"So the Occulted Moon and the Blood Prince went separate ways."

"Yes. And orders are to accelerate the timeline. Take the five of them and head for the Prince."

"You sure? You think you can take down the others alone? You're crafty, but power—"

"Power isn't why we were chosen. You have the blessed artifact. It will suffice to hold them back, maybe even slay both Jujisn if you're capable. I already know where the weak link lies. If all else fails, I'll make sure the Blood Prince's forces are crippled."

"Very well. We'll head out. May the Divine favor you."

"As for you, Cale."

————

The primordial golden venom still loomed and crawled closer, the fighting in the region had begun to die down—because there were fewer left to fight. Hope should have been extinguished by now. Yet in the city of Avvereen, a stubborn spark still flickered.

The city hung suspended over an endless pit, as though the world itself had been hollowed out. Massive platforms, stacked like shelves in a warehouse, hovered in layers over the abyss—each supporting clusters of curved, seamless buildings that glimmered with residual light. Six colossal waterfalls plunged from unseen heights into the dark below, their torrents catching the fading glow of the sky until they looked like stars feeding a god's unquenchable thirst.

Bridges of milky, liquid light arched from one platform to another, trembling faintly with each footstep that passed. Once, this place had belonged to beings of pure element and machine—a civilization that had fused cybernetics with aura until it blurred the boundary between worshipper and weapon.

Now, refugees and remnants filled its tiers. And at a small café built on the rim of the upper platforms—where meals were given freely, and laughter had started to sound almost natural again—a pair sat together.

A sith lord and a woman with golden eyes and silver hair, dressed simply in a green hoodie and black shorts.

To anyone passing by, they looked like a long-standing couple, or perhaps two friends who had seen too much of the same pain to part ways easily. But to anyone who could overhear their conversation… it would sound like madness.

After what felt like an eternity of walking in circles, arguing, and rejecting every food stall in sight ("too spicy," "too fancy," "too many eyeballs in the soup"), they finally found a small spot tucked between two flickering holo-signs. The food was free, the seats were solid, and Destiny's complaints—miraculously—stopped.

North counted that as a win.

They ate. They talked. They got carried away.

Their "conversation" started as a recap and ended somewhere between a philosophical debate and a therapy session. The main points, at least, were clear enough.

Unravelings were basically the multiversal version of paradox migraines—two versions of the same being syncing up across timelines, forcing reality to pick one. Two entities can't exist at the same time, or in other words they couldn't be themselves again. If they do? The universe compensates. Violently.

Ascending, as Destiny pieced together from Vari's words and her own memory, was the next stage of existence—a state where you overcome who you are and become a new person while still being yourself. Apparently, one Jujisn had already done it. North didn't like that. At all. He wanted to be the first.

They spoke about the visions. About watching their past selves fight. About how ridiculous C was and if they had a Jujisn. After a while, Destiny admitted it was strangely satisfying seeing Vari fight directly—no poison, no deceit, just raw Ryun mastery and precision. She even sounded proud.

North, meanwhile, thought about Jafar. That reckless, blood-drunk brute who tore through everything like pain didn't exist. There were moments he could almost feel Jafar's pulse still inside him. He'd seen enough of his aura-farming days to know this fight had been different—more desperate, more alive. That Jafar wasn't as strong as North was now, but he was freer.

Made sense, he and Destiny were of their gods, not the gods themselves. The distinction was clearer now.

She caught him staring.

He looked away.

They both sighed.

It didn't have to be said.

They'd definitely slept together. A lot.

It was the strangest intimacy imaginable—knowing not only what someone looked like, but how they moved, how they breathed, what they dreamt. Knowing their hopes, fears, and yes, the exact way they liked to be touched.

Still, they'd learned more in one shared memory than in all their fights combined. The Unraveling made sense now. The visions had purpose. And North, for once, felt like he was catching up.

He leaned back, smirking.

"Figured this'll be the line and sinker huh?"

He groaned. "Oh come on!"

"I'll stop. That wasn't too fair," Destiny said, smirking as she leaned back in her chair. "Of course, teasing you is far too enjoyable to abandon entirely," she said with playful poise. "Across timelines, eras, and realities, it seems one universal truth remains consistent—mocking you is delightful."

North raised a brow, grinning. "You're a piece of work."

"Thank you."

He shook his head, fighting a smile. "Alright, then. Let's play five quick questions."

She arched an eyebrow. "How old are you?" she cooed.

"Older than you, probably," he said through a mouthful of food. "But we've been talking about other people's timelines and—"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," she cut in, wrinkling her nose.

