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In the lightless hours past midnight, I stumble upon the ancient highway.

Can you call it ancient if they still use it today? What I mean is, it looks ancient. The rutty length of the road is paved with cracked and disordered slates of sandstone, their faces polished smooth by the passage of untold generations of feet. Nobody ever bothered to repair the pavement where it’s fallen apart, or didn’t know how, but the jungle has failed to claim it either.

Here and there stand bold bonfires to light the path. Or just to set the mood. Maybe it was a special night for the locals. A summer festival. But the fun time’s over. There’s only blood, terror, and murder now.

I make my way west towards the party ground where the heated babel goes on. The closer I get there the more my courage wanes. I’m open and exposed on the road so I leave it and move to the treeline. I proceed in quick spurts from shadow to shadow as they lie projected by the fires on the road.

There’s beauty to fire, a strange kind of thrill. If I could make flames pop out of nothing, the way I made the dandy shield, I’d feel a lot better about my future.

I spend the next quarter hour waving my hands, trying to will various things into existence. But I get no fire. I don’t get much of anything. No matter how I wish and push, I’m able to whip out no embers, not even faint smoke. Water. Rain. Rocks. Thunder. Clouds. Swords. Nope. Nothing.

But my experimentation doesn’t go entirely to waste either.

At the very end, when I give up trying to make anything with a specific image and just pour out my general frustration, a weird thing happens. An invisible, ambiguous “wave” erupts from my hand and blots out a torch by the road. I do it again a couple of times, but have no idea what it’s supposed to be, or how it happens. You can’t even call it wind, just a weird pressure of sorts. The strength, size, and range seem random and it's not very deadly. Guess it could work as a distraction, if nothing else. Not half as awesome as the ice shield, but hell, I’ll take it.

I have weapons. A way to protect myself.

I can do this.

I name the ice shield “Ice Shield”, and the wave “Shockwave”, for convenience’s sake, and keep going.

Soon the ruined buildings I saw from the distance rise everywhere around me.

Dark, broken shells of temples and apartment complexes tower over the trees, and make me feel like a mouse sneaking at the feet of slumbering titans. The houses are empty, the windows dark. The walls stand riddled with rugged holes, and trees and ivies grow through the gaps. The entryways are wide open and broken, nobody to watch over them.

I don’t know how to explain it, but I get the feeling the birdmen and ogres didn’t build this place. By the time they came around this place was already a wreck, and the purpose of these houses is just as strange to them as it is to me. But while it's just a ruin in my eyes, they chose to view the old city as something holy.

Then my attention is stolen by more worldly affairs.

Following the main lane, I arrive at the source of the infernal racket.

A swirling, raging chaos of muscle and metal broils between the elder houses.

I see more feral ogres like the ones from the cliffs rampage with their clubs and hammers. Blinded by berserk rage and pain, they swing indiscriminately at any sign of motion in the dark. I see more birdman warriors. They screech so loud my ears hurt as they charge the enemy formation, tightly together like a flock of migratory geese, to cast their makeshift lances and then retreat leaping high through the air. I see creatures like hairless giant pit bulls. They have long, forked tails and their blackened hides glimmer in the light of flames like oiled. Their mad snarling and growling echoes throughout the ruins and makes the dark earth itself seem pissed and vicious. Unleashed by their masters, the hounds charge here and there in a frenzy and rip apart anything they get their fangs on. I see giant men dressed in purple monk robes; the men have skin dark blue like the night sky and they have three eyes in their harsh faces, spotless white orbs. They hold no weapons. They fight only with their huge fists and feet, which pulverize stone and bend metal with ease.

What are they all fighting?

Among the attackers are those horned beastmen from the beach in their heavy armors. Each carries a massive two-sided axe, a war hammer, or a jagged mace, and even the ogres go down with a solid whack or two. Some of the beasts carry vast tower shields of black steel that they plant firmly on the ground, and nothing the monsters throw at them can shake those shields. Others carry small metal cylinders attached to slim handles, which they toss at the gathered enemies, and the cylinders explode in flowers of pale blue fire. The fire sticks on the foes and can't be put out and the creatures run around screaming, screaming, before they collapse and turn to ashes.

