Raxri awoke half-submerged in ankle-high water. It glowed azure. Blue tendrils stretched to the night sky. Peace. Warmth. It promised an end to all pain.

  The dim light of the moon was comfortable. For a moment. All pain, gone. No more wizards. No more martial arts. No more cultivators. Raxri doesn't remember anything at all.

  Maybe that was for the best—

  —a voice of grinding stone shattered the silence. "GET UP."

  Leave me be, Raxri thought, their mind thick. I am so tired...

  "THE WATERS ARE NOT FOR HEALING, SWORDSTRESS. IT IS A DIGESTION PIT. DO YOU FEEL IT? YOUR WILL UNSPOOLS. INTO SURRENDER. HEALING AND DEATH ARE TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN. THAT IS WHY IT IS CALLED RESURRECTION."

  Scarlet stars burned within Raxri's eyes. The voice was right. A coldness was seeping into their core, a numbness that had nothing to do with the water. The warmth was a lie. It was consuming them.

  "WALK!" the voice—their own?—cackled. "OR BE DEVOURED BY YOUR OWN SORROW. DRINK OF THE WINE OF THE WRATH OF GOD. KILL ALL THE AWAKENED ON THE ROAD."

  With a gasp that was half-scream, Raxri Uttara tore themselves from the sapphire liquid. Water sluiced from their form as they stumbled onto cold, hard stone. Bare feet padding onto the chilling gravel.

  Reconstitution.

  Their brown broad-shouldered body—a sacred geometry of slender muscle and softness—fell to its knees. A cold wind wrapped around Raxri and their bones screamed, terrified of the frost. They shivered. Their scarlet eyes shorn of memory, was framed by lotus-like eyelashes.

  A laugh. The voice continued: "WALK, WALK! YE ONCE-DEAD! LET THE WORLD REALIZE THY MADNESS. THOU HAST BEEN KILLED! FIND OUT WHY... AND ENACT THE PROPER VENGEANCE." The cackle of a mad woman caged within the husk of a man. "REACH VIOLENCE! UNTIL ALL THE HELLS ARE EMPTY, UNTIL ALL BEINGS ARE FREE!"

  Until all beings are free. A thought from our dear Raxri's mind. Arising, dependently, from the prodding of the Holy Fool.

  The cackle of crazy wisdom pierced the gloom. Invisible hands ripped their eyes open again. "WITNESS! THE WORLD'S END!"

  They opened their eyes again—when had they closed them?—and looked straight up. The Sword Moon leered at them, through a hole in the chasm. His gleam bathed them in the light of pallid undeath. A giant edifice framed the moon: an arch with the middle removed. Two spires creating a gateway—a Divine Gate. Its adobe was a deep red. Blood used to bind it together.

  The scarlet-haired swordstress shivered and then took their time to ground themself. Wounded, naked, alive. A large gash on their belly, another across their chest. Incredibly, the wounds seem to have healed, turning soft pink.

  The pain persevered. Blossomed, eventually, into anger. Who did this to me?

  Raxri’s tattoo itched, ink writhing like worms under their skin.

  They expanded their awareness, encompassed the darkness. Statues. Ten Omniscients—those that have attained Supremely Perfect Awakening. All humming a single note. A continuous drone of oblivion. Each wielded a distinct weapon: a longknife, a pewter staff, a bow and arrow, an arquebus, a longsword, a greatsword, a spear, prayer beads, a crossbow, and then four sets of hands.

  Muscle memory rang clear: Raxri folded their hands in front of their head, lips, and heart. They didn't know what it meant; all they knew was that they had done it before, and so it felt like second nature to them. Like breathing. Or smiling.

  Then—clothes, nearby. Folded. A monk's offer: a sarong and a scarlet wrap shirt with cap sleeves. No slippers, no over-shawl, and no undergarments.

  At the edges of the chasm, Raxri sensed corpses—cadavers—all rotted.

  They turned and walked towards the last thing they became aware of: the opening that led to a corridor. As they neared it, they noticed a bronze mirror—the frame of it a giant imp-like demon—leaning against the opening. It was exceedingly dirtied, part of it had fractured off. No doubt, this place must have been some sort of ritual importance, now abandoned.

  Their face: a stranger's. Brown skin. White hair. A talisman of ink, writhing around their arm. Muscles sharp, stance firm.

  The Mystic Martial Artist breathed. Followed the path.

