Colors.

Musa pulled them all.

Reds and blues, greens and yellows, oranges and purples—he summoned them all from the world between worlds. Thousands, then millions of threads comprising every color, hue, and tint streamed from unseen origins and flowed with haste into the half-reclining boy from Tri-star.

Musa’s dark domain permeated with these glorious cords of radiance and might. The power swelled within him, each color doing something unique to his body, mind, or spirit. Greens healed his wounds, mending his flesh and setting his bones. His joints creaked and popped as dislocated limbs found their proper alignment and snapped back in place. Skin stitched itself together, leaving no scars, only dried blood where lacerations once existed. Reds raged through his muscles while blues and yellows weaved their paths among the boy’s hands, feet, and even his beating heart. Purples… were just fun.

Musa laughed.

It was not the laughter of a madman or the amusements of a troubled teenager. On the contrary, it was the genuine happiness of a young boy who, for the first time, could play with a well-beloved toy or eat his favorite meal without fear of reprimand. Simply put, it was the innocent laughter of a child.

Zachariah froze in his approach. He did not know if it was the Vigor’s sudden and unexplained eruption that radiated into the haft-comatose teen or the fact that he was now laughing like a giddy schoolboy. However, one thing was certain: any injury Musa had would soon be gone.

The General gave a low, long whistle. “That’s a lot of Vigor…”

The Sacer’s heart thumped in his chest in a way he had only felt during genuine combat. Sweat formed on his forehead despite the cool morning breeze that blew across his brow. And before he knew it, Zachariah found himself equally laughing in excitement. The impossibilities of this child never seemed to end, and with each one, they further convinced the ancient warrior of one truth. A truth he had to acknowledge!

“YES! YOUNG ONE, SHOW ME WHAT I KNOW!” The General’s voice cut through the laughter like thunder through a rainstorm, but Musa did not concede to it. Instead, the boy slowly stood up and padded the dust off his legs, arms, and chest. His once white cloak and cowl were now torn, soiled, and bloodied, but the black and silver uniform underneath still appeared preserved, if not a little tattered. Then, with unnervingly calm hands, the elated boy untied the cords that secured the cloak closed, and only then did his laughter subside.

“No more rules!” Musa shouted back to the Sacer. “Rule Number One—never use Shade Magic!” Hidden from normal eyes, Vigor continued to surge through the child, turning him into a walking psychedelic prism of color and power. “Rule Number Two—never let your emotions control you!” Musa pulled open his cloak, revealing the full black and silver remnants of the combat uniform and an insignia embroidered on his right breast.

Spiritcats. A tragedy of monumental proportions flashed deep in the General’s memory:

A terrible battle…

A lost world…

A broken promise…

“Rule Number Three—keep my head shaved.” Musa’s hand found the tie holding his hood closed around his neck and pulled it free. “Rule Number Four—always keep your head covered in public…”

This is it, Musa thought. No going back now… a determined hand gripped the trim of his hood and, with one fateful yank, ripped both cowl and cloak off his body and head, divulging not the smooth shaved scalp of a bald child but the two-week stubble of a white-haired teenager!

Some would have considered the revelation shocking, presumptuous, or even blasphemous. Many, like the General, did not take lightly the procuring of the sign of the Heir. Even as the trend had become fashionable among some self-important youth from the Homeworlds’ nobility, many still viewed the alteration as a mockery of their hope. For whom, in the war-torn and doomed planets of the Untied Homeworlds, would be arrogant enough to unnaturally adorn the white hair of the King? In the past, and without fail, Zachariah had treated such arrogance with his own heavy-handed form of correction. But this was different.

“I KNEW IT!” The centuries-old battle-harden warrior lost any composure he had left. Three-hundred years of discipline and self-control broke with the arrival of this white-haired boy from Tri-star. It was not a lot of hair, but it was white—pure, natural white, like a covering of freshly fallen snow! Zachariah thrust his battered kado toward the child!

“I knew it!

I KNEW IT!

I KNEW IT!”

The Sacer’s laughter grew uncontrollable, and a smile, almost maddening, possessed every inch of his visage. “NOW SHOW ME WHO YOU REALLY ARE! SHOW ME THE SWORD!”

