It was nearly 4:00 a.m.
when Aaron finally succumbed to exhaustion.
His breathing finally leveled into a slow, bone-deep weariness, leaving Rykker as the sole sentry in the oppressive quiet.
The void Rykker occupied was less of a place and more of an absence—a sensory desert where the air felt neither cold nor warm, and the darkness was so absolute it seemed to press against the backs of his eyelids.
Time had warped into an unrecognizable stretch of liminal misery; it could have been hours since he awoke, or perhaps days or even years.
Quickly growing bored, Rykker leaned into the nothingness, launching a series of silent, do-or-die experiments.
He reached for his magic, feeling for the familiar hum of energy, but the casting, like hours before, was like shouting into a vacuum.
Without a floor to stand on, a ceiling to hit, or even the tactile feedback of his own limbs, his magic was just as absent as his body was.
He pushed his power outward in pulses, trying to catch an echo or a shift in the current, but there was no up, down, or lateral motion to gauge—only the terrifying realization that he might be sprinting through the dark or hovering perfectly still.
Eventually, the futility of the effort drained the last of his resolve.
He ceased his conjuring, falling back into an intense silence, a lone spark of consciousness drowning in an infinite, featureless sea.
His failure reminded him of the first time he tried to use magic.
He remembered the candle on the stone table was nothing more than a stub.
A tiny, defiant beacon of wax and wick in the damp, subterranean chamber Rykker had claimed as his sanctum.
His heart hammered against his ribs—a frantic, uneven rhythm that echoed the rising panic in his throat.
‘Just a flicker,’ he told himself.
‘Just a tiny ember to prove I am not entirely useless.’
Ryker reached out, not with his hand, but with the strange, cold yearning he felt bubbling just beneath his skin.
He had heard the tales of the sorcerers, how they commanded the elements with a mere whisper, how the world bent to their will.
It seemed so easy, a simple exchange of intent for power.
He focused on the wick.
‘Ignite’.
He pushed, forcing that fiery, internal energy toward the candle.
It felt like trying to swim against a raging torrent—a massive, overwhelming force resisting his every effort.
He strained, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists.
Nothing.
The candle stub sat in sullen silence, a mocking little monument to his ineptitude.
A wave of crushing hopelessness washed over him.
He felt small, insignificant—a child trying to fight a storm with a twig.
The silence of the chamber seemed to laugh at him, the damp, stony walls closing in to compress his spirit.
He had anticipated power, perhaps a little danger, but not this—not the profound, suffocating void of absolute nothingness.
He tried again, his mind a frantic, desperate blur.
He poured all his anger, all his terror, all his desire for control into that single, stubborn point of wax.
Sweat broke out on his forehead, trickling down his nose, blending with the cold sweat of his fear.
The air around the candle remained stubbornly, utterly still.
A tear, hot and embarrassing, escaped, tracing a path through the grime on his cheek.
It wasn’t just a failed trick; it was a total, absolute failure of being.
In that moment, Rykker felt more than just helpless; he felt entirely, completely, profoundly unmade.
Yet, the candle stayed cold, and Ryker was left alone in the dark, with nothing but the echo of his own inadequacy.
***
Rykker shook off the thought.
‘I can do this,’ he thought.
Initially, Rykker’s instincts failed him.
In a true void, there was no friction or floor to push against.
Every kick or “swim” resulted in zero net displacement1, leaving him permanently stuck in place.
Realizing that physical laws won’t work, perhaps non-physical methods might work; his qi.
Rykker realized that Qi acted as the cosmic weaver, threading the stillness of the ‘Great Void’ into the fabric of the physical world.
Through the fluid arts of Tai Chi and qigong, he was able to master wu wei—the art of effortless action—where power wasn’t forced from the muscles, but exhaled from the soul.
Rykker began externalizing his qi, condensing his life essence into a tangible force; the force of propulsion, essentially using his own soul essence as a conduit.
Using his qi, he tried creating temporary, spectral platforms to push off from within the void.
Without light or sound, he didn’t “see” the void but now he could feel the density of his own energy against the emptiness.
