Evening came crawling into view. The sun retreated as if appalled by the individual who had no right to exist in this world.

  The glassy plains caught the dying light, shards of obsidian reflecting warped halos of orange and violet. The air hung unnaturally still, heavy with the sterile tang of smoke.

  In the centre of a land made purely of obsidian glass—completely void of life—a party of one stood flipping half-burnt, half-golden chicken slices. Of course, this was Arion. From anyone else’s view, he looked like some deranged barbecue host, covered in soot and sweat, surrounded by the aftermath of culinary warfare.

  His ‘apparent’ hot-plate grill hummed away, powered by his personal spinning disc of death, slicing faint trails through the air as if proud of its own cooking potential. Sparks flickered at its edge whenever it rotated too fast, lighting up his face like a cheap horror effect.

  Now this is the life of a king.

  Except—

  “Except! The heat isn’t even calibrated properly! It’s taking longer to cook on one side and shorter on the other!?”

  He threw his arms out, voice echoing across the empty glass field. No one answered, not even the wind.

  Complaining louder now, he waved his hands back and forth like a man arguing with invisible customer support.

  “How’s that even work? You’re a circle! You’re supposed to be uniform!”

  He crouched down, narrowing his eyes at the glowing stone slab that served as his cooking surface. The faint hum of Vitalis pulsed beneath it, steady but uneven, like a heartbeat with bad rhythm.

  Hum…

  “Maybe… maybe it’s you. Mr. Stone.”

  He pointed accusingly at the plate, glaring hard enough to melt it. “You’re sabotaging me… aren’t you?”

  The stone, unsurprisingly, said nothing. Just shimmered faintly, proud in its silence.

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  The smell of half-charred meat filled the air, mixing with the tang of a metallic aftertaste. It wasn’t good food, but it was food—and in a world that had tried to kill him a dozen different ways, that almost counted as luxury.

  “Still,” he muttered, rubbing his chin, “maybe I can tweak the Heat Coil. Adjust the output, even out the gradient…”

  His eyes gleamed faintly in the reflection of the glowing disc. “Could use a little more power.”

  Arion leaned closer, bending over to adjust the handle-with-care disc of death.

  Using absolutely no safety measures—because, really, who needed those—he focused his Vitalis into it, manipulating flow, Luminary adjustment, size and thickness. It was like fiddling with the insides of a broken microwave, except the microwave wanted him dead.

  The coil hovered, trembling. Heat rippled through the clearing like liquid glass. The obsidian beneath it began to sweat.

  Arion crouched beside it, muttering, “Alright, let’s tighten the confinement. A smaller radius should increase the temperature—same power, less diffusion. Simple optimisation.”

  He twisted his wrist. The disc constricted, its orange hue sharpening to a sterile, surgical white. The air around him hummed, high-pitched and nervous.

  Tzzk.

  “Good. Efficient.”

  He frowned. “But not stable. Luminary field’s wobbling.”

  The vibration deepened, shifting from a hum to a groan, the kind that made teeth ache. Static crawled across his skin.

  He adjusted the feed, brow furrowing. “Alright, incremental increase—just a little more Luminary. Twenty percent over baseline.”

  The coil brightened. The heat shimmered across his face, warping his reflection in the air. The world around him blurred, colours bleeding at the edges.

  Vhhhmm.

  “Still unstable. Fine, counter-spin. Differential rotation should cancel turbulence.”

  He rotated his fingers in the opposite direction. The coil resisted. The pressure spiked. The sound became a scream.

  “Wait—no, no, no—”

  Light compressed to a single point—every colour at once, then none.

  The air tore open.

  The hair on his forearms ablaze.

  FFWHOOM!

  Plasma howled into existence. The once-docile coil shot out, taking half the grill and all his chicken with it.

  The thing ripped across the clearing like a glowing buzzsaw, vapourising a clean path through the dirt. It sliced through a tree, splitting it perfectly in half as if it had never been one piece.

  The disc skidded, bit into the ground, and vanished mid-spin—its light collapsing inward like someone had hit “delete” on reality.

  Arion stood frozen, hair standing straight up, coat smoking. His ears rang with the hollow hum of ruptured sound waves that followed a catastrophic accident.

  Ash settled in slow spirals, falling like black snow. The clearing buzzed with leftover heat, then fell silent.

