There was tension—real, raw tension. In a quiet hospital room on Earth, Jim lay motionless. Machines beeped rhythmically. Life support hummed beside him. He'd gone to sleep like any other night—but this time, he didn't wake up. Two days into a coma. Gloria sat by his side, clinging to hope. Her boy had beaten cancer. He was her miracle. But now, this? Jenna and Matt hovered close, helpless. Watching. Waiting. Whispering prayers to a ceiling that said nothing back.
But far beyond Earth—far beyond the room and the wires and the sterile walls—Jim was somewhere else entirely. He stood in Dalab.
Watching the Sham—Gezz—tear through the arena with rage. He'd seen it. Felt the moment just before the blade came for him. The moment the Sham locked eyes with him and then yanked its attention away. For fifteen minutes, everything was chaos—noise and color and blood. He had lost connection with Gezz's mind. But not his instincts.
He saw the one-winged Miteon take to the air, beautiful and doomed. Three punches dodged. One not. A snap. A fall. And then Gulutel—bold, reckless Gulutel—coming in hot with a strike to the arms. It was a good move. It created a wind
Jim knew it wasn't the legs. Not this time.
The crowd roared. Dalab was on fire. But inside the invisible ring, everything was deadly still in Jim's mind. A calculation. A flash of motion.
As soon as the arms were severed, Jim launched forward, lightning in motion. Blade drawn. He struck—clean, deep—straight through the Sham's heart. A perfect kill. The Sham wailed. It fell.
And Dalab went wild.
The stands thundered. Voices cried. The sand drank blood. The queen was up on her feet. But one man didn't move. Hennekas, seated beside her, stared down into the ring. His eyes narrowed. His breath caught. He knew that face. That wasn't just a gladiator. That was destiny.
The gladiators had won. The crowd was wild, chanting their names like gods had descended into the dust. They were supposed to be free. That was the deal. Fight, survive, earn your freedom. Simple. But not for Hennekas.
He sat silently beside Queen Fien, eyes fixed on one face—Shean of Zela. Or rather, the boy everyone thought was Shean. Hennekas knew better. That face, that fight—he'd seen it before, long ago in a vision only Ozelean high-seers were cursed to remember.
And if this boy left Dalab with a clean pass, Hennekas would lose him forever.
So he leaned toward the queen, whispered just a few words into her ear.
And Fien, grinning like the devil had just offered her a dance, stood.
"Dalab!" she called, arms raised high. "What a battle! What a moment! You have witnessed greatness!"
The arena roared. Boobs were out. Ale was flying. Grown Denefremims wept into each other's shoulders. It was madness.
"We've decided…" she continued, pausing for drama, "…and we are letting our gladiators go free!"
More screams. A few Ozeleans even stood in surprise. The moment was perfect.
"But!" she shouted, raising a single finger.
The arena gasped.
"Only if they win one more battle!"
And just like that, the crowd went ballistic. Men threw their swords in the air. Someone fainted. This was better than any festival Dalab had ever hosted. The queen's hype-man practically flipped with excitement, grabbing his staff and stomping it into the ground three times. "Dalab," he shouted with the thunder of a god, "give it all… for THE ZIM!"
And if you're wondering what a Zim is, don't worry—you're not alone.
A Zim isn't just some angry war beast or angry spirit. No, it's a whole new level of nightmare. It's an empty body—a vessel—waiting for a spirit to claim it. And today, the spirit summoned to fill it wasn't just any lost soul. It was Mua.
Yes, Mua. Former night rider. Once untouchable. Once feared by the darkest corners of Senedro. Now trapped, twisted, and furious.
And as the Zim stood, lifeless eyes suddenly sparked to life. Muscles bulged unnaturally, bones cracked into place, and a scream—half beast, half memory—echoed across the arena. It had begun to attack.
Truthfully, the gladiators were already spent—bodies bruised, breath ragged, hearts pounding like war drums. But this wasn't just another fight. This was a "die or fight, give-it-your-whole-damn-soul" kind of moment. So they gripped their swords like lifelines and stood tall, even if their legs wanted to collapse beneath them. Their opponent? Looked like just a man. Ordinary. Maybe even weak. But that was the trick. This wasn't a man—it was a Zim. And inside that hollow shell was something ancient, something hungry. A vessel for the restless spirit of Mua, the fallen Night Rider. A being once tasked with guarding dimensions, who failed, fell, and got trapped in eternal regret.
This was no regular foe. This was a soul steeped in centuries of rage and darkness—banished from light, abandoned by the stars. Now, it had a body again, and it came with vengeance. Not personal, no. Bigger than that. Universal. It didn't care who you were—it only cared that you breathed.
When it moved, it didn't walk—it glided like smoke over water. The crowd fell into a hush. Even Dalab, the city of noise and madness, went quiet. The arena suddenly felt smaller. Colder.
Gulutel charged first, all fire and fury, his blade screaming through the air. The Zim didn't dodge. It swatted him aside like he was a feather. The crowd gasped as Gulutel tumbled into the sand, coughing up blood.
The one-winged Miteon flung himself high, sword spinning, determined to slash through fate. But the Zim didn't flinch. It caught him mid-air by the neck and threw him like discarded armor. Now there was one. Jim.
He didn't rush. He didn't scream. He watched.
Eyes locked on the Zim like a man reading an old enemy's face in a bar brawl.
He saw the stance. The twitch in its shoulder. The faint hum of ancient magic humming beneath the skin.
He gripped his sword tighter. Not in fear. In understanding. He knew what he had to do. He took one step. Then another. And on the third step—his knees buckled.
No wound. No blow. Just—gone. He dropped like his soul had been unplugged.
The arena didn't scream this time. It gasped.
Jim—the fastest, the sharpest, the one who sliced hearts and destinies alike—was down. No heroic cry. No final swing. Just silence and sand.
His time in Senedro had ended. And the Zim? Still standing. Still hungry.