  Their feet pattered upon a cold, hard, cavernous rock.

  Until—a doorway. A bulging-eyed, sharp-fanged demon god stood atop the arch. It whispered a mantra. Again and again.

  Raxri's throat tightened, a white-hot knot of unspoken words.

  Keep walking. Raxri uttered their own mantra. They walked through the doorway, ignoring the eyes swiveling to watch them.

  A clearing in the cavern. Rugged and craggy rock metamorphosed into smooth gray stone. Patterns of overlapping circles engraved—the rippling circles of a stone dropped into a still pond.

  Light illuminated the hall. Raxri looked up to notice whiteglass lotuses housing white smokeless fires in the shape of perfect spheres and bulbs of light. Four-armed, bulging-eyed guardian spirit sculptures held up each lotus housing. No doubt, due to the march of time, some of the sculptures have lost their arms and hands.

  Lotuslights? The nervous system of the temple was a network of electric circuitry etched into the bone of its stone walls. The circuitry rippled out of holes in circles: a pond constantly disturbed. Who made these? To whom does this temple belong to...? What powers this temple that it continues to run despite being in a state of disrepair?

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Raxri's feet padded upon cold stone. Nephrite pillars lined the sides of the corridor, stories of warfare and justice carved onto its bas-reliefs. Many of the pillars are crumbled, no longer supporting the stone roof.

  Foot after ragged foot: Raxri's walking led them to a broken stairway of blue jade, so blue that it could've been considered lazuli. Can I jump it? Might as well try. Things can't get any worse. With a grunt, they threw themself over the crumbled-away pit and easily onto the other side, clambering onto what was left of the blue jade stairway.

  They breathed. Their physicality returned to them like a long-lost pet. They hauled themselves onto the stairs, noticing that the blue jade glowed an almost unearthly blue-green. Is this some sort of guide to my path? Is this similarly powered by what powered the lotus lights?

  Raxri let out a shaky breath. Nowhere to go but forward. They took a step up the stairs—the Temple-Dungeon rumbled. A tremor ran through it like a groaning dragon. Without another word—as if murderous intent was amalgamated into a survival instinct—a flash of ire exploded from Raxri. And from that flash of ire Raxri leapt, twisting in mid-air. The stairs crumbled beneath their feet as they padded onto the raised platform of blacker jade. "Whoa." Raxri looked behind them. The stairs had fallen away, crumbled into impenetrable abyss. They looked at their feet. "How did I...?"

  Nowhere to go but forward indeed. Raxri turned from the ruin. They looked up—there, two giant ogre statues flanked a narrow set of stone doors. Flanged shoulder armor, eyes bulging and fangs twisting. Raxri breathed. Are these... directional guardians? Yakkas? Ogres? Demon Guardians... The direction they're facing is what they're guarding against.

  Raxri paused and looked over their shoulder. What manner of evil did they seal...?

  A beat. Raxri decided that the ogre statues were not going to move, not going to assail them—at least, not yet. They placed their hands on the two stone doors, hewn from stone and engraved with the same overlapping circles rippling across them. In the slight darkness, Raxri could make out, squinting, the little flecks of stars scattered across them. The night sky reflected from a rippling pond.

  Raxri's muscles awoke like dragons uncoiling from stone as they heaved and pushed the doors straight open. Their muscles spoke: Hey, this is your body. You were so comfortable in it once.

  Like a friend reaching out a hand to help, Raxri was suddenly imbued with strength.

  The doors groaned. White dust billowed. Loose stones tip-tap fell onto the ground. The machinery within the doors creaked and groaned and protested... until finally acknowledging Raxri's latent strength.

  The doors swung open like a jaw unhinging, stone teeth grinding against the floor. The night wind was a cold hammer striking Raxri's face, body.

  The smell of emancipation, a slight glimpse at liberation. Raxri's hair whipped about them, their sarong fleeing from the touch of freedom.

  Raxri moved forward. The night sky was cut by a clean stone path flanked by bamboo groves that lead into a cliff. A curtain parted: a shooting star streaked across the starry night sky.

  The Gash of the Invincible Blade Princess cleaved the black of the sky.

  Inhaling the cold air, Raxri felt the warm rejuvenation catalyzed into vigor. They stepped forward, bare feet embracing the cold stone at first and then eventually the harder, weed-choked stone path as they stepped into the bamboo gateway.

