At first, there was nothing.
A black void, thick and viscous like oil, pressed in from all sides. The darkness had weight—crushing, suffocating, alive.
Then a white-gloved hand appeared, fingers long and elegant, too perfect to be human. It beckoned with slow, deliberate motions.
A voice echoed through the nothing—smooth as silk wrapped around shattered glass:
"You wanna be King of Kings, don't cha? Then shake my hand... come onnn... one more time, why don't you shake a poor sinner's hand?"
The words reverberated, multiplying, bouncing off walls that didn't exist.
Light exploded across vision like a knife cutting through cloth.
A sea of clouds stretched endlessly in every direction—thick white and grey vapors rolling like ocean waves frozen mid-crash. The sky above burned pale purple, caught between dawn and day, neither one nor the other. No sun visible. No stars. Just endless violet emptiness.
On this impossible sea floated a crude wooden raft—six feet of weathered planks lashed together with fraying rope, no sail, no oars, no logical reason it should move at all.
Yet it glided smoothly across the vapor, catching wind that shouldn't exist.
On that raft lay Ephraim Boichi.
Sixteen years old. Light-skinned with messy wavy black hair that stuck up in every direction, and cutting straight through it—from forehead to crown—a white streak like a skunk's tail. Green eyes, currently closed. Lean but muscular build visible even through his cropped black jean jacket worn over a white tank top. Black jeans. Black and white Converse, laces loose and untied.
A knapsack sat beside him, half-open, contents spilling slightly.
He jolted awake suddenly—body jerking upright, eyes snapping open, looking around like he'd lost track of where and when he was.
Yawned. Stretched, joints popping. Cracked his neck.
"Almost there now, let's take a lookie."
He pulled a holo pad from his jacket pocket—a thin rectangle of glass and light that projected a blue screen into the air above his palm:
MESSENGER CONTRACTMarine Vessel 237Primary Target: The Knife of DedraPayment: 40 Tithes, 40 Eddies
Below the text, a compass arrow pointed steadily forward.
Ephraim grinned—cocky, confident, the smile of someone who'd done this before and would do it again.
"Alrighttt, one more mission and I can rank up. Let's make some magic happen."
He groaned dramatically, stood, cracked his knuckles.
Then leaped.
Not a normal jump—a launch. His body shot into the air like a bullet, soaring impossibly high, covering 1.5 nautical miles in a single arc before landing silently on the bottom hull of a massive warship floating in the distance.
The ship was enormous—a floating fortress of dark metal and reinforced steel, bristling with cannons and watchtowers. The hull curved upward into multiple decks, flags bearing military insignia snapping in the wind.
Ephraim found a ventilation shaft—a metal grate barely three feet wide—and pried it open with his fingers. Squeezed inside.
The shaft was cramped, claustrophobic. Metal walls on all sides. Darkness ahead broken only by thin beams of light filtering through distant grates. He crawled forward on hands and knees, the sound of his movement echoing softly.
"Holy shit, this place is a maze. I'll nev—"
He paused.
An aroma drifted through the ventilation system—sweet, savory, unmistakably food. His stomach growled loud enough to echo off metal walls.
"Can't hurt to check the menu a bit."
He shifted direction, following the scent, crawling faster now. Found an exit grate, looked down through the slats.
Maintenance room. Below. Maybe fifteen feet down.
He pried the grate open and dropped through.
CRASH.
He landed hard—not on concrete, but on a rolling tool cart loaded with wrenches, hammers, spare parts. The cart exploded on impact, tools scattering across the floor with deafening clangs and crashes. A wrench bounced off a pipe, creating a bell-like ting. A hammer hit the ground and spun. Metal rolled in every direction.
"Shit," Ephraim whispered, freezing.
Footsteps approached—heavy boots on metal flooring.
A maintenance worker rounded the corner, flashlight in hand, squinting into the dim room. He swept the light across scattered tools, the overturned cart, the grate hanging open above.
"Hello?"
Silence.
He took another step, light playing across empty corners.
"Captain needs to do something about these damn rats," he muttered, shaking his head. "They're gonna fuck something up down here eventually."
