fantastic. Let me get my battle notebook."

C flipped open his second notebook—this one bound in cracked blue leather, edges rimmed with frost. The pages shimmered as runes pulsed alive under his fingertips.

A circle of light spun open around him, and from it rose three hulking figures of translucent ice. Each was humanoid, but their arms curved into sickles that steamed in the sewer's heat. They exhaled mist, the air around them freezing solid.

"Guard pattern four," C commanded.

The ice creatures spread out wordlessly, their forms humming with controlled ferocity. Then C crouched and began to draw sigils into the muck—four wards, precise and geometric, each line carved with almost obsessive neatness.

"Would you hurry up?" Jafar muttered.

His sword pulsed in response to his mood, black and red lightning crawling up the blade like veins coming alive. The sigils inside his eyes shifted, rotating through patterns. The air buzzed with pressure, humming low and violent.

And then—before either of them could move—something rolled across the golden platform.

A small orb, smooth as glass, glowing faintly from within.

Both of them froze.

"Uh," C said, blinking, "what's—"

A flash of light swallowed the rest of his words.

Jafar blinked once, twice. The damp sewer was gone. The stench replaced by the dry sting of hot air and the echo of a thousand voices. He blinked up—light stabbing his vision.

He was standing in the center of an arena.

Gold and black stretched around him in impossible grandeur: obsidian walls veined with molten gold, rising in tier after tier, a perfect circle of divine architecture. Runes carved into the stone flickered like living script, feeding energy into the air itself. Above, banners of golden silk rippled in unseen wind.

And all around him—thousands of Daquians packed into seats that shimmered like metal. The crowd was alive, roaring, cheering, chanting in a language he didn't understand.

The sound hit him like a physical force. The ground itself trembled under their voices.

"Well," Jafar muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "shit."

High above, a figure in red and yellow waved from a gilded platform, robes billowing like a banner. The announcer's voice boomed through the arena. He shouted something about honor, victory, sacrifice—probably the usual pre-fight nonsense.

Jafar tuned him out.

He'd gotten the gist. Crowd. Blood. Show. Easy.

He glanced around but didn't see C anywhere. No ice monsters either, which meant his eccentric companion had probably been dumped into another arena—or worse, the stands. Either way, C had survived far worse than this long before they met. He'd figure it out.

For now, Jafar had a show to put on.

He rolled his neck, stretched his arms, and started doing his best "gladiator movie" impressions. He held his sword out to the crowd, pointed at the ceiling, and gave a slow, theatrical spin. Then he knelt briefly, scooping up a handful of black-gold dust, letting it pour through his fingers as he murmured, "Are you not entertained?!" Then shouted as he threw it in the air.

The Daquian crowd blinked at him, confused for a beat—then, as if on cue, erupted into cheers.

A grin broke across his face.

He should've been terrified, dropped into the center of a golden empire's bloodsport with no idea what monster they'd throw at him. But fear had burned out of him years ago in the Blood Realm. The place had melted everything soft inside him and left behind only the hunger—the thrill of survival, the rush of the fight.

And honestly? It felt good to feel something like that again.

He raised his blade, red-black lightning crawling up the steel, the sigils in his eyes spinning into focus.

"Bring me your finest challenger!" he bellowed.

The crowd didn't understand the words, but they didn't need to. They understood tone, the swagger, the invitation to violence. The silence that followed lasted a heartbeat—then broke into a thunderous roar.

Drums thundered again. Gold gates creaked open across the arena.

Jafar smiled.

Gold light spilled from the massive doors like liquid.

Wow, so original, Jafar thought, squinting at the dramatic reveal. But the humor faded the moment he felt it—an aura heavy enough to make his instincts snap to attention. Every nerve went taut.

"Oh, big boss already?" he muttered, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Good. Sneaking around was boring. Practical, but boring."

The figure that stepped through the glare moved with deliberate grace. His sight adjusted, and his eyes told him what his senses already suspected. A woman. And not a minor threat either—the kind of presence that bent the air around her.

The crowd fell silent. The announcer's voice lifted again, this time not barking but singing—a hymn, low and haunting, answered by the boom of drums. Jafar exhaled, rolling his shoulders as lightning began to crawl faintly across his sword.

"Oh," he murmured to himself. "Not a big boss. A final boss. Nice. Guess I'm getting respect."

He'd pretend that was the reason anyway—it was better than admitting he might actually be in danger.

The woman's armor caught the light: white trimmed with gold, immaculate and ceremonial. Her helmet bore wing-like crests that framed her head, and a black cape rippled behind her with every step. In her hands she carried a long spear—its haft obsidian, its tip pure gold that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat.

Her stride was elegant, disciplined, powerful—and, Jafar admitted under his breath, she had a hell of a silhouette. He bit his lip, half amused, half impressed.

They stopped ten meters apart. She looked him up and down, then said something sharp and clipped in a language he didn't understand—but the tone was definitely an insult.

"Yeah, I bet you're ugly under there," he shot back.

She froze mid-step. "…You speak English?"

Jafar blinked. "Holy shit, you speak English? You're an Outlander! "

"A what?"

"Never mind," he waved it off. "The term hasn't caught on yet, but—"

"Doesn't matter." Her voice hardened, precise and cold. "You are the enemy. If you amuse me, I might let you live."

"Bitch, what?"

Her eyes narrowed behind the visor. "Don't call me a bitch."

"Your English sounds weird," Jafar said, squinting. "Never mind—you're not an Outlander."

She laughed then, a quick, bright sound that echoed across the goldstone. "I haven't had to speak it in years. And if that's your stance…" She lifted her spear and spun it effortlessly into position, smirking. "Then this will be fun."

Her stance did look cooler. Annoyingly cooler. Jafar grinned anyway. "Yeah, we'll see about that."

Above them, a glowing sigil appeared—a timer, probably, or an indicator of how much longer he had to live. He couldn't read the script, so he ignored it.

He watched her. She watched him. The tension built, silent and electric.

Then she moved.

And so did he.

"Show me something interesting, BITCH!" he yelled, grinning.

Her aura detonated, blinding and golden, shaking the arena.

The crowd screamed in ecstasy.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.