Musa knew what the General wanted to see. He knew who it was he was supposed to claim to be. He knew whom they all wanted him to be, and he desperately wanted to please them and tell them their wait was over… But he could not. For he did not have what they wanted, nor was he whom they wanted.

At least, not yet.

“Five!” Musa continued. “Rule Number Five—never fight!”

Musa’s right hand shot out to his side, and unseen tendrils of violet and green lights streamed from it! Only those with Shade Sight would have seen those finger-like threads soar through the air and snatch up his eathel kado that lay forgotten meters away from its owner. Then, with the snap of his wrist, the illuminated whip launched the wooden sword, like a rocket, towards the distracted Sacer!

Zachariah’s jubilance was cut short by the attack—Hidden Hand! The General put a name to the Common before leisurely twisting to avoid the makeshift projectile, but before the kado reached him, the Veil tore, Musa vanished, and reappeared right in front of him!

The blind boy snatched his kado out of the air and vanished again, only to emerge directly behind the Sacer!

Without skipping a beat, Zachariah entered the Veil and, copying the boy, appeared behind his opponent before cutting down empty space as Musa Shade Stepped again!

And the deadly dance of Shade Steps proceeded. Each challenger stepped into the Veil for a millisecond, avoiding a lethal strike, then materializing just long enough to attack the vacant spot where their target had been! The Shade Steps were not long or great distances—a few feet at most, but always reappeared from a different angle or direction. It was like watching two ghosts playing an other-worldly game of tag—one specter desperately trying to catch the other, but neither succeeding.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

This time it was from his left side! Zachariah arrived, already in mid-attack, his kado slicing an arch that could cleave asunder from shoulder to hip! Years of training and instinct caused Musa to pull Vigor, like take a breath, before submerging into the Veil.

Monochromatic light bursts actual images into his brain as his eyes gain their proper function.

Utter silence replaced his lack of sight with deafness, and his Shade Touch kept his body from being crushed by the unrelenting pressure of the world between worlds. Entering the Veil was like suddenly finding yourself at the bottom of a vast ocean. Musa pushed against the impenetrable atmosphere that encompassed him. He turned his body with strained effort to free himself from the pathway of the Sacer’s strike. Finding his balance, Musa side-stepped to his right and chose his next target. He assaulted the frozen General with an upward cut along his ribs.

Timing was everything when dueling another warrior with Shade Step. Solid matter could not be manipulated from within the Veil. This meant that Musa could originate his swing from within the void but had to exit before his strike touched its mark. The boy swung his weapon with all his strength and focus. His eathel kado sliced through the resistant environment like a wood plank through swamp water. Inches away from its destination, Musa started to rapture his way back to the physical world, but as he did, he felt the emergence.

Zachariah’s body shifted—phased—his faint outline gained definition as he entered the Veil. Musa knew it was too late. The last thing the blind boy saw as he withdrew was Sacer’s dark eyes turning red as he entered the Veil.

Blackness claimed his sight, and the sounds of life blared in his eardrums!

Musa’s sword slashed at nothing as he exited his Shade Step, but he knew that would be the result. This was how Champions fought: Shade Step after Shade Step until the toll of the Veil caused one to slip. Musa could already feel the fatigue building.

How many times have I Stepped? The boy wondered. Eight? Nine? He had lost count. He was glad they were brief trips, but each one sapped his energy and drained him mentally. Whenever he surfaced back to the Aima, he pulled more Vigor, restoring some of his vitality, but it was never enough to replenish everything he lost in the Veil.

Musa faded out, just as an oak kado would have sliced him from head to foot!

The newly arrived Zachariah spun to his right before blinking out of existence, only to be replaced by the white-haired boy in black and silver, his pearl-white kado searching for a target that no longer existed in the physical world.

Over and over again, the deadly waltz played out across the Trial Grounds.

Shade Step—cut!

Shade Step—slice!

Shade Step—stab!

Shade Step—cleave!

Shade Step—thrust!

Shade Step—strike!

Shade Step—slash!

Shade Step—pierce!

Shade Step—

The chilling numbness of exhaustion seized every cell of Musa’s body, but he pushed through the pain, driving his way through the invisible resistance of the void. He had long passed his record of twelve Shade Steps, and even though they were brief trips, the continuous entering and exiting of the Veil had overwrought every fiber of his being.