He turned and walked away, footsteps fading.
Above the exact spot where Ephraim had crashed, floating silently three feet off the ground, Ephraim hovered. His body bobbed slightly up and down—attracted to magnetic points in the ceiling above and floor below, using the opposing forces to suspend himself mid-air.
He waited until the footsteps disappeared completely.
Then dropped, slowing his descent this time with careful magnetic pulls. Landed softly. Silently.
He crept past the doorway the worker had disappeared through, moving like a shadow, and slipped into the laundry unit adjacent to maintenance.
The room smelled like detergent and steam. Industrial washers lined one wall, dryers on the other.
"Come onnn, how can a fuckin' laundry room not have laundry? What the fuck?"
He rifled through empty racks, checked hampers, opened lockers.
Finally found it tucked in the back: an all-black private uniform with a brimmed hat, freshly pressed.
He grinned, grabbed it, stuffed his regular clothes into his knapsack.
Changed quickly.
The uniform hung loose on his frame—too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves, pants bunching at the ankles.
"Alright, a bit loose, but whatever."
Ephraim strolled confidently up metal stairs, past multiple decks, weaving through corridors. Marines gave him odd looks—confused by the ill-fitting uniform, by the cocky walk, by the fact they didn't recognize him.
But nobody stopped him.
He found the café on Deck 3—a large open space with metal tables bolted to the floor, a serving line along one wall manned by cooks in stained aprons, the smell of fresh bread and grilled meat making his mouth water.
He grabbed a tray.
Loaded it.
Then another.
Sat down at a corner table and proceeded to gorge himself—10 plates, 12, 15, losing count, eating like he hadn't seen food in days.
Two corporals approached—older men, salt-and-pepper hair, stripes on their sleeves, faces already red with anger.
"PRIVATEEE!" the first one screamed, voice cracking with outrage. "WHAT IN THE GODS' NAMES HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU?! WHY DO YOU THINK YOU CAN EAT ALL OF THIS?!"
The second joined in, jabbing a finger at Ephraim: "WHY ON DEMETER'S SOIL DO YOU THINK YOU CAN WEAR YOUR OUTFIT LIKE THAT?! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!"
Ephraim, mid-bite into what might have been his sixteenth plate, held up one finger.
Both corporals paused, mouths hanging open in shock.
He chewed slowly. Swallowed. Took a sip of water.
Smiled.
"My bad, boss man. I'm hungry as shit, you get it, don't cha? Hahahahaaaa."
Their faces went from red to purple.
"I'll fix it right away, uh, sir man."
They lunged—arms outstretched, ready to grab him.
Too slow.
Ephraim leaped backward over the table in a perfect arc, legs kicking up. Mid-flip, he magnetized the table and chairs behind him—metal furniture suddenly attracted to his body—and kicked out with both feet.
The table and four chairs shot forward like projectiles.
CRASH.
Both corporals went down hard, pinned under furniture, groaning.
The entire café erupted.
Marines jumped to their feet. Trays clattered. Someone hit the alarm—a wailing siren that echoed through the entire ship.
Red lights began strobing.
Fuckkkk, great going Ephraim, he thought, already running. Could've at least found the damn blade before pissing them off.
Marines flooded the corridors from every direction—uniforms, weapons, shouting voices overlapping into chaos.
Water magic blasted toward Ephraim from three different guards—pressurized streams that could punch through steel.
He curved the water around himself with magnetic fields, the streams bending mid-air, splashing harmlessly against walls. The deflected water crashed against the corridor ceiling, raining down like a storm.
The first guard lunged with a baton raised high. Ephraim sidestepped, pivoted on his heel, and drove his elbow into the guard's solar plexus. As the man doubled over, Ephraim grabbed his collar, magnetized the metal buttons, and used the attraction to spin him around like a human shield—blocking the next wave of water attacks.
He released the guard, letting him collapse, then dropped into a low sweep. His leg extended in a perfect arc, taking out two guards' ankles simultaneously. They hit the deck hard.
The fourth guard came from above—dropping from an overhead pipe with a knife aimed at Ephraim's back.