  “…Okay.”

  “That’s new.”

  He stared at the scorched trench cutting through his camp.

  Then a lightness hit him, paired with a trickle of blood that ran out from within his right nostril.

  “Note: Heat Coil overclock equals spontaneous plasma formation. And is immensely heavy on the system…”

  Once he regained clarity, he squinted at the smoking horizon. “Add that to the ‘spells that shouldn’t exist but do anyway’ list.”

  His head hung low, looking down at the blackened remains of his campfire.

  “Also… lunch is gone.”

  The odd scraps blew in the wind, the silence that followed deep and judgmental.

  …

  The lack of noise afterwards was awkward.

  Smoke hung lazily through the clearing. The air shimmered with leftover heat, faint static crawling up his arms like phantom electricity.

  Arion stood in a perfect circle of scorched ground. One tree half-melted, another still crackled from residual discharge. His campfire was gone—replaced by a crater of glass.

  Crck-Crkk-Crackle.

  “Well…” he rasped.

  Congratulations, Arion. You’ve invented plasma—vaporising the rest of the chicken in the process.

  Scrunching his nose, he sniffed his armpit. Immediate regret.

  “I may also need a wash.”

  He brushed ash from his sleeve and squinted at the glowing trench where the blast had hit. The earth still pulsed faintly, cooling in slow, tired breaths.

  “Controlled energy conversion—check. Uncontrolled death-laser disc of plasma—also check.” He clicked his tongue. “Call that one a draw.”

  The smell of ozone and charred earth hung thick in the air. He sighed, stepping over a half-burnt branch to rescue the only survivor of his cooking supplies: a single piece of uncooked fish.

  “Fine. Redox Spark—you’re back on dinner duty.”

  That was when he heard it—

  a faint gasp.

  He turned.

  On the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by the tree, a girl stood frozen mid-step. Her hands clutched a small basket of herbs; wide purple eyes locked onto him.

  Arion blinked. She blinked back.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Neither moved.

  Okay… Act normal. Blend in.

  He cleared his throat.

  Don’t fuck up. Don’t. Fuck. Up—

  “Ah, g-greetings… young lady. It has been some time since I last interacted with one of my own, if I may say so… The Luminary here is very… fresh?”

  Idiot!

  “Please do not be concerned; I assure you I am not engaging in any… unusual activities, but rather, I am simply preparing some meat for cooking.”

  What in the hell are you saying!?

  …Silence.

  Great, now she thinks you’re a creep and a criminal.

  “Ah! Here—” Arion said, peeling a smoked slab off the floor. “Why don’t you try some? It’s not as bad as it looks, ha…”

  —— ? ——

  Sweat beaded down her brow. Wide-eyed, Alara drew Vitalis through her veins, shuddering at the sight before her.

  The man’s voice cracked and echoed through the smoke, strange and low.

  His figure was worse—tall, blackened, half-silhouetted by flame—embers drifted from his coat. His smile, too wide. Teeth smoke-stained red, with barely cooked meat wedged between them.

  What she heard wasn’t a greeting. It was a broken, guttural whisper, twisted by panic and ringing ears:

  “Ahh... greetingss... woman... it hasss been time... since I last... devoured a female…”

  Her breath caught. The basket shook in her hands. She took a trembling step back.

  He stepped forward, still talking, still smiling that impossible smile.

  “Do not be... concerned... I assure you... I am preparing... flesh for eating…”

  That was all her mind allowed before the world shrank to noise and terror.

  —— ? ——

  “-So really it could be classed as well-err–very well done. So actually—”

  “N–netherborn…” she whispered.

  Her voice stole his focus away from his chicken.

  His head tilted, confused. “Eh?…I’m sorry, what did you—?”

  “D-Demon!”

  Oh, for fuck—screw it!

  “No, no, no—scientist! SCI-ENT-IST—”

  Her basket shook. Her breath caught

  Her hand shot out blindly as she reeled away along with a squeal.

  Air twisted around her wrist, pressure building.

  The air in front of her palm compressed to a visible ripple.

  Then—

  “Oh, come on—”

  —the wind detonated.

  Whummph!

  His cheeks flapped in the gale, eyes bulging, mouth stretched in an absurd terror as a vortex of pressurised wind hit him square in the chest, launching him backward through a thin tree trunk.

