The hall of glass threads stretched endlessly into the distance, lit by the dull glow of ruined chandeliers made from children's teeth and broken marionette strings. Here, time didn't pass. It twisted. It looped. And it whispered.
At the center sat Gasp, the Puppeteer of Forgotten Plays—an Ancient who once ruled the stage of dying dreams. Draped in a faded velvet coat sewn with childhood oaths, his limbs were impossibly long, bone-thin, and jittered like a man possessed by his own shadow. His face, pale and mask-like, bore a permanent frown that cracked every time he laughed. His eyes—voids filled with wriggling puppets—reflected the grand design unraveling in real time.
The skies had just split open moments ago, delivering the message every Ancient had dreaded… or hoped for.
"Let the Trial of Unmaking begin."
"A declaration of blasphemy," rasped Gasp, fingers dancing above invisible threads that shimmered with unreal tension. "Or a boy's suicide. Either way, the curtain rises."
Dozens of child-shaped puppets lined the walls—sagging, drooling, slumped over like broken toys. Each one wore a different face. Some twisted in fear. Others carved in agony. They were not alive, not anymore. Not dead either.
One stirred.
She was smaller than the rest, with hair like unraveling yarn and a painted-on smile that flaked with every blink. She had no hands—only stumps where razored string ended in rusted loops. Her name was Marion, Gasp's first and only self-made horror. Not born from abandonment, but from pure perversion of creation. A thing created only to serve.
"You called me, Father?" she said, her head lolling too far to the left before snapping upright.
"I have," Gasp purred. "It's time for your final performance."
Marion tilted her head in confusion. "A new role?"
Gasp chuckled, and the sound was like glass scraping chalkboards. "Not just any role, my sweet echo. You're going to be our wildcard."
He turned toward a dangling marionette carved into the shape of a teenage boy with cracked spectacles and no mouth. He plucked one of its strings and whispered, "Kyon Blackwood… our little interdimensional demigod thinks he can turn the tides. Rewrite the script. End the performance."
Marion's smile twitched. "Should I kill him?"
"No, no, no." Gasp stood, every bone in his spine audibly cracking as he moved like a spindly spider. "You are not to kill him. Yet. But you will enter the tournament. You will play."
"I get to scream?"
"Oh, little Marion… you'll do much more than scream." He placed one bony finger beneath her chin. "You'll make themscream. Every single one."
From behind Gasp, the air folded open like fabric being pulled apart at the seams. A portal shaped like a theater curtain, complete with rusted hooks and bleeding velvet. Marion stepped through it, humming the lullaby her last victim used to sing to their dying goldfish.
At the Heart Nexus, Kyon stood tethered in divine contemplation. His physical form remained bound to the convergence core—chains made of concepts, not metal. They pulsed softly, a heartbeat synced to two realities.
But his mind… it soared.
He felt them arriving. Felt the weight of each entity crossing into the arena's orbit. Felt the trembling fear, the hunger, the delusions of grandeur they carried with them like arsenals.
Threadbare.
Shardkin.
The Crescendo.
The Hollow Prince.
And now… Marion.
Kyon's astral form hovered above the growing coliseum. Below him, workers of the realm—beings born from discarded recess memories and lunchbox daydreams—labored without purpose. The arena constructed itself. Not brick by brick, but thought by thought.
Walls rose from books that had never been finished.
Floors pulsed with organs from metaphorical wounds.
Seats were stitched from the laughter of forgotten birthday parties.
And at the center of it all, growing like cancer, was the Crown of Scars—a throne formed entirely from the bone, ink, and regret of every child who had ever begged their imaginary friend not to leave… and been ignored.
Kyon smiled faintly. This wasn't just a contest.
This was a reckoning.
"Let them come," he whispered. "Let them all bleed for it."
Back in the Marionette Sanctum, Gasp sat once more and pulled a string connected to a faceless puppet dressed in a tattered knight costume.
"Your turn is coming too," he whispered to the thing. "But first, let's see if the girl remembers her cues."
From the walls, shadowy mirrors reflected futures that hadn't happened yet. In one, Kyon stood bloodied, surrounded by corpses. In another, the arena burned and the Ancients screamed.
But in the darkest mirror, the one Gasp always feared to gaze into… Kyon was smiling.
And nothing remained of the OtherSide.
Gasp leaned forward, expression unreadable.
"…Oh, I do love a tragic third act."