Ephraim sensed the metal blade. Without looking, he magnetized it, yanking it from the guard's grip mid-fall. The knife flew into his hand. He spun, using the guard's own momentum against him, and delivered a rising knee strike to his chest that sent him crashing into the wall.
CRACK.
Three more guards charged in formation. Ephraim threw the knife upward—magnetized it to the ceiling—and ran forward. As they tracked the blade above, he slid between the first guard's legs, came up behind him, locked his arm, and used him as a pivot point to deliver a spinning back kick to the second guard's jaw.
The third swung wild. Ephraim ducked under the punch, trapped the arm, and transitioned into an aikido-style wrist lock. He twisted, forcing the guard to his knees, then released and delivered a swift axe kick to the back of his head.
The last guard charged up a water pistol shot—fingers glowing blue, water coalescing into a concentrated bullet. The shot fired.
Ephraim pushed off the wall with magnetic force, launching himself into a corkscrew flip over the water bullet. Mid-rotation, he magnetized the metal plating beneath the guard's feet and pulled.
The guard lurched forward, off-balance.
Ephraim came down with a devastating drop kick—both feet connecting with the guard's face.
The guard crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Ephraim kept running, boots pounding metal deck plating.
"Mannnn, what the fuck, this place is a maze, I'll never... HOLY SHIT, THE BLADE!"
Down the hall—maybe fifty feet ahead—mounted on the wall in a glass case that glowed faintly: the Knife of Dedra.
And guarding it: fifteen marines in formation, weapons drawn.
Ephraim grinned.
"Time to boogie..."
He charged.
The marines charged back.
What followed was chaos—beautiful, exaggerated, over-the-top chaos.
The first three came together, weapons raised. Ephraim magnetized the metal buckles on their belts and yanked. They jerked forward involuntarily, stumbling into each other. He leaped high, planted his hands on the center guard's shoulders, and vaulted over them—twisting mid-air to deliver a spinning heel kick that caught all three across their faces in sequence.
They dropped.
He landed in a crouch. Two more rushed from the left. Ephraim rolled forward between them, came up behind, and executed a perfect judo throw on the first—using magnetic pull on the man's belt to add extra force. The guard flew over Ephraim's hip and crashed into his partner.
A water blast came from the right. Ephraim cartwheeled sideways—body horizontal, hands never touching ground, suspended by magnetic repulsion from the metal floor—and the water stream passed harmlessly beneath him. He landed on one hand, kicked up with both legs in a breakdancing freeze, then pushed off and twisted into a tornado kick that connected with a guard's temple.
THWACK.
Three guards formed a triangle around him, coordinating their attack. Smart.
Ephraim grinned.
He magnetized the overhead pipe running the length of the corridor. Pulled himself up and forward in a dynamic swinging motion—his body becoming a living pendulum. As he swung past the first guard, he extended his leg in a flying side kick. CRACK. Connected with the sternum.
Used the impact to push off, redirecting his momentum. Swung back toward the second guard and delivered a devastating elbow strike from above as he passed. The guard's knees buckled.
Released the pipe. Dropped down behind the third guard, who was still turning to track him. Ephraim swept his legs, and as the man fell, Ephraim caught him mid-fall with a magnetic pull on his vest—suspending him at waist height for a split second—then drove a knee strike into his floating ribs.
The guard crashed down hard.
More came—a wave of five guards, desperate, angry.
Ephraim ran forward to meet them. Magnetized a fallen baton on the ground, pulled it to his hand without breaking stride. Used it like an escrima stick—deflecting a punch, cracking it across a wrist, spinning it to block another attack, then hurling it with magnetic force into a guard's solar plexus.
The baton hit like a bullet. The guard flew backward.
Four left in this wave.
Ephraim dropped low, executed a capoeira-style sweep—his leg extended fully, body spinning close to the ground. Took out two sets of ankles. As they fell, he transitioned into a handstand, kicked up with both legs, and caught the third guard under the chin with enough force to lift him off his feet.
