Flint came roaring down an ice ramp from the sky like a mad dog-musher led by White Saro hounds. He hurled ice bolts at the oversized ghost-bear clawing at him from the swamp, all while the surrounding hills burst from another ensuing battle.

Lucius’ black armor hissed as he struggled to hold the clash against Farante the deceiver. The marshy ground sunk from their competing energy.

Alan’s friends came to his aid. Goosebumps lined his arms at the feeling.

But the Borai’s growl shook the scene. It grew larger in the swamp, striking a chord of fear in Alan’s belly that his reinforcements may not be enough.

“More bodies for my Soul Darkener.” Farante gritted his teeth and jumped back from the clash to slice Flint’s ice bolts into mist, then spun to stab Lucius. “Mujungo can’t save you!”

Alan wanted to help, even knowing the Bladesmen was way out of his league. A sense of purpose he’d never experienced overwhelmed him. Battling to save his friends wasn’t commonplace in his Origin World, but in this moment… he possessed the courage to do it.

Shhnk.

He drew Durger – which was still barren of Saro – and eyed an opening.

I’d just get in the way.

He pulled back, noting Lucius’ speed was nothing like his own.

Flint rounded the fight like Santa Clause on crack, casting bursts of ice from his staff. He swung it in a defined figure eight and bellowed as he jabbed the weapon forward. Conjured mist soared straight for Farante – who broke again from dueling Lucius to deflect.

One. Two. Three flawless slices dissolved the White Saro to dust.

“Hya!” Flint clenched his fist, and the dust reformed into a single bolt at Farante’s feet that shot right into his pendant.

Farante’s entire body glowed white. He still deflected Lucius’ onslaught of attacks in the interim, but something was happening. His arms and chest glowed with lined cracks like he was imploding.

Fshh!

A pulse exploded outward that sent Farante, Lucius, and Alan tumbling back.

All of the instinctive sensations Alan had lost returned with a vengeance. Saro.

“Fool!” Farante rose using the points of his swords – Black Saro lining his entire body. He smiled that evil, crazed smile Alan saw in his visions. “You just eliminated your own protection.”

Flint flipped off his sled, leaving it to burst into a cloud of mist that shrouded him midair. “Aha! You underestimate the Titles of Strangey Town. You are the fool, I think.” Flint grasped a slipstream and orbited the Borai – reminding Alan of a plane circling King Kong.

“Huu!” Durger gasped like he’d been holding his breath. Blue Saro glowed around its edges once more. “Farante Del Sol,” his voice was strangled. “Ranger of the Black.”

Alan furrowed his brow amid fire, ice, and shadow exploding all around him. “You couldn’t warn me about someone like him before he showed up?”

“I didn’t sense any Soul Collectors anywhere close to us. He snuck up on me. I am sorry, Sir Alan.”

“Forget it. Just tell me what I can do to help!”

Lucius grunted, struggling to keep up with a barrage of concentrated attacks. A low jab of Farante’s bright blade was just a distraction for a side swipe of his dark one. Round and round they went in a dance of precision. They were both masters of the duel, at least through Alan’s eyes. Farante kicked Lucius back and dug both blades into the ground before spinning once like a drill. Shadowy film rose from the grass at his feet, casting the Bladesmen in shadow.

Lucius’s orange eyes darted all around, his ninja mask hissing steam. He threw a sword up behind him, catching a shadow blade with no wielder. The blade dispersed into insects while another formed to Lucius’ other side.

Clang.

“You are tempted by the Black, too,” Farante’s voice echoed. “I can sense it within you, Stalker.”

Farante’s words reaffirmed Alan’s initial instinct about Lucius. The armor he donned was alive with Black Saro.

Lucius dove for the source, but more shadow blades appeared to thwart him.

Flint was occupied with the Borai hurling lava balls and slashing at the Wizard. It was madness Alan could never have fathomed.

“Durger, there must be something I can do. His Saro is Black, right? Is there a weakness I can try and pull from my Colorless affinity?” Adrenaline rose, pushing blood faster through his veins, making his entire body hot, elevating his power.

“There is, Alan. But we should not enter this fight. You are too new.”

“Dammit, Durger. Help me.”

The dagger huffed, inscriptions glowing molten.

“Very well. My original Saro, Yellow, is blessed. In direct contradiction to Black. If you’re able focus that through your pendant, maybe… just maybe you’d be able to knock him off-balance for just a second.”

“That might be all Lucius needs,” Alan whispered, finding hope.

“It might.”

I’m worth something, Alan told himself, crawling backward amid magic bullets and shadowy conjuring. I’m not nothing. He closed his eyes and held up the pendant, experiencing the color wheel he’d worked on many times before in Parose.