He swallowed dramatically. "Anyway," he said, leaning forward, "five quick questions. I ask, you ask. We both answer. Maybe by the end of it, you'll actually decide if I'm worth your time."

Destiny tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. He was really trying. Not scheming, not probing—just trying to connect. Jafar would've never done that without her proving her worth first.

After a moment, she smiled faintly and rested her chin on her palm.

"Fine," she said. "You get your questions, Blood Prince. But only because this version of you is… mildly charming."

He grinned. "I'll take mildly. What's your name?"

Destiny blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question.

She tilted her head. "…Excuse me?"

"I'm serious," North said, setting down his drink.

She hesitated, then sighed softly. "B'Raixa Destiny Wiltmen."

He smiled. "I'm Jonathan North."

"I didn't ask."

He laughed. "Your turn."

She thought for a moment, her golden eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Why do you want to team up?"

He smirked. "Easy. Besides the forced friendship thing, I think us banding together gives us a better chance at, you know, not dying horribly."

She nodded slowly, hiding her smile behind her glass. "Practical answer. I approve."

From there, the questions lost their edge. They drifted between teasing and honesty—small revelations and sarcastic jabs, weaving together. At some point, the conversation stopped being about strategy or cosmic burdens. The café's hum faded to the background, replaced by laughter, eye rolls, and little moments of quiet understanding.

For a moment—just a moment—they both forgot the weight pressing down on them.

Not fully. Not forever.

But in that fragile, borrowed peace, it felt like catching up with an old friend you didn't realize you'd missed.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

———

"So you from Philly?" Ria asked, swirling her drink with that sly little grin.

"And you from New York—knew I loved somethin' 'bout you," Jamal shot back, grinning wide. "Explains the attitude."

She laughed softly, the sound rich and confident. "I thought everyone else would be a video game character. Even though Cawren said otherwise. He can be such a know-it-all sometimes."

Jamal leaned forward, elbows on the balcony. "Man, tell me about it. Soon as I woke up here, I had no damn clue what was goin' on. Just—boom—some six-armed lizard thing swingin' at me. Ain't even get a damn tutorial."

"That sounds about right," she said, smirking. "At least you got to fight. I…" she took a slow sip of her drink, eyes distant for a second, "…was kidnapped. During an OnlyFans live stream."

Jamal blinked. "You lyin'."

"I wish I was." She gave a humorless chuckle. "Some slob of a man thought he could 'keep me'—called me his olive like we were in some relationship."

"Damn…" Jamal said, jaw tightening. "So what happened to him?"

Her lips curved into a sharp, dangerous smile. "I had him killed."

Jamal froze for half a second, then grinned wide. "Fuck yeah!" He raised his glass high. "See, that's what I'm talkin' about! Ain't no way you goin' out like that. Real queen energy."

She clinked her glass against his, laughing.

"So what brings you here?" Jamal asked, leaning forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "You mentioned an associate."

Ria grinned, her fangs just barely visible when she smiled. "He went into the pit to conquer some quest," she said with a teasing lilt. "I've been trying out a few things myself, but when I saw this place had a club, I couldn't resist. Then I saw you hyping the vibe, and I thought—'Oh, he's definitely an Outlander.'"

Jamal smirked. "Shit, if the team cool with it, maybe you and your boy could roll with us. I'm with two other Outlan—" He stopped mid-sentence.

Ria's head tilted slightly. "Hmm?"

A cold click cut through the music. Jamal had his gun pressed against her temple.

"You bad as shit," he said quietly, "but this won't fly, blood."

Instead of panicking, she smiled.

"Oh, you a freak," she purred, leaning just a fraction closer.

Jamal's jaw tightened. "Don't play with me."

"I'm still learnin' my abilities—I ain't used to this shit."

"Sounds like a you problem."

Her voice softened, but her eyes glimmered like a cat's in the dark. "Then you might wanna lower that thing before you find out the hard way what I can do."

He didn't flinch. "You said you had an associate. Cawren, right?"

"Don't worry about him," she said, swirling the liquid in her glass. "He's off finishing a quest, like I told you. Once he's done, we'll be leaving."

Jamal kept the gun steady a moment longer, reading her. Then, slowly, he lowered it.

"You're not even gonna apologize for whatever the hell that was?" he asked.

Ria smiled again. "It can't be that bad. You didn't pull the trigger."

He sighed. She wasn't wrong.

They sat in silence for a few beats before Jamal exhaled sharply through his nose. "Aight," he said finally, standing. "I'm gonna grab us some drinks."