There are those tall, pale knights in their sleek brass armors too. Their long, curved blades flicker like lightning in the night, and the enemies simply fall apart in front of those blades, sliced to clean pieces. Some of them have spears that stab like spears, but when held up and at the ready, the speartips shoot out blasts of lightning that shatter metal and rip through the swarming beasts with ease.

Mixed among the pandemonium are the remaining recruits. They look horribly out of place in their T-shirts and yoga pants, their bodies small and frail. But they throw themselves right into the fray without fear, stare death in the eyes, as if they were born just for this moment. And I guess they were.

The exchange of diabolical powers grinds the ruins to powder and shakes the earth. Colorful flashes of magic slice the night and briefly light up the stage of carnage, before it fades back to black. Hair-raising roars, screams of pain and terror, and the squealing of inhuman voices blend with the clamor of metal in one ear-ripping, maddening cacophony. The attackers are stronger, more united, and have better weapons, but the defenders outnumber them ten to one. It’s like every weird creature is drawn out of the jungle to throw themselves into the grinder.

And then there’s me.

What the hell did I come here for?

The stupidity of the plan hits me at last. I sort of assumed things would work out, somehow, if only I got here and found the others, but now that I’m standing here, I can only admit the idea was entirely baseless. Next to the boundless violence unfolding in front of me, my own party tricks seem hardly worth mentioning anymore. Instead of joining brazenly in, I hide behind a big boulder, cover my head, and hope nobody finds me.

Win my right to live? As if I could! It's impossible!

I’m not the warrior they were looking for. Only a defective product.

There are no friends for me on either side. Nobody here actually wanted me to succeed. They brought me here just to die!

Everyone is my enemy. Everyone. Everyone. Everyone.

So what am I going to do now? What can I do, alone? Where would I go? Even though I've lost all reason to go on—I don’t want to die either!

I take a peek over the boulder.

Past the city and the battlefield, at the far end of the central lane, looms the mountain and the face of the grand temple.

The ptolean grief cathedral. I dreaded the very sight of it when I saw it from above, but looking loser, something about it seems different now. Deep through the cathedral entrance, wide open like the gaping maw of a huge beast, I see a faint, warm light.

That light has a comforting, inviting vibe to it. Ambiguously familiar. Almost nostalgic.

Someone still lives there. That light proves it.

There’s someone I know in there—I get a feeling like that.

[I’m waiting for you. Come find me.]

I may be wrong about this again.

It may be only my imagination.

But since I came all this way, I might as well make sure.

Whoever or whatever it is, I have to find it. I need to know why all this had to happen.

I leave my hiding spot, keeping low, and circle around the heat of the battle. My small size has its advantages. The warring titans hardly even recognize me. Every now and then I hear a yell that feels like it was addressed to me, but I throw Shockwaves back in its way and sprint the other way as fast as I can. No one out there is free enough to chase me for long through the lightless maze of broken alleys and pitfalls.

In time, I come to a circular plaza with a cracked, dried-up fountain in the middle.

Fresh corpses litter the ground around the fountain, though the battle is far away. I don’t see anyone moving, but this place gives me a very bad feeling and I take extra care not to stick my head up too much. Glued to the walls and collapsed pillars on the side, I sneak around the clearing, senses sharp.

Nothing bad happens.

Everything stays quiet.

I eventually reach around to the mountain's side. The cathedral stands right ahead of me, at the end of a short lane, clear of obstacles. Relieved, I pick up the pace and start running. Then, from the walled-off yard of a neighboring mansion, someone jumps out and tackles me. I fly to the street like a rag, all air knocked out of me.

An intense pain in my side keeps me from breathing, and I spend the next moment writhing and gasping helplessly.

“What?” A coarse voice grunts somewhere above me. “How are you here, recruit? Who gave you permission to leave battle?”

Heavy, metallic footsteps draw closer and then my neck is gripped. This is turning into a recurring occurrence. My assailant picks me off the ground and once again I find myself dangling in midair, clawing at a steely gauntlet squeezing my windpipe.

A knight in black armor strangles me. He lifts the visor of his cylindrical helmet to see me better. A square face sporting a graying stubble; heartless gray eyes. It’s one of the few faces I know. That domineering soldier who gave us our glorious purpose back there on the beach and sent us to our deaths.

