A storm from the south began to rustle in as the match began. It was as if Mother Nature herself had come to accompany the dour mood, like a conductor to an angsty orchestra.

Rain poured down and neither boy made any sudden movements, opting instead to simply shift their weight back and forth rhythmically, appeasing the dancing requirement. The two were sizing each other up. Culver had studied Trent’s brutal rise to the top and knew better than to act rashly. Trent had observed Culver just the same – and wisely chose not to underestimate him.

“I’d like to see a little more action than this, boys,” the judge aside Devola commanded, fanning a wide, floral fan at his puffy face. “I thought you two were supposed to be the best and brightest of the studio, are they not, Devola?”

The judge turned to Devola, who seemed surprised to be talked to. The Necrodancer had barely moved a muscle since Trent took to the stage, absorbed in some sort of inner conflict.

“Well, of course,” Devola said with a jolt. “Never forget the audience, my dears.”

Trent had not.

In a flourish, the boy bounded forward, cartwheeling through the air. Culver braced for impact.

“[Shield of Nature]!” he shouted just as Trent’s fist collided with his chest. A glimmering, green diamond appeared in front of Culver, rebuffing Trent’s attack and sending him flying backwards.

“Damn it,” Trent cursed, landing on his feet like a death-evading cat. Momo could tell from his expression that he was surprised to be parried. Almost none of his opponents had been able to rebuff his first hit, especially such a direct one. Culver’s power clearly rivaled his own.

Wasting no time, Culver flipped his entire body forward, doing a handstand as he catapulted into the air. The audience came alive with cheers as he sailed almost as high as the school building, long whips of ivy following his ascent.

Like a hawk locking onto his prey, he then barrelled downwards.

“[Vine Lash]!” he screamed as he fell upon Trent. Vines came crashing down into the stage, snaking into the wooden foundation. Trent slipped away at the last second, dashing to the side.

“Be careful not to completely trash the stage, please,” Devola mentioned politely into the wand-phone. “There will be other matches after this one.”

The advice went in one ear and out the other. “You stupid rogue,” Trent spat, his pupils as dilated as full moons; his cheeks hot with fury. “Aren’t you supposed to be playing around in the shadows? Give up the ridiculous punching, it doesn’t look good on you.”

"Being an evil dickhead doesn't look great on you, either."

The two traded jabs, a flurry of fists and words and forearms. Culver had the advantage of speed, but Trent had sheer power; he wore him down quickly, backing Culver into a corner; the boy fumbled, nearly losing his footing off the side stage.

Trent gave him no time to recover. "[Necrotic Fist]!" he shouted, black, grimy death emanating from his palm. Culver was still finding his balance when Trent flew forward, rushing at him like a bull. A right hook came rearing below his chin, smashing upwards.

A fleshy crack echoed around the stage. After a collective gasp, the audience went as quiet as night. Trent’s punch had landed. Culver fell backwards, unmoving.

“Oh my Kyros. Did he just kill him?” Grimli said weakly.

Momo’s heart dropped, unable to respond until she heard Culver’s voice.

“[Ivy’s Revenge],” the fading boy whispered. It was the last thing he said before his head slunk down to the side, his eyes rolling back in his head.

The vines that his [Vine Lash] had buried in the foundation of the stage suddenly erupted from beneath, possessed by remnants of Culver’s magic. Trent whipped his head around, alarmed as they all coiled around him like the prickly fingers of a giant.

“What the – get off me!”

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He thrashed and struggled against them, but they just wound tighter and tighter, constricting first around his chest, then his neck, until he was nearly blue in the face.

“We have to do something,” Momo said. “It’s going to kill him.”

“But he just killed his friend –”

“We can save both of them,” Momo muttered, her heart rampaging in her chest. “We can –”

Just as Momo was about to jump from the roof, Devola stood.

“The match has been concluded, as both parties have been rendered incapacitated,” she said, her voice cold and unwavering. With a snap of her fingers, black light emanated around the stage. Invisible razors cut through the vines in one fell swoop. Trent was released, his body falling to the stage in a heap.

“Wait,” he said, his voice straining from the near-asphyxiation. “That’s not fair. I could have escaped that. I won that. I won.”

Devola turned her head around sharply, her voice bitter as she spoke. “You would not have escaped that, Trent.”