The fourth tried to grab him from behind. Ephraim sensed the metal zipper on the man's uniform. Magnetized it. Pulledthe man closer while simultaneously pushing himself away—creating space. Spun around, trapped the reaching arms, and delivered a wing chun chain punch—three rapid strikes to the chest, each one magnetized for extra impact by pulling metal buttons toward his fists.
The guard staggered back, wheezing.
Ephraim finished him with a jumping knee strike.
And then the captain emerged from the back corridor.
Tall. Scarred across the face—a jagged line from forehead to jaw. Massive build, arms like tree trunks. Eyes burning with rage and something darker.
"Come on, Captain," Ephraim said, breathing only slightly harder. "I'm tired. Just gimme the damn thing. You know Soloris wants it. I doubt you haven't seen the contracts put out."
The captain stepped forward slowly, deliberately.
"Hahahaha!" His laugh was loud, theatrical. "You're a brave mudblood, but sadly, this is where you end. BECAUSE YOU FACE PALLY O'RYLLIE JOHNSON!"
Ephraim deadpanned. "Dude, there's no way that's your name. That's lame as fuck."
"YOU... YOU DARE SPEAK TO A CAPTAIN THAT WAY?! THIS IS INSOLENCE!"
"You're a MARINE captain," Ephraim said, laughing now. "You're the loser here. Hahahaha, how old are you, like 50, still in the marines? Come onnn, you can't even join a Prophet ship? That's embarrassing, man."
The captain roared.
Ice exploded from his hands—jagged spikes shooting out in every direction, freezing walls, cracking floor panels, turning the corridor into a winter hellscape.
Ephraim formed a makeshift magnetic shield—bending metal scraps from the floor into a barrier—and charged forward through the ice storm.
A spike shot toward his face. He tilted his head, let it pass within inches, and transitioned into a boxing weave—head bobbing side to side, body slipping through gaps in the ice attacks like water. Left. Right. Duck. Slip.
He closed the distance and launched a jab-cross combination. The captain blocked with an ice-encrusted forearm—the ice absorbed the impact. Ephraim immediately chained into a liver shot, but the captain twisted, deflecting it.
They exchanged blows rapid-fire. Punch. Block. Counter. Dodge.
The captain swung a massive overhand right—Ephraim magnetized a piece of floor grating and pulled it up as a shield. The fist shattered the metal. Ephraim dropped under it, came up with an uppercut aimed at the jaw.
Missed. The captain leaned back impossibly far—years of combat experience showing.
Ice covered the floor suddenly, making it slick. The captain slid forward on it like a skater, building momentum, and drove a knee toward Ephraim's ribs.
Ephraim magnetized his boots to the metal beneath the ice—anchoring himself—and caught the knee with both hands. Used the magnetic anchor as leverage to twist and execute a standing armbar attempt.
The captain was too strong. He ripped free, spinning with the motion, and delivered a back elbow that caught Ephraim across the cheek.
Stars exploded in Ephraim's vision. He stumbled back.
The captain pressed the advantage—ice forming into a massive frozen club around his fist. He swung.
Ephraim ducked under it. The ice club smashed into the wall behind him with a deafening BOOM—cracking metal, sending frozen shards everywhere.
Ephraim used the opening. He delivered a low kick to the captain's lead leg—magnetizing his shin guard to add impact. CRACK. The leg buckled slightly.
Chain-punched to the body—three quick strikes to the ribs, each one magnetized, each one landing with metallic thunksas buttons on the captain's uniform pulled toward Ephraim's knuckles.
The captain grunted, swung wild. Ephraim slipped outside the punch, trapped the arm, and attempted a judo hip throw.
The captain was too big. Too heavy. Didn't budge.
Instead, the captain used Ephraim's grip against him—lifting him and slamming him into the wall.
CRASH.
Ephraim's back screamed in pain. He magnetized the wall and pushed—launching himself off it like a springboard, over the captain's head, and landed behind him.
Delivered a spinning hook kick to the back of the captain's knee. The leg gave out—the captain dropped to one knee.
Ephraim grabbed his head, pulled it down while driving his own knee up in a devastating Muay Thai clinch strike.