As he walked toward the bar, he glanced back. Ria—Alesha—whatever she was calling herself—was watching him, that same predatory grin never leaving her face.

He made a mental note to warn Crisper. This woman was dangerous.

But damn if she wasn't fine as hell.

As Jamal reentered the club, the bass from the club's music hit like a pulse through the floor. He balanced the two glowing drinks easily, repeating the same weird words Ria had said to the bartender just to order them. The bartender said something—probably about paying—but Jamal just kept walking. If they had a problem, they'd come find him.

He was halfway across the floor when his instincts flared.

A hooded figure was moving through the crowd with intent. No dancing. No hesitation. Just that steady, deliberate gait of someone who was about to start some shit.

His gaze followed the figure straight to Crisper—still gloating at the card table, surrounded by a half-circle of locals who looked equal parts frustrated and impressed.

"Damn it," Jamal muttered, dropping the drinks.

The figure reached inside their cloak, and in one blur of motion, steel flashed—

Crisper turned first. Her hoodie rippled as her UI flared to life, materializing an MP30 from a burst of light.

"Not today, bitch."

BLIZZBLIZZBLIZZZ—

Gunfire tore through the beat.

Jamal dove sideways, pulling his Switch with a practiced flick. The world around him slowed for a heartbeat—just long enough to line up his shot.

BREKKKABREKKABREKKA—

The hooded assassin spun, their sword deflecting bullets midair with inhuman precision. Sparks and trails of light cut through the dark haze of the club. Screams erupted as dancers scattered, the floating cubes of the dance floor glitching and rearranging from the energy bursts.

Then—two more entered.

One wielded a whip covered in glowing thorns, cracking it across the air and slicing through tables like paper. The other spun a massive circular blade—a steel ring rimmed with teeth—its centrifugal hum drowning out the music entirely.

Crisper ducked, firing bursts toward the whip-user while diving over a broken table. "Three of them?! Jamal, what the hell did you do!?"

"I ain't even start with nobody yet!" he shouted back, letting off a burst that almost split the nearest assassin's mask.

The thorns lashed around, cutting civilians down. The club floor ruptured—glass, light, and blood filling the air. Natives screamed as chaos consumed the place.

Bodies hit the ground—some by accident, some by design. Every flash of gunfire lit up panicked faces.

Crisper vaulted over a table, reloading midair. Jamal slid across the floor beneath her, reloading his weapon with a grin. "Guess the party really turned up."

"Focus!" she yelled, firing another burst.

He laughed, snapping his gun up. "Oh, I'm focused. I love this shit!"

The beat had long died, but the rhythm of battle—gunfire, screams, and shattering glass—was music enough.

Jamal exhaled, feeling the rush hit—the bass of the fight syncing with the pulse in his chest. His Ryun flared around him in faint streaks of orange and deep red, the air trembling like the thrum of a stadium crowd.

He dribbled once.

A phantom ball of pure Ryun spun in his hand. Each bounce echoed like thunder. His aura rippled outward, hypnotic—every pivot, every shoulder feint, every step creating afterimages that layered over each other like a looping highlight reel.

Crossfade.

The world blurred—three Jamals at once, weaving through incoming strikes.

The whip cracked—he ducked, sliding low. The metal ring spun toward his neck—he twisted, vanished, reappeared behind its wielder in a blink of distorted light. The phantom ball hummed as he pivoted, channeling Ryun into his hand.

"Hold this, blood."

BLAM!

The ball burst point-blank. The metal-ring wielder convulsed as the energy tore through him. Jamal shoved the Switch's barrel between the assassin's teeth, and fired again.

The headless body hit the floor before the spent Ryun shells did.

The phantom ball bounced once beside him—then faded, the sound of the dribble echoing long after it vanished.

He turned just in time to see the hooded swordsman flashing forward again—faster this time, blade dragging arcs of blue sparks. Jamal dropped low, crossing over himself, splitting between two micro-realities. The sword cleaved through an afterimage—too late.

The real Jamal phased back in behind the attacker—

—and then the attacker went for an elbow strike with a hidden blade. Jamal's eyes widened in shock.

A spear of living root erupted through the assassin's chest, snapping ribs and armor in a single wet crunch. The hooded figure looked down in disbelief as the root twisted, glowing faintly purple.

Crisper inhaled sharply, steadying her aim. Her UI flickered over her eyes—a ghostly HUD lighting up in the smoky ruin of the club. Her sniper rifle materialized, forming with a heavy click as she dropped to one knee on a floating table that still hovered midair.