  Beings watched them from between the shadow of the bamboo. As is well: they were unnerved by the utter lack of spirits inside the chasm they crawled out from.

  Deep inside them, they knew that the world they walked upon was the world of spirits, not man. To stake one's own kingdoms and empires is to accord with the gods that walked upon the grass, danced about the clouds, swam across the trees, and warred in the seas. Or to subjugate them. But the cycle of subjugation abounds, unlike the mutual trust of the accord.

  The stone path was eventually choked by grass, soil, roots, and underbrush. The spirits always reclaim what is theirs. Raxri walked upon dank soil until they found themselves near the cliff's edge. There they beheld the vista:

  Overpowering the scene was a titanic strangler fig reaching into the sky. It held the Firmament, or at least a part of it. Further, craggy spires scoured the sky, the fingers of a long-dead giant. Clouds dance about it in mockery. You will never touch the sky! In the valley below, smoke wafted up and dissipated into the black. Multi-roofed wooden shrine structures jut out from the lower mountains, stopping by a river. The river fed into a small village of stilt houses and cottages until a lake, at the mouth of the valley, where a city walled by the roots of the titanic strangler fig slumbered.

  To their east, past the jagged mountains that formed the southern part of the valley, were more coastal towns, similarly slumbering, with nary but slight torches to keep them alight, to ward off bears, tigers, and crocodiles.

  Immediately to their east, Raxri saw the dirt path that led down to that coastal region. A destroyed wagon lay upon its middle.

  Raxri inhaled. Their muscles creaked and moved. They felt as if rusted cogs began moving on their own within their bodies, ready to carry them where they needed to be. They took a step forward when--

  "Oi!" A man peeked out from the path. Clad in bandit's garb: a dusty and torn sarouel, a sleeveless, collar-less vest, and a cloak that covered his face all the same. His hair was shorn on its right side. A tattoo branded the left side of his face. Not a talisman. "What do you 'ere!"

  Raxri bit their lip, stepped back. "Please, patience, good sers! I am lost!

  "Lost? At this time of night in the midst of the forest? Don't fuck with us!"

  Another man stepped in, wearing much of the same, though this one had bright blonde hair contrasting his burnt caramel skin. "Jugi... Do you not think it foolish to deal with that one? See: it bears monksclothes, and walks out of the Vault of Souls."

  The Vault of Souls... a hallowed pit the far eastern tip of Pemi. Otherwise known as the End of the World. Souls thrown here are kept in thrall for eternity, removed from the Whorl and forced to dream eternal.

  "Fuck the monkrobes Ruru! The Wizard'll pay all the same for a good piece of esoterica," said the other bandit, stepping closer. They pronounced "esoterica" by uttering every syllable. Mocking. This bandit brandished his longknife—a heavy, single-edged blade every Utter Islander used for everything from chopping wood to chopping men.

  The blonde bandit frowned, staring at Raxri. "Look at its eyes. That’s no dead thing. That’s... a woman?"

  "What stygian business would a woman have in the Vault of Souls? What kind of demon mockery is this, ha?"

  The blonde bandit paused for a moment. Then they said: "Did not the wizard say to look out for a dawn-haired chick?"

  Jugi, the dark-haired man, said: "Oh. The Heaven Dancer? Right, the wizard said look out for a heaven dancer with white hair! Could that be...?"

  Sighing, the blonde bandit raised their kinked-up longsword. "Even if it isn't... the wizard'll pay all the same. I'll be damned if I shirk the commands of heaven." The two of them lunged.

  Raxri inhaled, exhaled. They fell into battle meditation. In that meditation, they trusted their body's memory.

  Something blossomed in their body. No: multiple things blossomed in their body. Raxri could see it, burgeoning like a lotus.

  First, at their groin area, their Yellow Secret Chakra.

  Then, at their liver: the Green Abdominal Chakra.

  Then, at their chest, the Crimson Heart Chakra.

  Then, at their neck: the White Throat Chakra.

  Finally at their forehead, at the top of their head, atop their blinking Third Eye (invisible, still): their Azure Crown Chakra.

  Raxri was a keening thunderhead, about to explode. In their Liver, their mystic Inner Power—their Ardor or Sidhi—suddenly burned, sending their Inner Winds—their Breath or their Hawa—flurrying through all of their chakras and meridians.

  What... what is this? What power do I hold?

  Against all the Gods and all the Omniscients, without weapon nor armor: Raxri moved forward to meet them.

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