CRACK.
The captain's nose exploded with blood.
But the bastard was still conscious. Still fighting.
Ice erupted from his body in all directions—a defensive blast that forced Ephraim to leap backward, magnetizing scattered metal debris to pull himself away faster.
He landed in a crouch, breathing hard now, watching the captain rise slowly.
More guards, corporals, and officers arrived, packing the corridor—but they held back, knowing better than to interfere with a captain's fight.
The captain wiped blood from his face and grinned—a horrible, bloody smile.
"You're good, kid. But not good enough."
He unleashed another ice barrage—dozens of frozen spears materializing in the air and launching forward like a firing squad.
Ephraim ran toward them, not away. Magnetized the metal walls on either side and used them like handrails—pulling himself into a zigzagging sprint along the corridor walls, defying gravity, dodging ice spears that shattered where he'd been milliseconds before.
He launched off the wall in a flying knee aimed at the captain's head.
The captain caught him mid-air by the leg—raw strength stopping his momentum cold.
Ephraim twisted, used the magnetic field, and delivered a spinning back fist with his free hand that connected with the captain's temple.
The grip loosened. Ephraim dropped, rolled away, came up in a fighting stance.
The captain charged—bull rushing, ice forming into armor plating across his body.
Ephraim waited. Timed it perfectly.
Stepped aside at the last second—matador style—grabbed the captain's arm as he passed, and used magnetic pull on the metal floor to anchor his own feet while redirecting the captain's massive momentum.
The captain flew past him, off-balance, crashing into the wall.
Ephraim didn't give him time to recover. He dashed backward suddenly, putting distance between himself and the captain—building space for the final move.
He grinned.
"ESSENCE TECHNIQUE!"
His body blurred—became a streak of motion, there and gone and there again—closing the distance in an instant. The air distorted around his fist as magnetic fields compressed and concentrated.
He drove his fist into the captain's gut with devastating force.
"BULLSEYE!"
The captain's eyes went wide. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
And he flew.
Not fell. Not stumbled.
Flew.
His body shot backward like a cannonball, punching through the metal wall with a deafening crash, disappearing through the hole into open air beyond.
Marines panicked immediately, stampeding in every direction:
"ESSENCE USER!"
"IT'S AN ESSENCE USER!"
"RETREAT! RETREAT!"
Ephraim grabbed the Knife of Dedra from its case—a beautiful dagger with a curved blade that shimmered like water—stuffed it in his knapsack, and sprinted through the hole the captain had made.
Leaped out into open air.
Water blasts followed him—pressurized streams trying to knock him from the sky—but he swung on invisible magnetic currents, pulling himself through space, dodging everything.
Landed back on his raft floating far below.
Changed back into his regular clothes quickly, tossed the marine uniform into the cloud-sea, watched it sink into vapor.
Used his essence to accelerate the raft, shooting forward across the cloud ocean toward the horizon.
Miles away, safely out of range, Ephraim checked his holo pad for the nearest Messenger station.
Cloud Falls.
His face lit up.
"Perfect! I can drop this shit off, get my official rank ticket, and be right on my way to New Eden for the tournament."
In the distance ahead, Cloud Falls appeared.
The city was massive—built entirely under a layer of clouds, beneath a vapor waterfall that cascaded upward somehow, defying gravity, leading toward New Eden floating somewhere far above. Buildings sprawled across the entire horizon—stone and metal and glass, lights beginning to glow as evening approached, the whole thing alive with movement and sound even from miles away.
Ephraim lay back on his raft, knapsack on his chest, hands behind his head.
Used his essence to accelerate forward—magnetic pulls against the vapor itself, accelerating faster and faster.
The wind picked up. His hair whipped back.
He grinned at the pale purple sky, thinking about Prophet rank, about the tournament, about becoming King of Kings.
The raft shot toward Cloud Falls.
Miles away, safely out of range, Ephraim checked his holo pad again He tapped the screen, marking the contract as complete for drop-off.
The holo pad blazed with golden light suddenly, so bright Ephraim had to shield his eyes. The light expanded outward, projecting a massive three-dimensional image above the raft.
