The sky churned in shades of scarlet and green, streaked by golden lightning that scarred the heavens. The air was thick and acrid, burning with every breath, as though one were inhaling rust. And the wind… that wasn't a metaphor: it could peel flesh from bone with a single breeze.
The Traveler hovered over that diseased world, mounted atop an abominable creature—half spider, half crustacean—whose membranous wings cracked in rhythm with the earthquakes battering the land below. Beneath his armor, veined with living circuits and metal that pulsed like a heart, he waited.
Behind the visor, a smile.
The Yekth Breach still burned in his memory. Four centuries stealing time—wasted, unless he found the amulet. A relic of ancient power, hidden by an old planeswalker on this condemned world.
With it, the running would end. The time to hunt would begin.
He laughed. Once. Short. Dry.
"Just a little further…"
Then the world froze. The sky split—but not with light. With silence. A silence that hurt. And then, a humming: as if a thousand mouths prayed without tongues.
Lightning stilled. Wind ceased. Even time's pulse fell away, as though reality itself refused to go on.
From the heavens, something descended. Not light. Not shadow. Something that was neither. A stain of pure absence that devoured the sky. He felt it before he saw it.
It had found him.
A jolt of panic—something nearly forgotten—flared in his chest. Rage, terror, despair… all rose like primitive reflexes. His neural implant canceled them instantly, restoring him to mechanical calm. Empty. Artificial.
He inhaled deeply.
Power erupted from his body: energy harvested from over ten thousand worlds. The blast rippled outward in circles, briefly tearing through the black fog. The air crackled. The atmosphere hissed.
He moved his hand. The metal in the earth responded. Crude golems rose from the rocks, assembled in haste.
"In'zeh tor val!" he howled, bleeding energy. The golems answered, but they were toys against a hurricane.
Around him, rings of power spun faster and faster. Energy compressed. Heat retreated. Flesh dissolved; only will remained.
"Zhal'korath ven'thura nax'zeroth. Vaal'kareth shun'dal mor'akhen."
The incantation tore through the air like judgment.
The blackness faltered. And in doing so, revealed what lay behind. Faces that were not faces. Eyes without lids. Jaws without centers. Whispers without source.
"You should never have followed me."
The Traveler bent the spell's path, flung it into the void. A dead region—no coordinates, no time. There, a figure waited.
Its form was vaguely human. Too tall. Too thin. A monstrous grin twisted its faceless visage. Teeth crooked and red as rusted iron. The mouth opened. And with it, the universe caved inward.
A formless rift swallowed the attack whole.
The Traveler felt cold—not on his skin, but deeper, where neither will nor technology could reach. Real fear seized him from behind.
He tore space apart with his mind. A blue portal flickered before him. Not perfect. But enough.
There was still time. He could still escape.
Then, the voice.
"You will not escape, my prey."
It was no whisper, no scream. It was a presence grazing the ear like metal dragged across wet bone.
"Wherever you run… I will take what is mine by right of conquest. And woe to those who would deny my claim!"
It howled into the void with the fury of a thousand condemned worlds.
A black hand emerged from nothingness. It launched a bolt of energy. It struck just as he crossed the threshold.
Naples, Italy
September 12, 2023
The Piazza del Gesù Nuovo was nearly empty at that hour of night. Only lost tourists and weary workers rushing home after another long, underpaid day remained.
Giotto walked slowly, tired, on his way home. An audiobook played through his headphones: The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli.
His footsteps echoed against the wet cobblestones. Around him, the city's shadows trembled under the streetlights. A taxi crossed the square, windows fogged, oblivious to his presence.
Giotto shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The fabric was damp. The night smelled of old stone and garbage.
He was exhausted. Not from work. No, for Giotto, the past few days had simply been heavier than usual.
The cold made his bones shiver. He looked up at the sky, searching unwittingly for a sign. The moon glowed brightly—until a plane crossed its light, almost like an insult.
"What a joke," he muttered.
He no longer hoped for miracles. Even disasters would've been welcome. Anything to break the inertia. Something to say: this isn't all there is.
He crossed the street without looking and was nearly run over by a motorbike. The driver shouted something he didn't catch. Giotto raised a hand in apology, never slowing his pace.
The sidewalk sloped gently upward. Just a few more blocks.
He smiled to himself, imagining his parents' expressions—disappointment dressed as pity, followed by praise for the marvelous and perfect Stefano.
Three years ago, he'd left Lucca full of plans, dreaming of making it big in Naples with his fledgling software company. Now, he washed dishes in the greasy back kitchen of a second-rate pizzeria. Slept in a damp box where mold was winning the war against the walls. And still, he owed more than he had in the bank.
«When did my life become this?»
He wiped his forehead, brushing back blonde strands from his green eyes. The narrator's droning voice still flowed through the headphones. Machiavelli spoke of virtue, of power, of control. Big words for such small lives.
A lone bark pierced the silence from some nearby alley. Giotto flinched. He picked up the pace and barely dodged a car speeding downhill.
A tingle ran over his skin. Goosebumps rose, as if static danced invisibly across his body. He rubbed his arm instinctively. No loose wires. No storm. Just air, suddenly heavy, like something was about to snap.
His building appeared in the distance. Just a left turn into the trash-filled alley where the entrance was. He breathed a sigh of relief. All he wanted was to get home, lie down, maybe watch a movie and sleep eight hours. He had the day off tomorrow, after all.
"Gotta lose weight…" he muttered weakly.
He took another step—and the world vanished.
He dropped to his knees, no warning. The ground was smooth. Dry. His laces were tied. He hadn't tripped. He just… collapsed.
He tried to rise, but the floor pulled away, as if his body no longer obeyed. A thick dizziness wrapped around him.
And then, the impossible.
No thunder. No flash. Just a pressure in the air, like something inhaling from the far side of the sky. The wind died. The darkness seemed to retreat. Even the audiobook fell silent for a heartbeat.
Giotto felt a chill run down his spine. He looked around, dazed. Nothing seemed out of place.
The air shimmered before him, like heat rising off asphalt, then tore apart. A scar split through space with a flash of neon light. A mouth in the fabric of reality.
He didn't understand. Couldn't.
He tried to back away, but his limbs were clay. His heart pounded out of rhythm.
Something fell from the portal, shattering power lines that hung above the houses. Something heavy. It crashed beside him with a wet, dense thud.
It was a man, or something like one. His body was wrapped in rags and bandages. His face—if it was a face—was hidden. Only a constant trembling, a broken, stuttering breath. He looked like he was dying.
"What…?"
But there was no time to think. The man needed help.
"Help!" Giotto shouted. "Someone, call an ambulance!"
Nearby windows lit up. Curtains shifted. He thought he heard footsteps running his way.
The body convulsed—violent, rigid. Giotto, trembling, stepped closer. He remembered some first aid. Keep the airway clear. Prevent choking. Keep the patient breathing.
He leaned in.
A black bolt tore through the air. He never saw it coming—only felt it: a burning dagger through his chest.
No sound. Just pain. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His body arched, and everything became light and shadow at once. He fell, unable to move a finger.
The last thing he saw was the stranger crumbling into dust. Ash. Carried away by the night wind, as if he'd never been there at all.