In danger, there was a new type of focus. Like he was homed in on the sun – blinding and powerful – yet he could still see. The colors shifted in his vision. Blue, Red, Black, White. They all brightened and dulled for the instant he focused on each within the prismatic color wheel. This was the type of concentration he was looking for sitting idly in the woods. Purpose drove him forward.

Yellow. His blood pumped harder, emitting extraneous amounts of prayerful thoughts into the pendant to alter the color to Yellow. It’s the only thing he could think of since the Saro was labeled ‘blessed.’

“Arrgh,” Alan grunted through the taxing effort of holding onto the fleeting power. One section at a time, the crystal pendant shined gold. He envisioned battle-angels, the sun, everything holy. Thoughts flew into his mind from other universes he had no business receiving.

Then his eyes burst open, and the dark swampy world turned resplendently bright. Golden light leaked from his eyes, and his hands glowed the same color. “Uh, Durger. Help.” He tried to stay as small as possible behind the bleeding purple grass.

“Incredible. A savant among fledglings,” Durger gaped.

“Something useful please!” The power brimmed at his fingertips.

“Wield it through me, Alan, or concentrate it in your freehand. Then unleash it at that devil.”

Alan envisioned a band of light extending through both of his arms, bridged at his back. He could sway it one way or the other, and instinct sent it into his off-hand. He looked at a tall blade of bleeding grass.

My perception is my reality. He willed the Yellow Saro to bunch up into his right hand – making it painstakingly bright before molding it into a luminescent whip.

“Holy shit.” His eyes bulged at the shimmering weapon, hardly able to believe it was there.

“More like, holy whip!” Durger cheered. “Now go! Aid your friend.”

The battle grew more intense. Lucius reeled back as Farante pressed the assault – his dark blade proving to be too powerful. Every clash of the light blade was followed up by devastating strike of the dark.

Alan bided his time – bright whip in hand – waiting for Lucius to retreat a little farther toward the grass.

When the duel reached him, Alan emerged from hiding and snapped the whip at Farante’s back.

The dark blade flickered for an instant, and Lucius took the opportunity by cross-slashing into a flurry of wide-arc slices. Farante’s teeth gritted as the blades stopped closer and closer near his own face.

Clang!

Clang!

Farante could hardly keep up after faltering.

“The Merchant—” Farante grunted. “Isn’t as useless as he looks.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Alan – not knowing how long this rush of power would last – dashed to Farante’s side and lashed again. This time the whip coiled around his arm. The dark blade flashed ethereal for a split second, granting Lucius another crucial opening.

Lucius ignited his arms with lines of lava, reminding Alan of the Saro used in the caves. His armor hissed black steam as he pressed his shadow blades to meld into one smoldering claymore that he flipped into an overhead position.

Amazing. It’s like his whole body is a forge.

Clang!

Farante’s off-hand thrashed harshly back upon meeting Lucius’ two-handed sword. Saro exploded on impact, casting off stormy winds that forced Alan to dig in his heels.

“You try to prey on the weak.” A puff of mist steamed through Lucius’ mask. “Where is your honor, Bladesmen?”

Farante smiled as he broke their clash and put a few steps of distance between them – one arm still wrapped in Alan’s whip, the other fatigued. “There is only one way home, Stalker. Only one.”

Alan pulled like he was reining in a horse to keep Farante still. He could see Lucius’ unease. What was Farante alluding to?

Farante’s black pendant shined gold, and he distracted Lucius with it.

Is that a Peg of Fate? Alan wondered, then froze when Farante dropped his light sword and squeezed the Yellow Saro whip.

“Alan!” Lucius dove forward, but was shoved back by a visible pulse of black air.

The angelic visions filling Alan’s mind turned dark, fast. Black Saro corrupted the whip and in turn, corrupted him. Women shrieking took over his mind – Farante’s face distorting into fangs with ice blue eyes.

Alan’s face remained frozen in fear as the entire sky opened like a bat’s mouth. Crimson eyes bloomed high above him, consuming him.

“Alan!” a faraway voice shouted, but it was so distant he could hardly hear it.

Shnnk!

Vision returned to normal, and Lucius stood in his path with half of Alan’s whip severed in his grasp.

Alan shook free of the daze when a light sword stuck straight through Lucius’ stomach.

“Lucius, no!” Alan shouted at the top of his lungs.

The shock in his friend’s eyes made Alan’s entire body turn raw like he himself was just stabbed.

No, a whisper in his mind echoed. Lucius’ clawed hand, his face, it all screamed pain.

Then something visceral happened… Lucius’ eyes changed from fear to determination. Alan realized no blood burst from his abdomen, just steam.

Was Lucius… even mortal?

Lucius flexed, and his shadowy armor tightened like hardened rock.

Clnngg.