I can’t feel my legs… anymore, Musa realized. Or… my arms.

The boy studied the image of his own two hands gripping his eathel kado. He did not know what was stranger, that he could actually see his own hands with his own eyes, or that he could no longer feel the wooden sword he was holding? Or maybe it was both that he could no longer feel with his hands what his eyes told him was true. Regardless of the oddity, Musa was confident about one thing—he was rapidly approaching his physical and mental limits.

If this continues… Musa struggled to think straight. If… this continues… I… could get trapped… here.

The very thought disturbed the boy more than death itself. Those who entered the Veil without the strength to rupture back to the physical world were never seen again. While many theories and postulations have formed over the eons, what really happens to those lost in the Veil was still a mystery. However, most agree on a common fact: those who perished here cease to exist in either world. But that was not the only contemplation that bothered Musa.

How… long… has it been? Maybe… two minutes?

Over the years, the blind boy had developed a sixth sense of time. Musa’s inability to utilize the convenience of timepieces forced him to rely on his internal clock. A clock that had proved quite precise. Until now… That was the problem with Shade Stepping. Time was not a construct of the Veil. Musa’s body told him he had been fighting for minutes, maybe even an hour, but he knew the reality… only a few seconds had passed since he flung his kado at the Sacer.

This… was… a mistake.

Suddenly, the fear of oblivion within the Veil seemed like an afterthought.

Three… minutes?

How many Shade Steps would it take to fill up three minutes? Hundreds? Thousands?

Not… Possible…

The certainty of failure struck him with a blow more devastating than any weapon ever could. For if he failed today, it was not only his life that would be forfeited but the entirety of all free worlds. This was what he knew, what Joseph revealed, what weighed on him since that fateful day. He HAD to succeed. Not just past the trial, he could have done that in his sleep. His Master warned him. It was imperative that he survived five full minutes against the General. If that was true, then the Shade Step was not the answer. But what else could he do? Musa had no delusions; the full fury of a Sacer General in the physical world meant instant defeat.

Once more, Musa’s pearl-white kado arced sluggishly toward his stationary opponent. Then, with labored determination, he pried his way through the fabric between realms and surrendered to the darkness as he emerged back into the Aima. The weary boy gasped for life-sustaining air and pulled Vigor to vitalize his mind and body. His limbs burned as nerve endings flared back to life, propelling pain signals directly into his brain. He wanted to scream, but before he could, green Vigor flooded his body and washed away the agony. But any respite from the anguish was short-lived. At that moment, Musa’s sword did not cut through vacated space.

SMACK!

Every muscle and fiber in the boy’s body wretched as his kado struck an immutable object! Like a ringing bell, Musa shuddered from hands to feet and then back again. Unfortunately, the exhausted child had been so caught up in the rhythm of the Shade Steps that he missed something important. This time, the Sacer did not enter the Veil. Instead, Zachariah selected to remain in the Aima, and with little effort, blocked Musa’s last attack with his bare hand!

The General closed his fingers, one by one, around the boy’s wooden weapon. The steel-like material creaked, almost groaned, within the Sacer’s death grip.

“Oi,” Whispered Zachariah through the Shade. The voice was solemn and hushed, a stark contrast to the enthusiastic display the General had just moments ago. “Is this it?” The Sacer’s mouth did not move as he spoke. The tone of his question was sincere but tainted with disappointment. “Don’t take this the wrong way; what you have done is… remarkable… And though my sight assures me you possess no kidokane, your attaining of the Kanzian Arts says otherwise. Which leads me to believe one of only two likable possibilities… that you are either a farce, sent by the Malus to deceive us…”

Like that of the Veil, an oppressive atmosphere emanated from the otherwise calm and serene warrior of the Great Hall. Musa braced himself, drawing Vigor to fuel his Shade Touch. But, even then, the pressure bore down on him, threatening to crush him where he stood! The ground under his feet shifted, then gave way. The white-haired teenager clenched his teeth and resisted, locking his knees and craning his neck in defiance, but that could not stop him from sinking, inch by inch, into the earth!

WHAT… POWER! Musa screamed in his battered mind. I… CAN’T… MOVE! IF… HE… ATTACKS… I’M… DONE!

Two minutes, thirty-eight seconds remaining…