“Answer me,” the man repeats and shakes me. I cling to his wrist, trying to ease the pressure on my neck and feebly kick the thick breastplate. “As your commanding officer, I compel you: why are you here? Did someone else override your orders? Who was it? Speak!”

“I don’t know...what you’re talking about!” I force out the words, somewhat irritated.

It's such a stupid question.

What am I doing here? Where am I going? Who am I? How am I supposed to know any of that!?

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I’m the one who wants answers here!

“What...?” The knight frowns and pulls me closer. “Aah, now I see. The unbranded. How in the blazes are you still alive? Did not even the beasts find you worth killing? No matter. I’ll do what they should have done on that beach and put you out of your misery now.”

The grip on my jugular tightens.

It’s cold. The wet gauntlet feels like a block of ice against my skin.

It was difficult before, but now I can’t get any air at all, and my body instinctively knows what comes next.

I’m going to die.

I’m going to return to the unfeeling void I was dragged out of.

I came to life only to die a few brief hours later, and for what? Nothing was ventured, nothing was gained. What an utterly pointless existence. If it was going to turn out like this, then why did it have to happen at all?

And I’m cold.

Is it cold like this in the afterlife? I don’t know. I can’t remember. But I’ve been freezing my butt off from the second I was born and I’m tired of it. I hate it. I hate being cold. If I ever get to be reborn, I’d like to pop out somewhere a little more hospitable. At least give me real clothes next time! Who the hell dispatches people into a stormy island wearing tights? It’s cold!

Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold——Freezing!

“Argh—!”

The knight drops me and staggers back. He clutches his arm, the metal plating covered in milky, steaming frost up to the elbow. I draw air into my lungs in hungry gasps and take a wobbling step to regain my balance. We both stand lit by a bizarre, bluish light. I look down at my hands and see it's me. A cold, starry spark shines on my palm, oozing cool vapor in the tropical night.

“Why, you little…!”

The man tears off the frozen gauntlet and the vambrace, and then comes back at me. I hold the arctic light between my hands. Prana pools on my palms to form ice-aspected magical energy. It's heavy, almost solid. Like holding a ball of melting ice cream, I chuck the clump at the approaching knight. It hits him above the right eye and detonates in a faintly glittering cloud of sub-zero air and mana.

“AAARGH!” The knight covers his face and staggers back. Judging by the volume, it had to have hurt, a lot. “OOOAAAHHH!! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!”

I briefly deliberate if I should stay and finish him off, but it was an indirect hit. The guy is far from dead, blindly swinging his fists around, and I’m not so sure if I can repeat the trick. Instead, I choose to take my exit, and dash off towards the mountain as fast as my thin legs can carry me, the black knight’s vengeful roaring in my ears.

“I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS, YOU LITTLE WITCH! I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS! AARH!”

Thanks, but let’s never meet again.

9 : 251 : 22 : 36 : 17

Vast stairs of stone not made for human feet rise to the cathedral entrance. There’s no cover for me on that moonlit ascent, but I see no more enemies either. Twice as cautious before, I sneak past the pillars of stone and into the mountain’s jaws.

The closer I get the stronger the mysterious presence becomes.

I can almost hear a disembodied voice carry down the tall corridors from deeper in, speaking to me. Beckoning to me. A voice I’ve known all my life. No, even before I was alive, as little sense as that makes. It wants to see me as badly as I want to see it, but our time is running out. Something bad is about to happen. I need to be faster.

[Hurry. Hurry. Hurry!]

A formless anxiety wrings my chest and I run on. Someone else has passed here before me. Through the grim halls and hallways hacked into stone goes a trail of corpses. Bread crumbs of gore. On the walls hang crystal lamps to show the way. In their dim, azure glow, the rivers of blood run black like soot. The bodies belong to the big, blue men. They’re so big I need to take six long strides to pass the length of one and they’re all pure muscle. Whoever did this to them—I wouldn't want to run into that guy. But it doesn’t seem I have a choice. The bloodbath goes in the same direction where the nameless presence waits for me. I have to find it first!

I try not to think about what's at the end of the path and run on.