Without another word, she left the Judges’ Panel, disappearing somewhere inside.

Trent screamed, pounding his fist on the stage. The medics rushed to Culver’s side, carrying his limp body into their one remaining tent.

—

“Is he going to make it?” Momo asked weakly, biting at her nails as she stood at the opening of the medic tent. Grimli stood by her side, anxiously chewing on another bucket of drumsticks.

“We’re not sure,” one of the medics answered honestly. The principal medic, a blonde White Mage, sat at Culver’s bedside, administering a continuous low-dose of healing magic. “His spine was nearly severed – and his soul thread keeps ebbing and flowing out of this plane. He’s still with us, but only barely.”

His soul thread? Momo remembered Morgana speaking of those a long time ago. Soul thread, soul chain – the words seemed interchangeable, but boiled down to mean the core element of the soul, the one which allowed you to transit between the Nether and the mortal planes.

Necromancy was, in essence, the re-attachment of soul chains to bodies. Sometimes the same body, more than often a different one. Momo had never quite understood the details of how it worked, mostly because it was hard for her to grasp something she couldn't see.

Thinking of it, an idea came to her. It's worth a try.

“Can I try something?” she asked the medic. The medic asked the White Mage, who nodded apprehensively.

“As long as it doesn’t interrupt my healing spell,” she said.

“Of course,” Momo assured her. “I just - I might have a way to help him.”

Momo kneeled down by Culver’s side and pressed a soft hand to his chest. She couldn’t hear a heartbeat, but she knew there was something still there. A remnant of life.

[Nether Cultivator], she thought.

The spell activated, and the Nether magic around her revealed itself. Tapping into [Nether Cultivator] was like seeing the scene in blurry black and white, with soft, cloud-like puffs of steam floating mindlessly throughout. Usually she never bothered to concentrate harder than this, as only a small amount of concentration was required for her to harness the power – but something inside her urged her to dive deeper.

Pushing her Mana to its limit, she shut her eyes even tighter. It was like adjusting the lens of a camera – the more Mana she poured in, the sharper the image.

And wow – she had been so blind all along.

What had previously been shapeless blobs had sharpened into chains, interlocking and silver, sprouting from the backs of each and every person in the room. When she tried to harness the Nether like she had done many times before, she noticed that she began to pull at the surrounding chains, as if she were tugging the life force from their very bodies.

“Ugh,” one of the medics said, suddenly holding his stomach. “I feel nauseous.”

Oh my god, Momo thought, her heart racing. Have I been doing this every time? Using other people’s souls to power my Nether Cultivator attacks?

She thought back to the Oblivion Crisis, to the giant cloud floating above the Prince’s Opera House. When the Nether Magic had all culminated into a Cloud Titan, was that thing actually just a culmination of hundreds and hundreds of wayward souls, all stuck together in some kind of Frankenstein monster?

It would have explained its behavior. It barely moved, just staring dead-eyed and apathetic at the world it was aimed to consume. A thousand souls pulled from their bodies, stuck like glue to brainless water molecules.

Momo swallowed hard.

Focus, she said. You can make time for that crisis later.

Making use, conveniently, of [Focus], she drilled her attention onto Culver. He did indeed still have a soul chain attached to his body, but it was rusting by the second. The bottom half had turned red and chalky, and it was singing a tune of utter dismay – it was dying.

The sound sent her back to her fight with Sera. She had heard that very song then, but had no idea where it was coming from. She always knew that the Nether had a certain hum to it, but she hadn’t pieced together that the hum was actually the sound of souls, the musical melody of life itself. And when life was being detached from the source, it screamed. It screamed bloody murder.

She stood up and grabbed it.

“What are you doing?” the White Mage asked, alarmed. All she saw was Momo’s face screwed up in concentration, grabbing at something invisible in the air.

When Momo’s fingers wrapped around the chain, a terrible, hissing, dragging, ravaging sensation flooded over her. She screamed, but held on tight, instinctually flowing her Mana into it. It felt like a hundred nails were being stapled into her very skull, but she refused to let go, pouring every last drop of magic from her body until she gave out.

Culver’s chest rose, and the boy shot upright.

“Oh my god,” the mage cried. “He’s alive!”

Momo grinned. The last thing she remembered was her body hitting the floor.