Farante’s light blade shattered to pieces as the wound closed, and he barely had time to register the awe before Lucius swung his claymore, slashing Farante’s chest and sending him barreling into the bloody grass.

“How did you…?” Alan dropped what was left of his Saro whip – which burst to dusty essence.

“I’ve wrestled with the Black before, Alan. Stand ready.” Lucius faced the grass, not even glancing at Flint tying the Borai in ice wraps.

“Your Saro is depleted from the dark ranger’s attack, Alan. Fall back,” Durger warned.

“You’ve got me this far, don’t give up on me now,” Alan whispered back.

The grass rustled, making Alan and Lucius tense.

“Who is it that drives you to the darkness, Stalker?” Farante’s voice bled through the ground. “I was once like you. Determined. Hopeful.” He laughed mockingly. “Soon, you’ll see.”

Farante flung his blade out of the grass straight for Alan, but Lucius swiped his massive sword to slash it out of the air. As soon as it stuck into the marshy ground, a black tornado of particles grew into a pirate-looking ethereal ghost, who yanked the blade out.

Alan narrowed his eyes when he noticed a patch of grass not faraway wilt on the spot. That’s when he remembered the environment dying ever since Farante showed up in the first place.

Another sword zoomed out from the grass like a dart straight for Lucius’ heart.

The Stalker held his blade flat and let the sword deflect itself.

Another stocky ghost formed from it and yanked the weapon.

“What is this, Lucius?”

“The power of a Soul Collector,” Lucius said vaguely, his armor lining with Orange Saro. “Get back.”

A massive quake acted as a greater incentive. Alan backpedaled almost to the edge. The orange glow coming through the cracks made him think maybe this was Lucius’ response to Farante’s next assault.

Lucius’ gauntlets hissed with power, and just as Farante conjured his next soul, flaming weapons rose from the swampy cracks stuck in black rock like unearthed treasures. Each one was etched with more regal designs than the last. Alan suspected these were all crafted by the artist himself.

Alan spun to Flint, who was having too much fun encasing the ghostly bear-monster in ice.

“Aha! Look what’s become of the Soul Collector’s prized capture.” Flint put his hands on his hips and leaned toward the angry bear’s face. He stood on a bucket of ice midair like it was nothing, and Alan couldn’t believe Flint was about to ‘boop’ the bear on the nose.

“Flint!” Alan called.

“Oh?” The Wizard spun toward him, holding his hat.

“A little help!”

“Mm! Sorry, looks like I got carried away here.” Flint held his staff up and burst White Saro from the tip, zooming the ice bucket toward him, and smirked. “Ah. Lucius shows his talents.”

Alan turned to see Lucius yank a fiery mace from its stone, smash a ghostly soul to dust, and flip to the next.

“Yes, but Farante is hiding in the grass. I think he pulls his power from the environment.”

“Hm. Black Saro tends to kill things, yes. But what makes you say that, Alan?”

“Patches of grass, even trees, have been dying ever since he showed up in Parose.”

“I see. What you say is possible. Or perhaps he’s poisoned with too much Black Saro. It may simply be… leaking out of him.”

Alan bit his lip as Lucius got stabbed by a teleporting assassin ghost. Lucius faltered, holding the wound, but then that same determination took over again. Something was unsettling about the way he recovered. It made Alan think he wasn’t as secure as he appeared.

“Help him, please,” Alan begged.

“Once two Black Saro duelers are locked, it is dangerous to enter,” Flint warned.

“How about freeze the ground from under them. It might disrupt Lucius’ current ability, but I have a feeling it will paralyze Farante.”

“Sound logic, Alan,” Durger said.

Flint rubbed his beard in thought. “Perhaps if there’s an opening. Yes. I will do this, Alan.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “Stand back as I conjure a great spell.”

Alan cleared his throat. “Wait. How secure is that encasing you used on the Borai?”

“He will be stuck for hours!” Flint said proudly.

“Good. Can you give me a ramp closer to him before you get started?”

“Hassa!” Flint flipped his staff, granting Alan what he asked for. “Don’t get too close. His mouth is some six-thousand degrees!”

“Noted.” Alan took his first step onto the ramp and recalled the strangeness of being slid forward.

“Alan!” Flint shouted as Alan zipped toward the bear. “What do you plan to do?”

“Don’t worry about me, just help Lucius!”

“A bizarre man you are!” Flint cackled.

“Yeah, sure, I’m the crazy one,” Alan whispered, shaking his head. Then he gulped as he closed in on the Borai, the creature truly gigantic. Black tar bubbled far beneath him in the endless swamp, and the Borai’s mouth brightened with volcanic lava. Half its face was gripped by Flint’s icy spell, and its jaw struggled to close.

“Rrrrruh!” it growled, begging Alan to duck.

