The Setrums were watching.
They always watched when a night rider moved, but this was different. This was Mua.
He wasn't like the others. He had gone beyond night shifts and cosmic clock-ins. Mua had made a choice—a loud, defiant, "keep your part-time gig, I live here now" kind of choice. He was a full-time resident of Senedro, a spiritual local, haunting Ozeleans like a divine bounty hunter with a grudge.
There was something about him. His faith? His fury? Whatever it was, it lit him up from the inside.
All the Setrums believed in him. Not just in a "we support you" kind of way, but in the whispered prophecy, ancient scrolls, ominous-star-aligning sort of way. They believed Mua was the one.
The one who could face Hennekas.
Now, Hennekas wasn't just another chaos troll in a hoodie. No. He was the hope of all Ozeleans. Prince of pain. Lord of everything that went bump in every possible night.
And he had risen.
All of Senedro trembled. The Setrums held their breath (if that's a thing they do), because by the old pact, they couldn't fight directly against Ozeleans.
And the war was real, but it was always fought through vessels—humans, spiritual freelancers, celestial interns. Call them what you want. The Setrums stayed out of the ring themselves. But they watched. And hoped.
And Mua?
He was him. Golden armor gleaming like the sun had a sword collection. Riding a horse that galloped like thunder had somewhere to be.
He charged through the cracked sky of Senedro, straight at Hennekas, with every eye—Setrum, Ozelean, Miteon, Denefremim—locked on him.
And for a second, just a second, it looked like maybe he had it.
But nah. Oh hell no.
Hennekas wasn't like the others. He wasn't human-shaped evil. He was... big. Not tall big. Conceptual big. Like if war itself got bored and decided to hit the gym. He didn't just fight. He calculated. Watched. Adapted. And destroyed.
Mua didn't care. He was all fire and vengeance and righteous fury. He struck first.
Big mistake.
That's the thing with legends—sometimes, they forget that legends bleed too.
The Setrums, in their gleaming thrones of light, whispered among themselves.
Maybe he was ready.
Or maybe, even they could be wrong.
And that was the real fear.
Because if Mua wasn't enough…
Then who was?
Hennekas did it. Yes, he did.
Not in some cinematic slow-mo duel with poetic final words and swelling music. No. It was fast. Brutal. One-sided. The kind of defeat that rewrites history books and makes gods reconsider their judgment.
And just like that, the Setrums—those great, glowy cosmic elders... stopped choosing night riders altogether. They folded the entire program like a cursed startup. "Too risky," they whispered. "Too painful," they muttered. "Let's never speak of this again," they probably posted on their group chat.
But the thing is—night riders were needed.
The war wasn't ending. Ozeleans weren't taking a break. And Hennekas? He wasn't just rising, he was winning. Which meant someone had to do something. Cue the Great Dias.
And when all the others bailed, Dias stepped forward. Quietly. Awkwardly. Like a substitute teacher walking into a burning classroom.
And when he pointed to Jim Slevann as his choice, the other Setrums didn't even argue. They just kind of… nodded slowly and pretended it was a group decision.
No fanfare. No ceremony. Just Jim, a second-shift night rider, walking into a place most souls only visited in fever dreams—Senedro.
Dias' voice echoed in his mind, like a metaphysical voicemail:
"You're not here to fight any Ozelean.
I'm going to disguise you. You won't differ from other souls in Senedro.
Always hearken to my voice."
Jim stepped through the gates like a guy accidentally attending a VIP party in flip-flops. The air shimmered around him, adjusting him like a filter in real life. His heartbeat felt like dubstep.
"We don't have much time," Dias added.
"I want you to find that scepter. Only it. Then your life will be yours."
Jim blinked. "What's the use of the scepter?"
Silence.
Of course.
The voice dipped out like a parent avoiding the "where do babies come from?" talk.
Because the truth? Jim didn't need to know.
But the Setrums did. They knew exactly what was coming. Hennekas was tearing through dimensions like wrapping paper, and some members of the neutral parties—Miteons and Denefremims—had officially ditched their Switzerland status and joined the Ozeleans. Faith in the Setrums was tanking hard.
Jessen, the head of the Setrums (and the guy who always looked like he carried the weight of three collapsing galaxies), was starting to sound less like a philosopher and more like a realist. He knew what Dias was after.
The scepter of the end.
It wasn't just a weapon. It wasn't even just a symbol. It was the key to breaking the ancient pact, the one law that stopped the Setrums from stepping in directly. If they could find the scepter, the gloves could finally come off.
And here was Jim.
He wasn't chosen to fight. Not really.
Dias believed the scepter was already inside him. Not metaphorically. Like… literally. Which was alarming, weird, and very on-brand for Jim's life lately.
So he took his first step into Senedro, armed with a disguise, a voice in his head. The colors here felt brighter, the air thicker—Senedro always had that weird dream-logic vibe, like nothing fully belonged and everything sort of shimmered at the edges.
Then he saw her.
A girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen —backed up against a crumbling stone wall while three winged boys hovered nearby, all smug grins and overcharged ego. Classic bully energy. Except these weren't regular boys. They were Miteons. Makers of rain, mood swings, and apparently bad decisions. They had that damp glow about them, like living storm clouds in human form.
Jim squinted. A familiar tug in his chest. Then came the flash. That 360° sight again, like his soul decided to hit rewind and fast forward at the same time. He saw her family. Their defiance. Their quiet refusal to join Hennekas, even when it meant going hungry, going cold. Brave stuff. The kind of thing that makes you feel really small and really inspired at the same time.
One of the Miteon boys noticed Jim.
"Run," he said to the others, voice cracking just a little. "There's a Denefremim boy. He might defend, Shæz."
Denefremim?
Jim blinked.
That was new.
The Miteon kids weren't about to wait and find out. They shot into the sky like guilty weather balloons, vanishing into the clouds with some poorly disguised panic and a few muttered curses.
The girl—Shæz, apparently—brushed dust off her sleeves, gave Jim a once-over, and raised one eyebrow.
"You look Denefremim, how comes I don't know you" she asked.
Jim shrugged. "Yeah, well... I don't know you either, but here we are."
Shæz snorted, clearly unimpressed. "Thanks for the save. I guess."
"No problem," Jim said, trying to sound casual even though his heart was still doing a drum solo. "I scare away winged bullies and occasionally hallucinate the future. It's kind of my thing."
She gave him a slow nod. "Weird flex, but okay."
And just like that, Jim had made his first accidental friend in Senedro.