If I had a penny for every time I was torn from reality by a powerful cultivator and dragged through space and time I'd have . . . well, I'd have two pennies.

But it's weird that it's happened twice.

The experience of being ripped out of reality and pushed into another was not unlike being rudely ejected from a club by an overly handsy bouncer. One minute, I was in the woods with my crew and the next moment, I was . . . well, I have absolutely no idea.

"Big M, what the hell just happened?"

It was then that I became aware of the legendary wizard-sized space in my consciousness.

This did very little for my mental equilibrium. Since he had returned from his banishment, I had become quite reliant on the old duffer. Sure, we had our moments, but there was something comforting in having him in my corner.

Seeking to quell my growing sense of panic, I peered around, trying to get a sense of my new surroundings. It was hard to see too clearly in the dim light, but it was pretty obvious I was in a prison cell of some kind.

Now, in the grand scheme of celestial adventures, suddenly finding oneself transported to a dark and dingy cell that could generously be described as "intimate" was not quite how I saw my day developing.

The place was a kaleidoscope of dank charm and rustic despair, with the walls channelling their "indoor rainforest" vibe. It was like they couldn't quite decide if they wanted to be solid or a liquid but were willing to give both a good old-fashioned try. It was all very avant-garde.

I don't want to give you the impression it was all doom and gloom, though. Not at all. I had a window. Right up there, just higher than I could reach, was a lofty little thing that offered a tiny, tantalising glimpse of freedom and, presumably, the sky.

I had a mate who did quite well in the marriage stakes and netted herself an architect. He'd designed and built his own house, and seeing that window up there reminded me of all the skylights he'd dotted around the place. It was like the dude had something personal against windows. And - if memory serves - the whole 'forsaking all others' thing. When push came to shove, she got the house, and he shuffled away back to his parents in Pontypridd with chlamydia. I mean, he had chlamydia. Not his parents. From all the dicking around, you get me? Now, I'm not saying being anti-window and having the clap are related, but . . . I'm rambling, aren't I?

Yes.

Never have I been happier to hear from a psychotic sword.

"Drynwyn! Good to know you're here. Do you know what's happening?"

No idea. Is this a fucking prison?

"I think so."

Well, there's no sense getting all hyped up about it. Someone put you here. Someone will come and let you out. We'll fucking kill them when they do and take it from there. No bother.

I don't want to overstress how discombobulated I was feeling, but that plan actually made me feel quite a bit better.

I took a deep breath to try to get my levels of zen rising.

This turned out to be a mistake.

The air in my cell had a particular... character. Something like a blend of eau de dungeon with a hint of mossy overtones. It was the sort of scent that you'd expect to find bottled and sold in the backstreets of Brownhills, labelled "Essence of Ancient Enigma".

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Not having anything better to do with my time, I sat myself down on the stone floor. Now, the straw down here is a nice touch. It added a certain rustic panache to the place. As I shuffled my arse around to try and get comfy, the movement was accompanied by a symphony of crunches, like I was laying an egg on a carpet of autumn leaves.

I can't hear Merlin. What the fuck happened to him?

"He was telling me that someone was channelling shedloads of Qi to try to break through to our side of reality and then . . . well, I guess that happened."

I don't want to be rude, but life was much fucking simpler with Rhyddrech Hael.

"I can imagine."

None of this Qi fuckery with him. Nope. The worst thing that was likely to happen with him was getting a spot of baby oil on my blade. No one ever ripped a hole in reality to drag him into a dingy prison cell. No sir. Although to be fair, we tended to visit Monsieur Whip's Dungeon a few times a month . . .

"And to think I was glad to hear from you."

What?

"Doesn't matter."

My eyes had adjusted to the gloom now, and I could see that the iron door in the centre of the wall opposite was the true pièce de résistance of the cell. It looked like it had seen better days, and in that, I felt we shared the beginning of a close bond. The door had character etched into every rusty groove and dent.

I could have done without the bloody handprints, though, to be honest.

The interior designer of the whole cell was clearly a fan of the "less is more" philosophy and had decided that anything more than four walls, a window, and a door was extravagant. Perhaps they were making a bold statement about the futility of material possessions. I could dig that.

Or maybe they just ran out of budget.

Although, tell a lie, there was a bucket in the corner to my left. It was a classic piece that highlighted the room's aesthetic. I named it Bob. Bob the Bucket. He didn't say much, but I could tell he had a certain depth to him. I felt we were going to be great friends.

Are you okay? Your breathing has gone all funny.

Surprisingly, someone pointing out you are hyperventilating does little to calm you down. The problem was I didn't like enclosed spaces. I didn't have claustrophobia or anything like that. It was just being locked in here, all alone, reminded me of some really bad times.

"I'm okay, Drynwyn. Just get yourself ready for some fiery death when we get the chance."

I don't know how long I sat there.

It's funny how easy it is to lose track of time in a dark room with just your thoughts and a mad sword for company. At some point, I became aware of the distant sounds of dripping water. It was oddly rhythmic, a sort of plip-plop symphony that provided a soothing backdrop to my less-than-ideal situation.

It was either that or the world's saddest water feature.

After a while of no one coming to let me out, I dropped into my Artist's Studio to try to meditate. I hoped that if I could reach out with my senses beyond the confining walls, I'd start to feel a little better. But it's hard to achieve enlightenment when you're constantly being distracted by the artistic splattering of greenish mould on the wall that looked suspiciously like your father's disapproving face.

Seriously, you keep fucking breathing like that, and we're going to run out of oxygen.

Time rolled by with all the grace of a one-legged turtle. I tried to amuse myself by counting the drips from the ceiling, imagining them as a sort of watery metronome ticking away the seconds of my captivity. It was like nature's own version of water torture, except less torture and more just really, really annoying.

Then, as night fell, the cell took on a whole new persona. The sunlight from my skylight began to fade, and shadows danced along the walls, thrown by the flickering torchlight from somewhere outside my little abode. It was like being in a low-budget production of "Hyperventaliting Cultivator in a Cell: The Musical," except there was no music, no chorus line, and definitely no fucking applause.

I wondered what Bors and Arthur were doing at that moment. Probably something heroic and awe-inspiring, like running away from Saxons in the woods and bitching about it. Meanwhile, here I was, engaging in a staring contest with 'I'm not mad, just disappointed' mould daddy.

Sleep was elusive, like a shy nymph in a forest of dreams.

Where the fuck did that simile come from?

"What can I say, Drynwyn? Incarceration brings out my poetic side." Especially as the straw was less "bed of comfort" and more "bed of 'why is this poking me in the ribs like it wants to get intimate?'"

However, as hours drifted by, eventually, emotional exhaustion took over, and I felt myself drift off into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of white coats and pills that made me feel dead inside.

When I woke, Bob the Bucket and Mould Father were still both there, silently judging me.

But there was still no sight or sound of my captors.