All the side corridors and empty rooms eventually converge into a single, narrow crack, which continues down into the earth's depths at a steadily steepening angle. Then the path opens up and I stumble into a vertical, round-sided shaft. Stone stairs go down along the curving wall. I look up and see the shaft continue straight up with no apparent limit, maybe piercing all the way through the mountain under which it was dug. But I'm not going up.

What I’m looking for is below. I’m sure of it now.

I skitter down the stairway, quietly, and finally reach the end of my journey.

At the very bottom of the dry well stands an elevated platform framed by ceremonial pillars, into which weird symbols are carved. The letters glow faintly in the otherwise lightless hall. Another fierce fight has taken place here, apparently in its final act now. More blue giants in crimson robes lie all over the floor, either dead or dying. Only one is left standing up on the platform, next to an altar in the middle. On the man’s dark face, words of the ancient language have been written in golden ink, and his robe is dyed bright yellow.

It’s not an army he’s up against.

I’d wondered what Navy Seals on steroids had wiped out the whole brotherhood, but there is only one guy facing off with the blue monk. Just one. And it’s somebody I’ve seen before.

The knight in golden armor. My birth parent.

He’s a bit shorter than the monk, not as buff. With all that heavy metal on him, he should be helpless. He has no helmet, or gauntlets either. His large hands are bare, unarmed. His groovy, blonde hair is swept back, showing clearly the triangular elf ears on the sides. His eyes twinkle with a mysterious, cold light that is terrifying to look at.

As harmless as he looks, my senses scream at me to get away from here.

That man is dangerous.

More dangerous than anything else on this island.

But then my attention is drawn elsewhere and I forget my dread.

On the altar between the two men hovers a box. A metal cube made up of countless small gears, which revolve slowly but never stopping. A warm, pulsating light flickers through the hair-fine seams between the gears. It looks only like old junk, but I can feel, even from a distance—that object has a mind of its own.

That box is the one who called me here.

The sole friendly voice in this nightmare. And my friend is in big trouble.

I hold my breath and inch down the stairs. Fortunately, the two monsters are too occupied with one another to notice me, or then I’m simply too insignificant to care about.

The golden knight speaks, a smile on his face.

“You managed to hide this island from me for eighteen thousand years, Kumlaun. Congratulations. I had to carve my way through all of Parkhenon to finally learn its location. But it’s over now. Tonight, our war has found its end.”

“I cannot let you take the Heart, Yaoldabath,” the monk in yellow replies. “This has naught to do with the war, or any of us. The Heart was entrusted to our order by the Gods. To be kept safe and never used, not for any purpose. It must not leave the seal on this island, or a calamity will befall all of Ortho.”

“The Old Gods are no longer with us,” the other one says, unimpressed. “Do you not regret your faith in them? Had you given up your oath and used the Cube, your civilization might still stand. The mass of all those innocent lives, cast away…Does it not bother you, Kumlaun?”

“All things must pass,” the monk called Kumlaun answers. There’s a hint of sorrow in his expression. “My people's fate was sealed when they chose to follow Umbraunt. But beware, son of Valios! Your proud Dominion is no different. The same fate may yet await your people too. The prize you seek will not ward off doom, it may only accelerate it. Such is its nature. It will not serve you well. Leave it lie!”

The haughty smile on the sparkly knight's face doesn't fade.

“And who says I mean to use it for the good of 'my Dominion'?” he poses.

“What?” The monk stands taken aback. “Then why...? You cannot mean to revive the monster of Brann? Preposterous! Why do such a thing?”

With a smile, the man in gold reaches out and replies, “’To force the Gods’ hand.’”

“Then you are mad!” Kumlaun shouts in sudden rage. “This place will be your grave, Yaoldabath! A tó hé! Telé sueimá!”

Kumlaun reaches for the Cube. He means to use it as a desperate, last-ditch attempt to overcome the foe he knows is beyond him. Breaking his eons-old oath is a small price to pay, to avoid the alternative.

The shimmering box momentarily brightens and ascends a notch above the altar...And then sinks back down, quieting.

The gleaming creep breaks into a chuckle.

“You have grown blind, old man! I already took over the Cube’s control matrix during our little chat. You don’t need to give it to me; it is already mine.”

“Hmph!”

His face hardening, the ptolean monk lunges at the foe, ready to murder him with his bare fists if he must.

