Chapter 1951

Chapter 1951

Merrick felt his body trembling. The sensations were distant, traveling through his increasingly squeezed nerves to his brain. One this was clear: each moment was agony, like sitting and watching as your family was flattened by a steamroller. Except you were watching yourself pressurized until you popped. Sweat clung to the tip of his nose, itching his skin. But the worst was the silence.

The silence made the agony endless and final.

A little over nine thousand individuals stood on the bobbing platforms. Some stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, some sat with their legs folded beneath them, all with the same expression of concentration on their face. The tournament participants, here to cross the last threshold. They had been allowed to choose whatever position they found the most comfortable, but from there, any sort of significant movement would be deemed a failure.

This test had already stretched for five and a half hours. The thick, oily energy of the Ghosthound flickered merrily in the air, crunching their psyches beneath its sheer force. Images withered and recoiled beneath its pushy ministrations. Merrick had anticipated a lot arguments over what constituted a significant movement by those disqualified and asked to leave the test. However, none he had not seen anyone argue.

Not that he was in his most attentive state. But from what he could tell, all who gasped and collapsed were led away quietly with hollow expressions on their faces.

After experiencing this hell for so long, Merrick understood it. Those who had given in to the force were almost happy to allowed to leave, hiding their disappointment within their strained bodies and frazzled minds. Perhaps they couldn’t even face the relief they felt.

A relief the rest of them now dearly craved.

Merrick allowed himself a small movement, lifting his chin and hissing a breath out through his nose. They were coming up on an hour mark, which meant that the intensity of the Nether would be rising. The trembling in his arms worsened, as he considered the difficulty increasing once more.

He felt chewed. The aura of the Randidly Ghosthound just rolled them like a plump grape between their teeth, ready to squeeze until juice leaked out between the ruptured skin.

All at once, the pressure vanished. The sudden lack made Merrick collapse backward, his head cracking against the wooden ground. The clouds churned above, briefly leaving him mesmerizing. Then he began to sob, realizing that what he just did definitely counted as a significant movement, and some part of him felt a deep sense of relief-

“Congratulations, all those who are still here,” Naffur Suite, the leader of the Order Ducis and the public face of Randidly Ghosthound’s influence over Expira, boomed his voice over all the panting individuals, a balm on their hot skin. He stood with his hands behind his back, his eyes playful. “You’ve made it. You are in the final 8,192. And so, welcome to Tournament Island.”

Merrick pushed himself off the ground, one of the 90% of participants that looked like they had spent the night kneeling in front of a toilet with a stomach bug, rather than just waiting for their opportunity to prove themselves. They rose unsteadily, looking at Naffur’s serious expression. Something broke in Merrick’s heart. His eyes began to gleam and blinked away tears.

He had made it. Despite how many powerful fighters turned out of the woodwork for this tournament, he had been selected. It was definitely a step down from being victorious last year, but-

Merrick said that he needed to let loose as well. Somewhere between five and twelve shots of specially brewed liquor later, the two were arm-in-arm and swaying as they left the bar to find somewhere else to drink. They passed by a bowling alley and an outdoor volleyball court, where an octopus played along against a group of humans.

The duo was overtaken by a group of bobbing frogpeople, heady with excitement. Trailing in their wake, they went into a homey pub with a roaring fire crammed into one side of the establishment. Their beer came in mugs and while they cheers and threw back their drinks, a solo arrival came into the building.

Lucifer, the powerful poster-child of Franksburg sidle up to the bar next to them and inclined his head. “Charlotte. Glad to see you are getting off of that rainy island.”

The bearwoman made a sour face. Merrick swayed side to side, unable to believe that Lucifer, the intense man with long hair and a Skill named after him, had come over to their group to join. Lucifer cleared his throat. “I actually had another reason for looking for you. As I’m sure you know, I’m recently married. I’d like... to surprise my wife with a portrait of us, drawn by you. I’ve brought some photos-”

“I don’t draw much, anymore,” The bearwoman, apparently Charlotte, said. Merrick wondered if she had introduced herself and he had forgotten or whether it just hadn’t come up during their drinking.

Lucifer’s hands were large and he tapped his finger evenly against the bar. Despite the noise of the rest of the patrons, those finger taps seemed to resonate with Merrick’s chest. “Maybe so. Well, I just thought I’d ask. If you change your mind, let me know. I hope you enjoy your night.”

Afterward, Charlotte’s mood turned bleak. They took several more shots, but the magic had been lost. Merrick cleared his throat, trying to sound mature. “Is everything alright?”

She simply shook her head. Very soon after, she left, leaving Merrick to find his way on his own. He wandered out of the quaint place, drawn by thumping bass and bright lights to the place at the end of the street, called Moondust. Purple spotlights shone up on billowing gossamer banners, the light rippling with the fabric in the night wind. Once inside, Merrick was hit by sound and the smell of sweat all at once; sometimes, it was a negative to have their empowered senses. He squeezed through the press of dancing bodies, some of that tension coming loose as he saw a dozen individuals dancing at such fast speeds that their bodies blurred.

For an indeterminate amount of time, he joined them, flailing and screaming along with the latest Raina hit song. The lights pulsed in different colors and someone was projecting images of waves crashing through the club. Everything rushed around, sloshing in the enclosed space. Merrick didn’t need to breathe, didn’t need to think. Motion carried his entire existence. He was image, personified, all body and emotion in a surging sea of the same.

Eventually, even the powerful brewers out of Donnyton couldn’t keep his senses blurred. He came back to himself, slick with sweat and with a fast-disappearing headache. Coughing, he pushed his way off the dancefloor and found a balcony.

There, he found a young man standing and staring off the high ledge toward the other glittering establishments along the street. At the same time, as he walked out and stopped, the young man looked up. Their eyes met. There was a sort of defensive guardedness in his eyes that Merrick found very appealing. The young man had his spear leaning against the railing, out of any storage device, which revealed he was one of the people from Tellus.

“Hello,” Merrick managed.

“Greetings,” the young man returned.

Merrick tilted his head to the side. “...would you like to do some shots?”