He wove the energy into his core, his soul essence, feeling his aura ignite with an electric buzz that resonated throughout his entire being.
It was a rhythmic, intoxicating pulse that saturated his spirit.
Upon releasing the surge, he felt an intense leap in his soul, a longing plea for advancement.
A thrilling sensation of movement followed, yet he was left uncertain, still drifting in a void with no marker to confirm his progress.
Now encouraged and determined, Rykker pushed forward, using his qi to navigate through the nothingness.
Though the void made it hard to tell if he was succeeding, a sudden rush of adrenaline confirmed it when a sweet, distant melody broke through.
The sound was so exquisite it caused his aura to tremble with sheer delight—he had never heard anything so captivating.
He strained to identify the instruments behind the music, but couldn’t.
Rykker focused on the gentle tinkling, letting the hypnotic notes hum through his soul and ensnare his very being.
He knew music, of course—the echoing rattle of drums and shrill woodwinds at local gatherings—but this was different.
This was truly otherworldly, a symphony from a place beyond his understanding.
***
Aaron stirred, his limbs anchored to the mattress by a profound fatigue as the loud, irritating, jangling tones of his cell phone alarm played in an inescapable loop.
He groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow, trying to drown out the intrusion.
Beyond the closed window, diverse sounds of the city were waking up—a mixture of steam vents hissing, distant garbage trucks, and early traffic—filtered into the room.
He listened as the urban symphony intensified: the impatient, honking of horns, street vendors shouting their morning wares, and the annoying barks of a neighbor’s dog.
Occasionally, a high-pitched, piercing whistle echoed between the brick buildings, a sharp reminder of the bustling life waiting four stories down.
To an outsider’s ear, the city’s auditory sensations might have sounded like mere chaotic noise.
With his eyes glued shut against the intrusive morning light, Aaron blindly swept his hand across the nightstand.
His fingers fumbled past a half-empty glass of water before finding his phone, violently hammering the snooze button with his finger with a sense of annoyance.
Each vibration felt like a personal attack on his eardrums.
He was ridiculously tired, the kind of exhaustion that made his limbs feel like lead and his brain like fog.
Having scraped together less than two hours of sleep, he knew the little sleep he got wouldn’t last long.
It was going to be a busy day, and the looming mountain of tasks felt too great to overcome.
***
Every event on Aaron’s agenda was a minefield of commitments guaranteed to make the General’s probing and relentless questions grate against his mind.
He clenched his fists anticipating the onslaught of—Why are we going there?
What does that mean?— He could already imagine the mental barrage of questions, the overwhelming, manic chatter that usually accompanied a busy day.
But then, it dawned on him—Rykker was trapped in a sensory void.
He couldn’t see anything, he could only hear their internal monologue; at least he hoped.
Aaron let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, shifting gears with a newfound sense of temporary peace.
He had too many battles to fight today as it was.
He didn’t need the added stress.
Meanwhile, Rykker was in full panic mode.
For a moment there was beautiful music filling the vast emptiness, coursing through his soul, but in an instant, the noise suddenly stopped, leaving behind a hollow chamber, far deeper than mere sorrow.
Overflowing with grief, he ripped at his own meridians, pouring every ounce of his qi into the surrounding chasm, desperately clawing within the stagnant space, demanding the return of the stolen melody.
Anxiously, Rykker called out to Aaron.
“Sir Aaron.
Where have you gone?”
The agitation in Rykker’s tone hit Aaron like a physical blow, causing his eyes to scrape free of the crusty buildup of dried mucus between his sealed eyelids.
He rolled over, lifting his limbs into a clumsy seated position.
“I’m here,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper.
“Is something wrong?”
“The music,” Rykker whispered, “Did you not perceive it?
A divine harmony, ancient and resonant, wrapped around my very being but moments ago.” He paused.
“Tell me, Sir Aaron, did the gods sing for you too?”
Aaron chuckled, the sound thick with groggy exhaustion.
“Yes, General.
I heard it.
It came from my cell phone.” He paused, an amused grin barely visible in the morning light.
“Right.
You don’t know what a cell phone is, do you?”
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