A figure materialized in the hologram—tall, imposing, draped in flowing white and gold robes that seemed to move with their own wind. Bronze skin. Sharp, angular features. Eyes that burned like molten gold. A presence that radiated divine authority.
Nero The Champion.
Demigod to Soloris. Right hand of the Sun God himself. Voice of the Prophets.
"Greetings, mortals of the Nine Skies."
His voice was deep, resonant, carrying the weight of divine authority. It echoed not just from the hologram but seemed to reverberate through the very air itself.
"I speak to you today on behalf of Lord Soloris, God of the Sun, Keeper of Light, and Sovereign of New Eden. Hear these words and know them to be truth eternal."
The hologram shifted—images of New Eden appeared behind Nero, the floating paradise city gleaming in endless daylight, its towers reaching toward heavens unseen.
"For centuries, the Messenger system has served as the backbone of our civilization. Brave souls who traverse the Nine Skies, delivering hope, carrying justice, maintaining the bonds between our scattered peoples. You are the lifeblood of commerce, the bearers of truth, the unsung heroes who keep chaos at bay."
Nero's expression hardened, golden eyes narrowing.
"But these are dangerous times. The lower skies grow restless. Piracy increases. Lawlessness spreads like plague. The Marine forces—meant to protect our citizens—have grown corrupt, complacent, weak. They fail in their sacred duty."
"Lord Soloris has seen your struggles. He has witnessed your courage. And in his infinite wisdom, he has decreed that change must come—not from above, but from among you. From those who have proven themselves worthy through trial and blood."
The image behind Nero changed—now showing the New Eden Coliseum, a massive arena that could hold hundreds of thousands, its architecture both ancient and impossibly advanced.
"In seven days' time, the Messenger Tournament will commence. Every Messenger who has achieved rank advancement eligibility may compete. You will face challenges designed to test not just your combat prowess, but your wit, your determination, your very essence."
Nero stepped forward in the hologram, and for a moment it felt like he was staring directly at Ephraim.
"The victor—the one who stands above all others—will be granted Prophet rank. You will ascend to New Eden. You will walk among gods. You will be given resources beyond your wildest imaginings, authority that spans the Nine Skies, and the personal blessing of Lord Soloris himself."
A pause. The weight of it hung in the air.
"But understand this—the tournament is not for the faint of heart. You will face opponents who have trained their entire lives for this moment. Essence users. Magic wielders. Warriors who have conquered impossible odds. Some of you will fall. Some of you will break. Only the strongest, the most worthy, will rise."
The golden light intensified.
"Registration opens in seventy-two hours. Preliminary rounds will eliminate all but the top sixty-four competitors. From there, single elimination. No second chances. No mercy. Fight with everything you are, or do not fight at all."
Nero's expression softened slightly—just barely—a hint of something that might have been respect.
"To those brave enough to enter: Lord Soloris watches. The Nine Skies watch. Your ancestors watch. Show them what mortals are capable of when pushed to their absolute limit."
He raised one hand, golden light swirling around his fingers.
"May the strongest claim their destiny. May the worthy ascend. And may Soloris's light guide your path to glory."
The hologram flickered.
"Registration details have been uploaded to all eligible Messenger holo pads. The tournament begins in seven days. Prepare yourselves."
Nero's image held for one more moment—those burning golden eyes seeming to see through every person—
Then the hologram vanished.
Ephraim stood frozen, his holo pad still glowing faintly in his hand. His heart hammered against his ribs. His breath came quick and shallow.
All he could think about was those words: Prophet rank. Ascend to New Eden. Personal blessing of Soloris.
King of Kings.
The dream he'd had since he was a kid.
His hand tightened around his holo pad.
"Seven days," he whispered.
Then he grinned—wild, confident, ready.
"Seven days until I become a god.
YESSSSS, WOO HOOO, I'M FINALLY GONNA BE A PROPHETTT!"
The raft shot toward Cloud Falls.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered a white-gloved hand reaching through darkness.
But that was just a dream.
Right?
TO BE CONTINUED...