  “GAAAH—”

  THUD!

  He hit the ground in a heap, groaning, hair blown straight back.

  The girl didn’t wait to see if he lived. She ran, half-sobbing, the word demon splintering as she vanished between the trees.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Arion lay defeated, blinking at the sky, dazed, soot falling like snow.

  “…Well. That went great.”

  He sat up, staring at the crater where his camp used to be.

  “First person I’ve met in weeks,” he muttered. “Ten seconds in and I’m airborne.”

  Yeah. Nailed it.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. “Guess social skills aren’t my strong suit.”

  The clearing scattered with displaced soil and torn greenery. He tried laughing, but it came out hollow.

  “She called me a demon,” he said quietly. “How rude, didn’t even ask for my name first.”

  He leaned back against a fallen trunk, eyes half-closed.

  “Netherborn. What the hell even is that?”

  He stared at his hands—still darker than he remembered, faint Vitalis light tracing the veins.

  “Okay, sure, maybe I don’t look great. I’d probably avoid me also, if I saw myself right now.”

  A weak grin tugged at his mouth, then faded.

  “New world, same result. Still scaring people off.”

  He glanced toward the shattered treeline, where the blast had carved a clean path through the undergrowth. The memory came in flashes—the way the air shimmered, twisted, then slammed into him like a truck made of sky.

  “That spell…” he muttered.

  “…wasn’t by accident. That was Vitalis control.”

  And it hurt like hell.

  He ran a thumb over the bruise forming on his collarbone, grimacing. “She didn’t even move her feet. Just snapped her wrist and—boom. Instant hurricane.”

  His gaze drifted to the lingering distortion still hanging in the air—faint waves of Luminary shimmer bending light around the trees.

  For a while, he just sat there, watching the last trails of smoke drift through the branches. The forest creaked and hissed, as if pretending it hadn’t just witnessed the dumbest first contact in history.

  “Here’s hoping she doesn’t tell her friends,” he muttered. Then, after a pause:

  “…Or does.”

  …

  Bruised, blasted, beaten, and burnt.

  He’d had enough.

  Time to stop smelling like a lunatic’s barbecue.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  The forest wore silver hues that evening as moonlight filtered through canopy and stilled plants.

  Light hit the water’s mirror-like surface, its rich Essence displaced the light into tiny fragmented constellations, as if reflecting the very stars themselves. Steam curled off the pool as if the spring were sighing in its sleep.

  The air finally smelled of something else—wet stone, moss, and a clean mineral bite.

  Drip… drip.

  “Ahhhh~” Arion moaned, as warm, Luminary-rich water flowed over his abused body. The warmth bit first, then softened into something that let his muscles unclench, one knot at a time.

  He sank deeper with a sigh that sounded half-human, half-defeated.

  This definitely hits the spot after a long day of near-death and social awkwardness.

  The glow from the spring danced across his arms, lighting the faint Vitalis threads under his skin. They pulsed slowly, syncing with his breathing; every exhale dimmed them, every inhale brightened them—like the water and his body were tuning to the same note.

  Somewhere beneath, a soft hum—almost like a singing bowl—vibrated through the stone.

  He sat in a hollow against the bank, a natural bath fed by a small waterfall. The trickle carried rich water from deeper in the forest, and where it struck the pool it made neat concentric ripples—too regular to feel entirely natural.

  With a soaked leaf over his face and his forearms hooked on the rim, he went slack.

  His clothes hung from a low branch close by, dripping from a half-successful wash. “Forest spa,” he muttered. “Membership perks: not dying. Shampoo… still pending.”

  After some time, he peeled the leaf away and stared into the mirror surface like it owed him answers.

  He caught his reflection. It wavered between human and something else—eyes faintly luminous, veins glowing like fine circuitry. He rubbed at a soot line and it only smeared. “Demon? I cannot be that bad, right? Surely this face is an upgrade.”

  But the fear in her voice wasn’t about ugly; it had been the kind that sees a monster. Demon.

  “Still me,” he said softly. Then smirked. “Well, more or less.”

  Night sounds crept back in: a single insect, the distant creak of a limb, water ticking against rock.

