CHAPTER THREE
“As you are one being challenged, Xorin—You have the right to propose any modifications to the ruleset of the game. However, if none are requested, we will begin the preliminary trial following a singular warmup match.”
“I’m not even sure what kind of game we are playing. Care to elaborate, O’ Nameless One?”
“Contrary to the belief of Mrs. Rosalind, I can very much tell that you’re incredibly nervous, Xorin,” The Nameless King began with a spiteful comment, attempting to dissuade his opponent from proper acumen in the face of demonstrably much more experience, “However, allow me to ease your concerns by stating that the game is incredibly simple. It also isn’t one that requires active, conscious participation. In fact, your soul has already begun responding to the game board.”
“Gameboard? I don't see one,” Xorin inquired, his eyes scanning the room for such an object. Finding only the sphere of light and the blackened mass that were the Nameless King, he remained confused until the Beast elucidated him—pointing towards the sphere, informing him to pay further attention and maintain eye-contact upon the energetic-substance. Xorin grit his teeth, before releasing a mouthful of smoke. “My soul… It’s becoming attuned to this energy without any of my will being required. Let me guess—It sets the rules and creates the battlefield in response to our essences?”
“Precisely, Xorin. Would you like to begin the warmup match, in that case?”
“Under one condition, if I’m still allowed.”
“...And, what that might be?”
“Beast and I count as a singular person. Unless both of us are incapacitated, the match continues.”
Heh. “Another rule, I suppose, is for the Nameless King to lose his advantage. We don't know anything about this game, so I’ll make it simple—Anytime you perform an action, you have to explain your reasoning. Sounds fair, right?” The Beast smirked towards his opponent, whose eyes were nearly visible in the intense lumens of the sphere. He wrapped his fingers around it as such, the vague purple hues of his flesh appearing almost transparent.
A chuckle resounded throughout the darkness.
“Let us begin, Xorin and Beast. I'll make the first move.”
The environment intensified in an array of all possible colors.
It was impossible for Xorin to even comprehend what had occurred, the span of time being so mind-bogglingly miniscule that he was unsure of if anything had happened at all. Yet, when he finally blinked, he found himself at the edge of an undeniably familiar precipice—overlooking the horizon of a green shore, starred by poppies and adorned with red camalotes. The Beast had appeared beside him, though rather than confusion, displayed a look of concern.
“What is it, Beast?”
“How are we back here?”
Xorin gazed towards the edge of the precipice, noticing that the ends of the horizon were surrounded by an assortment of clouds; In particular, they were made of the same energetic-substance as the spiritual sphere, that which had likely dragged them into this location once more. Thinking on so deeply, it was Beast that came to a conclusion first.
“We’re within our own memories. I’m not sure how such is even possible, but it’s the only idea I have for this scenario.”
“I don’t remember this place, but it feels familiar.”
“I do. That’s all that matters.”
“How do you like my first move?” The Nameless King chuckled from behind the two. “Of course, I’m contractually bound to explain the ‘how’ and ‘why’ we’ve arrived here. Should I begin after I end my turn, or beforehand? You were a bit unclear about that much.”
“Go on and spit it out.”
“I agree with Beast. Please, explain.”
“Even in the depths of the spiritual realm,” The Nameless King revealed themselves to be cloaked in a sheet of jet-black darkness, the malignancy of their form palpable to the environment, “It is a bit much for myself to even exist. It would only take a few moments for someone like myself to fully disentangle the memory; If you couldn’t tell, you’re already beginning to forget the reasoning as to why it exists.”
He breathed in, the chains that accosted him rustling greatly.
“The purpose of the game is to destroy the most important memory to the person. In your case, I’m having to search both of your memories, to find your most cherished synchronicities. It’s much less difficult than it sounds, especially with the ratification of it into a wargame.”
“How is this anything like a game, Nameless One?” Xorin questioned, his eyes narrowing.
“That’s because there are rules, and many individual pieces at play. Please, take your reaction.”
“Reaction?” Beast laughed. “I see. So, you act, we react, then it switches. Seems simple enough. I’m unsure of the precise mechanics we can perform, but based on the fact you’re aiming to unravel our memories, there must be a specific number of movements that can be taken to reach that memory. It sounds more akin to a glorified board game than a wargame. However… I’ve already figured out our moves.”
“Please, elucidate me on your reasoning, Beast. As per the rules of the contract.”
Beast laughed again.
“Don’t need to. Only you have to deliver that information to us. Not the other way around.”
The Nameless King grinned madly, recognizing he hadn’t outmaneuvered the Beast quite yet.
“Beast,” Xorin began, holding a cigarette between two fingers, “I’ll head further into my own memories. I don’t understand this game entirely, but I believe I’ll do my best defending that which we both cherish. I think I know which one that is, as well.”
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“That’s what I wanted from you, anyways,” Beast explained, taking the cigarette from Xorin’s fingertips and placing it in his own mouth, “Remember, this is a game, and there isn’t a time limit beyond what we can spiritually handle. I won’t let you lose.”
Xorin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“How dreadful…”
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Xorin continued to ruminate deeply.
He’d been left to his own devices upon that of the Observer’s Precipice—that cliffside at the end of the Outsider’s Loft, wherein he had originally decided to embark on the journey that he had so dangerously sought. It was unclear how he had forgotten such with the mere presence of the Nameless King, and he could feel the enrapturing of a battle throughout his psycho-spiritual landscape, something that he was a part of yet distanced completely from. Beast was leading the assault on his opponent, and Xorin—particularly useless—had still not understood how to reach further portions of his soul, let alone his innermost memory.
“Metatron, what shall I do here?”