But it’s no use. Before his enormous knuckles can reach the enemy, the knight raises his hand. Hair-fine fissures of red light, like a cobweb of curses, wrap around the monk’s great frame and stop him short. He fights back with all the might of his enormous body and ferocious will, but the threads of crimson dig through his steely skin and clothes and eat into his muscles. That binding cannot be broken by physical means.

He may wear armor, but that man's no soldier. He's a magician. A real magician.

The golden sorcerer sneers at the monk.

“I’ve often wondered this, Kumlaun—how does it feel to stand on the verge of extinction? Knowing that there are only a handful of your kind left in the world, and once they are no more, there’ll be nothing at all.”

“Hrrnngg…!”

“We turned your cities to ash. Snuffed out the lives of your people. Plundered your treasures. What few are left of the once proud ptoleans will roam the world as homeless refugees, unwanted and loathed by all till the end of time. I’m certain it is an experience most unique.”

They keep on talking.

I’ve made it down to the edge of the platform. The object of the debate hovers right in front of my eyes. It’s a perfect cube, each side precisely as tall as it's wide, down to the atomic level. Simple but beautiful. Within that impeccable form is not only bewildering power, but also prodigious quantities of information, compressed and encoded in the cosmic language of mathematics.

But there is only one thing I want to know. Only one thing to ask God.

Who am I? Why am I here?

If there’s anyone or anything in this world that can give me an honest answer, it’s that box—I’m sure of it.

And it wants to tell me too. It can give me anything I could possibly want and more. All I need to do is get a little closer and open it.

[Come. Come closer. Closer. Closer. Closer.]

Driven by an irresistible yearning, I leave my hiding spot and crawl onto the stage behind the monsters. The blue monk can see me from his point of view. But either he can’t speak, trapped in the force field, or he chooses not to. I creep up to the altar and reach up towards the floating object. I don’t need to touch it physically. Even from an arm’s length away, I feel I’m already fully in its embrace and start to pry open the invisible door.

That’s when the man in gold notices me.

He can feel my intrusion through his mental link to the Cube. He glances over his pauldron and his cruel eyes flash with fury.

“How dare you, worm! Get back! You have no right to look upon it!”

His voice hits me like a jet stream, heavy with sheer malice. My mortal flesh insists I must obey. Obey and he might still show mercy and spare me from a fate worse than death. But the Cube pulls me back. It assures me I’m going to be fine. The enemy is only bluffing. He’s alone while we’re together. Like a gentle mother guiding my hand, it helps me fight back the will of the wizard.

His mind moves to intercept me on all sides, to force me out of the control system. But the Cube alters its internal architecture to make progress harder for the enemy and easier for me. It creates new obstacles at the speed of light to hold the man at bay, while all the locks unravel in front of me, and step by step my understanding expands. I reach deeper in thought, deeper and deeper, towards the core beating heavily with excitement. That's where my dear, dear friend awaits, and we can be together at last.

[I am your destiny. I am you.]

“Cease this!” the magician howls at me, recognizing that he can’t make it in time. “Let go of it! Now!”

I don’t listen. He has to divide his attention between containing the struggling ptolean and can’t come after me with all his might. Neither can he exert the necessary force to kill the monk with his high magic resistance, while wrestling with me over the artifact. The frustration drives him borderline mad with rage.

“AAAARRH—!”

The wizard recognizes he has to make a choice, and he does so without further delay. With a roar, he parts his mind from the Cube, and turns to smite the blue monk. With a spell made up of pure murderous wrath, he strikes Kumlaun crashing through the pillars and deep into the wall across the shaft. That done, he turns back to me, ready to rip me off the relic, kill me in the most humiliating, painful way he can think of. He’s confident even a split-second margin will be enough to catch up and overcome me, and he’s probably half right. But the other half is only wishful thinking.

There’s no margin whatsoever left.

I’m already at the last gate, its seals flying undone in front of me. The inner core opens up, welcoming me, embracing my fragile, wavering soul.

“You,” the wizard speaks to me, a look of helplessness on his face. “If you open that thing, you will die without ever knowing the reason why you were born.”

For a moment, I believe he’s telling the truth.

Then I open the Cube.

My consciousness is swallowed by a torrent of spotless white light that washes everything clean away.