Sereth wandered through the contestant quarters, letting the quiet buzz of the dimension hum in his ears. The day had a peculiar stillness to it. He had been told by a creature that he would have a match later in the day, and in the meantime, decided to explore the city. Like Torvak and Masaru, he found it quite dreary. He poked his head in and out of various buildings and alley ways.
He turned a corner and froze.
There, in the shadow of two buildings, Aeon was kneeling on the ground, hands deep in the dirt of a narrow crack that split the stone. Beside him was a single paper cup—by the look of it—filled with what seemed to be soil with a small little flower growing. It seemed to quiver and limp due to the artificial lights blaring from the stadium, and the lack of normal sunlight.
"You're gardening?" Sereth asked curiously.
Aeon didn't look up. "No," he said, voice calm. "I'm negotiating."
"With a plant?"
"With the universe," Aeon corrected, patting the dirt. "This place doesn't like living things. I want to see if it'll make an exception."
Sereth stepped closer, eyeing the sprout. "And what did the universe say?"
Aeon finally looked up at him, smiling slightly. "It said: 'Convince me.'"
There was a pause. Then, unexpectedly, Aeon picked up a second cup and offered it to Sereth. "Want to help?"
Sereth stared at the cup. "I don't even know what I'd say."
"Doesn't matter," Aeon said, placing a seed in Sereth's palm. "Just say it sincerely."
Sereth crouched beside him and, after a moment's hesitation, began pressing the soil down gently.
"I'm not good at small talk," Sereth said.
"Then make big talk," Aeon replied.
There was a slight pause.
"How exactly did you do all that stuff in your fight against that chick?" Sereth asked.
Aeon's fingers paused in the dirt. "I think that is something that you will find with patience. Everything is hopefully going to work out, and your questions will most probably be answered."
Sereth cracked the faintest smile. "If they do, we'll name this flower after you."
"Oh no," Aeon muttered. "It won't get invited to any plant gatherings."
They both laughed softly, the sound oddly comforting in the static air.
...
As the last bit of soil settled around the fragile stem, Sereth sat back and wiped his hands on his coat. Aeon gave a satisfied nod and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes as if listening to something far away.
For a moment, there was peace.
Then, as if summoned by the quiet, a familiar sound buzzed into existence. A high-pitched trill, the flicker of wings beating impossibly fast. One of the Creatures drifted down from above the shadows, its elongated limbs folded neatly as it drifted closer. Its proboscis twitched slightly as it hovered a few feet off the ground.
"S-S-Sereth… You are f-f-far away… But it is your t-t-turn soon… Time to c-c-come back."
Sereth and Aeon both looked up.
"It appears your conversation with the universe is being... interrupted," Aeon said softly, with a bit of a glare at the Creature.
The creature extended a long, spindly finger and gestured. No words. Just the implication: it was time.
Sereth stood, brushing the dirt from his hands. "Well," he said, glancing at the fragile plant beside him, "let's hope this place doesn't trample easy things."
Aeon closed his eyes. "Convince it otherwise."
Sereth followed the creature as it opened a gate—more like a soft tear in the air—and stepped through. Behind him, the stadium pulsed like a living thing, waiting.
...
Sereth entered into the familiar arena, with the crowd cheering his name while remembering his fight against the flaming titan. Sereth still had a little bit of dirt on the lower part of his coat, and he attempted to brush it off, before holding up his arms to the crowd.
The crowd roared up at him, and he was starting to get used to the sound. The gentle thought of the flower temporarily left his mind as he prepared himself for the oncoming fight.
The familiar announcer spoke:
"Our next matchup of the day is the returning Sereth Vaelwyn! The one who dominated Dragok the Titan with his mystical speed!"
The crowd cheered once again as Sereth bowed briefly to the crowd, but his eyes quickly darted over to who emerged out of the red gate.
"And coming out of the red gate, Is Vilo Renwick! Who has somehow broken down all his opponents without ever touching them! This will be a great matchup folks! Ready...? BEGIN!"
Vilo was tall and slender, with short black hair that framed ice-blue eyes that didn't shimmer, but pierced, like they were always seeing past the moment. Draped over one shoulder was a half-cloak etched with shifting fractal patterns—tiny, twitching designs that spun slowly until your eyes ached from trying to follow them. The cloak shimmered faintly, pulsing with a rhythm Sereth didn't hear, but felt, deep in the back of his mind.
Sereth wasted no time in kicking the ground twice, then taking off at a high speed towards his opponent, but as he approached, his mind suddenly was under assault. began to feel heavy and tired, like he was being pulled underwater. His vision began to cloud, and he completely missed his target, hurling himself into the forcefield wall, but it didn't hurt.
And then—
The arena shifted.
Stone turned to silver tile. The air sweetened with ozone. Pale sunlight bathed everything in the soft glow of memory.
Jupiter.
The floating city.
Sereth's breath hitched.
And there she was.
Lyra.
His gentle sister.
She was standing by the edge of a terrace, overlooking the boundless cloudscape. Her long white hair fluttered in the simulated breeze, her jacket loose around her shoulders just like always. The soft hum of the city's turbines rumbled beneath their feet. She turned and smiled at him.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
The words broke him.
Sereth staggered forward, nearly collapsing. His hand reached out—like touching her would make her stay longer, make it real.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, eyes glassy. "I should've done something. I should've—"
A gust of phantom wind stirred, just enough to send a chill crawling down his spine.
The memory—the illusion—tightened.
He remembered the scream. The twist of wind that should never have existed. Her shielding him, arms spread wide. The awful nothing that followed.
Tears welled up, slipping down his cheeks unchecked.
Vilo stood across the arena, untouched by the illusion. Watching. Measuring.
The cloak flickered again.
Outside the arena, Sereth's body trembled against the floor. His breathing came short, panicked, strangled by guilt.
Then, She spoke again.
"Sereth," Lyra said gently.
He flinched. Not because it startled him—but because it sounded exactly right.
He looked up, and there she was. Not twisted or monstrous, not some ghostly shadow—just Lyra, as she'd been. Her long dark hair fell softly over her shoulders, and her presence radiated a calm that made the chaos around them feel distant, muted. She looked fragile in the light, like she might fade if he blinked.
"Why are you crying?" she asked, kneeling in front of him, eyes level with his.
He couldn't answer.
"Hey," she said softly, brushing dirt from his cheek like she used to when he scraped his knees. "You made it here. That's already more than I ever could."
Sereth's lip quivered. "You shouldn't be here."
"I'm not," she said with a sad smile. "But you needed me."
Tears rolled down his face as he bit back a sob. "I'm still not strong enough. I still don't—"
Lyra placed a hand over his heart. "You've always had it. You have gotten so strong..."
"But I couldn't protect you," he choked. "You died because of me."
"No," she said firmly, the warmth never leaving her voice. "I died for you. There's a difference."
Sereth's breath caught in his throat.
"And I'd do it again. Every time."
The illusion rippled slightly—his opponent trying to maintain control, trying to twist the moment.
But Lyra reached forward, and pressed her forehead to his. Just like she used to when they were little, when the wind screamed too loud and the windows rattled on stormy nights.
"I'm proud of you, little brother."
The windstorm froze. The memory began to stutter.
And in that moment, Something snapped in Sereth.