The whip-user was mid-lunge, thorns cracking through the haze, cutting down anyone too slow to flee.

"Not today," she muttered.

She didn't even aim.

The scope wasn't necessary. The world slowed.

She fired.

The sniper was a thunderclap. The bullet spiraled with condensed Ryun, punching through the air like a lance of pure emerald light. It struck the whip-user square in the skull mid-motion—their body froze, spasmed, and folded like a puppet with its strings cut.

For a moment, the entire club was still. Then the sound hit—shattering glass, screaming civilians, the faint hum of dispersing Ryun.

Crisper stood up, smoke rising off her weapon as the barrel glowed. Her eyes flicked across the chaos. Natives and refugees alike were still stampeding for the exits, some phasing through platforms, others shoving through the melting bridges of liquid light.

She scanned until she found Jamal—standing beside a woman with the black hair and yellow-slit eyes. They were talking—too calm for what just went down. Who the hell is she? Crisper thought.

She holstered the rifle on her back, stepping forward as sirens began to blare from somewhere deeper in the city. The hum of mechanical wings and mag-vehicles grew louder—the local enforcers were coming.

This was bad. Real bad.

Crisper's sneakers clicked over broken glass and blood. "You wanna tell me," she said, voice steady but sharp, "who the hell she is—"

Before she could finish, a slow, deliberate clap echoed through the wrecked bar.

Once.

Twice.

Then again—measured, precise, cutting through the noise of chaos.

Clap… clap… clap…

The last of the smoke parted, revealing a silhouette standing on one of the shattered cubes near the ceiling—a tall figure in a tan coat, illuminated by the faint glow of the waterfalls outside.

"Impressive," the voice said, smooth and cold. "Three Outlanders… and not a single casualty among your own."

The figure jumped down, landing effortlessly amidst the corpses, boots splashing through blood and broken light coming through cracks.

Jamal's Switch was already raised. Crisper leveled her rifle again.

The stranger smiled faintly, emerald eyes catching the light. "Now… that was entertaining."

Jamal didn't hesitate—his Switch roared, muzzle flashes strobing across the ruined club.

The stranger raised one lazy hand, his fingers glowing in an intricate spiral. An orange barrier unfolded around him like a curtain of glass. Each bullet hit it with a tink-tink-tink, sparking harmlessly before dissolving into dust.

"Tsk, tsk…" the man said softly, voice smooth but heavy with command. "That won't do. Not in this tale."

His hands flowed like a conductor leading an orchestra. Three sigils flared into the air behind him—burning symbols etched in molten orange, spinning and reshaping themselves with each beat.

The club trembled. Reality itself seemed to pulse with his rhythm.

Ria's eyes gleamed—she didn't even try to hide her smile.

"Of course you'd like this," Jamal muttered, shaking his head. He planted his feet, Ryun flaring around him.

Crisper cursed under her breath, throwing up her arm as her UI projected a Ryun barrier, layers of hexagonal light forming in front of them. "Everyone brace—!"

The air ignited.

Three glyphs exploded outward, reshaping the space around them into a warped orange dome that swallowed light and sound. Everything shimmered, twisted—rewriting itself.

———

High above the city, the world was quiet—until a black-and-green blur tore through the clouds like a meteor. Straight toward two people sitting at a small café on one of Avvereen's suspended terraces.

The air rippled. He was moments from impact when—

SHHHK!

A blade pierced clean through his chest.

His eyes widened in disbelief as blood spattered across the glowing bridge. The cloaked figure looked down to see the point of a silver sword jutting out from his sternum.

"Goodnight, laddie!"

The voice was grinning and unhinged. The attacker—a man with locs and a white blindfold—ripped the blade free, giving a mock salute as the victim tumbled backward, falling into the endless pit below.

Tabia sighed, stepping out from behind him, her armor glinting faintly. "We could have questioned him, Captain."

"He was just a grunt," said Ozzy, twirling his blade before sheathing it over his shoulder. "Besides—"

He pointed toward the distance. Across the platforms of Avvereen, a massive orange dome was rising, spreading like a sunrise over the city cluster. Its light bled across the skyline.

"That's issue one."

Tabia followed his gesture, but her attention shifted. She could feel something—an aura boiling up from the pit below.

"What is that?" she whispered.

Ozzy smiled wide, teeth sharp, aura burning white as his own Ryun flared like wildfire.

"Oh, that," he said, putting his arm around her. "That's issue two. Looks like the fun's started."

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