Metatron, the Grimiore, had been speaking to him haphazardly in the absence of the Nameless King. It was attempting to ratify a plan, though spoke to him in meaningless jargon that he shan’t understand for quite sometime—if he ever could do so, in his humble opinion. It felt as if his mind were beginning to fracture from self-doubt, but he knew he couldn’t continue this depressive wave any longer. He sighed, pulling an imaginary cigarette from his carton, and turned the pages.
“Wayfarer doesn’t need a map directly, does it?”
“Of course not, Master. You can draw a map yourself to follow the directions.”
“I don’t have Compass anymore. At least, not the device.”
“You have her energy. That’s enough for me.”
“Ah, they’re a girl?”
“You knew that much.”
Xorni remained silent for a moment, holding back the development of tears. Clearing his throat, he pulled from his bag that World Atlas, finding the empty pages of gridded maps—alongside the feathered pen—and began to scrawl upon the pages.
“It’s an incantation ritual, right? What are the words?”
“Incantations aren’t necessarily words. They’re emotions and intentions outwardly expressed. Convey what you’re wanting to the page, and it’ll work.”
Xorin continued to scrawl, his fingers twitching in rapid succession alongside frequent movements of his wrists, of which were more methodical and consistent with that of a proper artist. He had no emotion to give beyond the honest helplessness in this moment, internally wishing for something to balance out the growing dread that had accosted him since entering Grand City. Metatron didn’t say much else, only listening to Xorin’s half-hearted mumbles to continue the production of the Spell, to which her pages warmed to the touch—as if to offer some degree of comfort.
“You’re not really scared, are you, Xorin?”
“...Of course I am, Meta.”
“You don’t seem like the type.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Hmm. “Just follow the map of your memories. I’m sure you’ll understand what I mean.”
The map was of a strange, fractalized shape, where in a central column spiraled outwards in six degrees; along each degree, were an encircled star, of which Xorin believed were specific memories that would lead to further portions of his mind. However, as there were many possible paths to take from the Observer’s Precipice, it was unclear which was the most beneficial path to take—let alone the most expedient.
He sighed again.
“I miss Compass.”
“She’s still with you. Trust in your instincts; That’s the point of this game.”
Xorin stood, gripping both Metatron and the map tightly, rushing himself to the nearest entrance of the next memory. It wasn’t as if he knew where he was to go, nor where he would end up in this seemingly endless, fractal labyrinth; He understood that the Beast were fighting for his sake, and he could feel his compatriot’s soul burning in agonizing pain. It had been almost half an hour since they entered the Spiritual Plane, and the only reason it was not Xorin who had experienced such wounds was because of his own cowardice and insufficiency.
“Ah, I remember why I came here before. I tried to fly here, didn’t I?”
“How could you have done that, Master? You don’t have wings.”
“Well,” Xorin smiled softly, his grip increasing against the cover of Metatron, “I was convinced that Magick could do anything, at the time.”
“It can, if you let it.”
“Not like that, Meta.”
“I’m sure you could fly if you really tried.”
“...Me too.”
He continued his trek away from the cliffside, aiming to reach the nearest memory.
Xorin had reached the midpoint of Outsider Loft by the end of the hour. It wasn’t as if he were headed anywhere in particular, in spite of needlessly following the route as inscribed upon his mappings; He merely was going through the motions, wandering the fields and plains of the environment in which he had forgotten. It was here that he was born, raised and eventually forced to leave—It seemed the memory he was visiting was of his own exile.
“What a dreadful sight.”
He stated, holding a cigarette against his lips. It wouldn’t light in the midst of the Spiritual Plane, a part of him knowingly rejecting the vice and attempting to maintain normalcy within the damned memory.
“I hadn’t seen it from this perspective.”
“What are you looking at, Master?”
“My home.”
It was only a crater; a shadowed pit of which naught remained, save for the slickings of bloodied viscera among the edges and the burnt crisping of corpses abandoned, which the smoking of a red plume continued to exhaust into the skies. The energetic-substance that had gathered in such an amount was still physically palpable, even in the memory, and it was clear Xorin still had no recollection of how such could have occurred. Only the sobbing tears of a child, who lay in the center of the crater, could be heard beyond the droning of sirens.
“I don’t remember this, Beast.”
“Of course, you don’t.”
Xorin turned in the direction of the voice, which was familiar and did not belong to Beast. It belonged to Nero Voclain, of whom Xorin had least expected—but expected, nonetheless.
“How is it that you’ve reached this place, Nero? And, where is Viktoriya?”
Nero placed his hand on Xorin’s shoulder, looking toward the impacted crater—and smiled softly in the direction of Xorin.
“You’ve been through a lot on your travels, haven’t you?”
“Quiet. You don’t know even half of it.”
“I’ve noticed you have a Grimoire now. That’s good. It gives you another ally.”
“I don’t need much in the way of allies. I have what I need.”
Xorin remained steadfast, maintaining eye-contact on the man before him. He understood implicitly why Nero had come to him at this moment. The bastard still desired the forming of a connection, something that should be a long, arduous process of emotionality and trust; It would be a mockery of the ethics of his own ability to bruteforce such a connection, especially to someone who was like him in the first place.
“..You’re a terrible person, you know that?”
Heh. “It’s working, isn’t it?”
Nero began to move into the crater, wherein he would assuredly attempt to alter one of the few cherished memories that Xorin possessed of Beast—Xorin retaliated with immediacy, pulling from his side the dagger that he had abused so terribly, and attempted to plunge it into the chest of his assailant. It would miss, by a wide margin, knocked to the side by the hilt of Nero’s sword.
“Now, now, Xorin. I’m not part of the game that you’re playing. If you waste time on me, the more likely it is that Beast will—”
“That Beast will what? Die? We both know that’s not happening. You, however, aren’t meant to be here. These are my memories. If you threaten them, in any capacity…’
“I will kill you myself.”