  He tilted his head, watching shards of moonlight sift through the leaves, each one catching on the water like slow-falling glass.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  He dressed, still damp, and made his way through the underbrush, following the faint path he’d trampled hours ago. The forest was quieter than usual—too quiet. Even the hum of insects had vanished, leaving only the slow breath of leaves in the wind.

  …

  By the time he reached the clearing, the moon hung directly above the scar he’d left behind. The glassy soil still caught the light like an open wound—black and shining, every fragment sharp as a mirror. His makeshift camp—or what was left of it—was exactly how he’d left it.

  Except for one thing.

  In the centre, just above the graveyard of his devastated grill, was a rippling anomaly. A strange phenomenon in Arion’s eyes—he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was similar to Earth’s heat haze, where vision distorted under rising waves of air.

  The air warped and shimmered, bending light into liquid waves. Normally, Arion would have been able to see through it—distortion on the other side. It didn’t blur what lay beyond; it replaced it.

  This anomaly was its own concept, something that had come into existence where nothing had been before. But now it was.

  That… wasn’t there before.

  He scoffed at the absurdity of the situations he’d gotten himself into.

  “Ahhh, just a violation of space and time.”

  The ripple shuddered, releasing a sharp pop—like glass cracking underwater.

  The space where the shimmers existed ripped open, torn as if a catastrophic reaction had fractured reality itself.

  The soundscape collapsed inward.

  Only for a moment did the tear seem to vanish—only to reappear again, as if something needed to exist there, even if it wasn’t part of this dimension.

  “Uh—what in the name of physics is happening right now?”

  Whmmm.

  The air rippled, thinning and thickening. Sound waves shuddered, muted, then collapsed. Pressure and gravity surged with a pulse, then broke—only to regain their hold.

  Residual haze warped in place, resisting dispersal.

  Not one reaction, but dozens, cascading together: overlapping feedback loops, reality buckling and distorting.

  Reality, unable to hold itself together, shot out a sphere of pure energy—as if to announce its arrival.

  Arion instantly knew whatever that was, it was definitely bad news.

  Muscle memory kicked in before thought did.

  Vitalis flared through both wrists; he snapped.

  Ice surged, a sharp pulse tearing through soil and air.

  The element behaved strangely—more unstable than usual, as if reality here hadn’t fully adjusted.

  The essence here was thick—oversaturated, as if the phenomenon was pulling from the environment itself.

  The ice drank it greedily, growing into twin crystal-thick barriers that fed on the surrounding Luminary Essence.

  Arion braced himself, everything happening in seconds. The pulse smashed into the crystallised ice barrier, taking most of the force.

  Arion was thrown back a few steps, flipping before managing to regain his footing. He stood and studied the phenomenon again.

  A field convergence.

  “Multiple layers of energy colliding—a ‘reality collapse’? It’s like Luminary currents, heat, waves, gravity, and atmospheric ions all arguing over who gets to break the laws of physics first.”

  That’s where I over-clocked the Heat Coil, accidentally creating a dense plasma disc…

  Then his mind clicked.

  Was… it me?

  Then everything stabilised, like reality stitching itself back together.

  Whatever replaced the empty space now substituted what had been ripped away. It was hard to see what it was from where Arion stood, but for once, he was glad he hadn’t gotten a closer look.

  A white hand pushed through.

  Then another.

  Then four more.

  Ten in total, gripping the edges of the wound like something trying to claw its way out of a nightmare

  Rrrip.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

  He sighed.

  “I just cleaned myself.”

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Plasma Coil

  Thermodynamics

  Description:

  Heat Coil driven past containment limits.

  Vitalis compression spikes; Luminary field locks ionised matter in rotational stasis. Result: a Plasma Coil—radiant, unstable, alive.

  On Earth, plasma generation demands millions of degrees and magnetic confinement. Here, Luminary replaces magnets, shaping pressure through resonance feedback. Sustainment lasts seconds, but each second rewrites the landscape.

  Science:

  Ionised matter sustained by continuous Vitalis pressure. Luminary Essence provides confinement by modulating field harmonics—a natural magnetic bottle.

  In Layman Terms:

  I spun my Heat Coil too tight and built a miniature sun. It cut through trees, dirt, and my lunch with equal enthusiasm.

  Maxim:

  “Stability ends where curiosity begins.”