Alan grimaced and unsheathed Durger. “Can I use Blue Saro to understand it, Durger?”

“Yes. But you are weak from earlier.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“A—alright. But before… the Black Saro that corrupted you, it—”

“Durger, please.”

“Yes. Alright. Sheath me and keep the Saro pumping. It should amplify through your body.”

Alan did what he was told, and as soon as his body outlined in a faint blue glow, he heard the same maniacal laughter that’d been plaguing him since Farante showed up. The bear’s voice was throaty and multiplicative.

“The Collector’s meal roams free still.” The Borai snickered in his prison. “The Black has underestimated your allegiance.”

“Are you bound to Farante in some way?” Alan asked.

“Like the tar of this swamp clings to the grass.” More low laughter made Alan’s skin crawl.

“Is there any way I can free you from his grip?”

“Foolish Merchant. My soul belongs to him. He earned it,” the Borai’s voice blew Alan’s hair back.

Alan threw both arms over his face to prevent from eating cinder, then slid a bit farther down so the bear couldn’t turn his head to face him. Only his eye lingered.

“You fear everything around you.” The bear smiled, taunting Alan.

Alan turned to the cliff now covered in ice. He hoped that meant the environment Farante pulled from was depleted.

Lucius rounded on Flint, furious, and grabbed the Wizard by the collar.

The hell? Why are those two fighting?

When Alan turned back to the bear, he noticed its shape blinking in and out of existence.

It’s working.

“You were right, Alan. The Borai withers,” Durger whispered.

Alan smirked. “It seems your great Collector is failing.”

“Rrrrruh!” the Borai roared his frustration.

“Now.” Alan slid back in front of the armored bear. “What happens to you if Farante Del Sol perishes here in the mud?”

The Borai grinded his fangs – the ice surrounding his face chipping. “I will fade into the nether until I’m called upon again.”

“Called upon by who?” Alan poked.

“Ojin. It could be an eternity of darkness. And you best bet in my dying moments, I will rip the three of you limb-from-limb so you will suffer with me!”

Alan took a step back when the ice wraps chipped a little more. Best not to anger the beast further.

“What if there was a way to preserve your soul?”

“What do you speak of, mortal? I die with my captor.”

“Perhaps I can set you free? Maybe break the tether. Help me do it.”

Steam hissed from the Borai’s mouth, quelled by Flint’s spell.

“He is tethered to the Soul Darkener,” Durger whispered. “The dark blade. Not the pendant. A weapon-smith can always tell where the soul lies.”

“Noted,” Alan said.

“Is this part of the Wizard’s spell? To torture me with nonsense.”

“Nonsense.” Alan readied to pull his trump card. Moments ago, he dove in and out of a trance in seconds to get it. “I see your armor was donned magically when you slaughtered a large warrior in the blue fog. You were a champion of it, I see. And you weren’t expected to win that fight.”

The battle in the backdrop grew more intense – ice shattering and blades hurling – but Alan did his best to stay focused on the bear.

“How?” The Borai’s expression softened.

“Tell me, do you still own that armor? I see a piece of your soul is tethered to it.”

The Borai squinted at Alan, perplexed. Clearly, he’d never been asked that question. Of course not. Who would attempt to trade with an ethereal beast?

“Trade it to me, and I will give it back once you’re free from Farante’s hold.”

“Hah. Hah. Hah.”

The laughter rang low and deep, rumbling the tarred swamp.

“I watched you when you scrambled at Farante’s heel. Lowly Merchant.”

Alan smirked and spread his arms. “Check again.”

The Borai’s face scrunched as much as Flint’s ice would let it. “G—God Merchant?”

“That’s right.”

Durger gasped in his sheath. “What did I miss while I was away?”

“Durger, quick. What would a Borai want?” Alan whispered.

“Honor. Like most Minions of Ojin born of this realm,” Durger said. “The Borai are a proud tribe. They live and die by guarding their territory. They know love, and hate, and duty. Above all, they wish for rest if they fulfill their purpose. Ask if he’d prefer to be buried in the ice pond of Fistel’s Valley.”

Ugh, Alan groaned. More tasks. More indebtedness. He thought back to the pawn shop owner he admired so much. Every week he’d remind Alan that freedom was happiness… when no tethers existed between two men.

Too bad he was so far from that reality.

“Borai. Do you wish to be buried in Fistel’s Valley?”

The bear’s molten throat cooled to a hiss, brow loosening. “Merchant…”

“Because I will journey there for you, if you grant me that armor… a piece of your soul. Travel with me until I can return you. Travel with me so that one day you can rest in peace with your ancestors.” Alan took a leap of faith.

The Borai attempted to straighten in the ice wraps. Had Alan touched on something deep within the beast?

“On a God Merchant’s word?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, mortal. You have yourself a deal.”