Neon

  The blue flames flickered and kissed Neon’s eyebrows as they fell into lights less than cinders, the flame’s form resembled that of a person’s back, a somebody she could never reach. Her heart was beating, pounding, and drumming. The room was no longer scented like rot and mold, but salt and soot. It was sunlit, warm in the darkness, followed by that azure blade entering the Letter-Writer’s chest. Neon felt it, she felt the warmth of bleeding slithering down her body,dy and the cold entered her wounds. As she felt the sensation leaving her, she noticed her necklace shining in the dark.

  The messenger who came with the Letter-Writer walked past her as he gave a pat on Neon’s shoulder.

  “Wait!” she called out as her footsteps followed the messenger up the crossing staircase that had been blanketed with dust in a color of tear stain, leaving her footsteps, stamping the resting dust.

  “Can I come with you?”

  “…Seren, can the girl come with me?” the messenger said. From his voice, Neon recognized that he was the owner of that shop.

  “Sure.”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  Following the messenger and his rune torch, Neon climbed up the stairs, full of turns and broken stairs as if it were a maze to isolate the master of the manor from the visitors. Neon thought the owner of such a manor would’ve been lonely, either by choice or not. She doesn’t know a lot about the First Mephisto; no one really does, except some small groups and the School of Faust, but she felt that the First Mephisto didn’t like to be with others.

  As they climbed the stairs, they were greeted by a light peeking from afar. Neon had to squint her eyes; it was dimmer than the blue flames, but it felt like the light was trying to push them away, telling them to go off.

  After a short walk to the light source, where the gate, the hall, and the light were vivid and clear, Acryl and the man were right behind the door. Right as she was walking forward, the messenger stopped Neon as he blocked her way with his arm.

  “…Stay by my side, kid…after this, nothing will be the same,” he said with a deep tone.

  Neon did as she was told. She felt the coldness of the necklace again. Chilling yet comforting at the same time.

  Realm-art: Beauty lasts short

  The pollen rose from the ground as if they were reversed snowflakes, reaching for the sky.

  Flowers bloomed from the ground, there was no pleasant scent, and everything smelled as it was. In the tiny flower field were empty circles of flowers. Instead, they were covered by moss and things that resembled mold. Her field of vision was filled with the pollen. What was behind the curtain of pollen was no more of her concern, instead, she noticed a sigh from the messenger.

  As silence took over, a wind blew, disturbing the false flower field and the scentless pollen. Neon saw the snow, glowing and moving in the breeze, similar to the cold wind in Songhua. And after the shush of the wind followed a crackle.

  “O, the father of the starry void, I pray to thee, to bless me in this battle, give me the courage to stand against thy enemies…in thy name, the Dome shall stand,” the messenger whispered as he put his hand on his chest, where a badge with the cross of the dilemma was carved.

  Neon was a non-believer; it was hard for her to be, being a Siyuenese meant the Existence cared for them with rules unshakable and punishment unavoidable.

  “Kid, let me be honest, close your eyes. You wouldn’t want to be here.”

  Neon did as he said, the cracking continued as she heard something falling out, a loud and long noise, a choir of many bleeding, dying soldiers.

  “But you still come, why?” the messenger asked, voice trembling.

  “…Because I made a promise?” she responded, keeping her eyes shut, but she felt something akin to vision. Scenes that were colorless and formless stayed in her head. A figure that she could not comprehend, gigantic and puny at the same time. The necklace was boiling, she could feel it trembling between her collarbones, a tuning fork of terror.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Even if it may cost your life? Quite hot-blooded…an old man like me won’t do it.”

  “But I guess it’s never too late to be young.”

  “Listen, kid, I will try to stop them, but I need you to keep the ritual going as long as possible. If you passed Realm-lore, you couldn’t go too wrong with this.”

  Neon felt a weight, both in her heart and in her hands. It felt like carrying an infant. A hope and a new beginning.

  She opened her eyes as she heard the messenger’s footsteps leaving her. Neon didn’t raise her head, she knew what strode and fought there was beyond her ability and understanding. Her heart beat fast, her body ready to flee, but she couldn’t.

  The materials for the ritual were in her hand: an arcane knife, powders of bone, and a small glass of blood that had the name “Josh” written on it.

  She tried to recall what ritual required such materials.

  The aurora of bloodshed- one of the rituals the messenger used to boost their chance of winning during wars.

  That ritual didn’t prove to be too effective, but it boosted morale.

  There wasn’t much time for her to think; she ducked, one knee touching the ground, and she carved the symbols and sigils onto the ground. The steam of Realm’s power condensed onto her as the knife left marks on the half-soft ground.

  The sigils for it were sealed next to the medium.

  Neon tried to ignore the clashing behind the gate- it was a different world, only unscrewing the cork of the extract. She cautiously poured the drips of blood into the bone powder. The powder diluted in the extract as it changed color, she then held the mixture in her hand, like cupping the soil someone once took care of, grabbing the dead twig from a tree that someone once felt to be the place they truly belonged.

  The sigils carved on the ground started to glow as Neon poured the mixture into the carving.

  It flew in a hue similar to its name. The ghostly green and blues.

  …

  Acryl

  That thing.

  Acryl couldn’t believe that he did not feel that existence when he was in the hall. Thinking now, there was another wave of powers that he felt; if Kaspar’s Realm-art was a wave, then that thing would be a tsunami. A tsunami Acryl wouldn’t even dare to resist, to flee to safety. He could only pray, praying that it would crush everything in its way faster.

  It was enormous, the crust of blood and wicked bodies met in a way that defied the fundamentals of life and biology. Acryl doubted that calling it blood would be correct, as its colors were not of his understanding; it was dark yet shining, glittering, something which felt like watching the crown of a monarch. The seconds it fell, before the closing of his eyes, Acryl noticed the bumps on its masks, masks of the messengers.

  What could his Realm-art possibly be?

  Kindling…four times sharpened, no doubt, more on the combat side…perhaps also crossing on the Gate archetype…

  “Warned you before, young lad. He’s the rising star in those Auderheimian secret societies.”

  Flowers blossomed under Acryl, around him, and covering the hall. The lifeless, yet ethereal hall turned into a botanical garden sustained by death.

  “…Mister, he came for the Letter-Writer.”

  “Seren would only add to this mess…listen, the victory between casters is not defined by the sharpness of their Realm-art. But by the mastery of them.”

  “…Are you not in pain, kid?”

  Acryl did not respond, only letting his raw, uncontrolled Realm-art spread along the pain. The pain kept him awake. Colors, wild and bright, burning like his anger towards Kaspar. He took a deep breath, waiting for the messenger’s and Kaspar’s move.

  One heartbeat

  Nothing happened, flakes of light fell, and the thing only lay inanimate on the floor.

  Two heartbeat

  The amalgamation of masks and matter, utterly unnamed, started to twitch, ever so slightly.

  Three heartbeat

  Heat. Heat rose under his feet, around him. The air was almost burning. An explosion was about to happen, his colors shielding him and the messenger.

  Four heartbeat

  An explosion. The messenger unsheathed his sleeve blade as he dashed forward. Acryl let his colors follow him, shielding him. Pain. Crawling and piercing him, cutting his feelings and senses. But he needed it. Only the phantom pain beyond physiology kept him sane now.

  Five heartbeat

  Acryl didn’t know why, but he strode with Josh. By the mist of the dust, he crossed his arms before his face, peeking out from them as he dashed forward.

  Another explosion would be devastating to Kaspar, Acryl could already hear the structure of the building breaking when he turned them into colors. But they were his creations, colors on the tip of his paintbrush. He ruled them.

  And so he dashed into the unknown.