The Legend of Randidly Ghosthound

The roars of the crowd were thunderous as the third-place match of the duos tournament reached its climax. The noise was heavy with expectation and approval; it only now wandered about the area as it sought its ultimate target, the victor.

Once more the entire arena was replaced by a vast reflective pool. The duo of Dinesh and Tykes stood opposite one another, split by the inverting dividing line by their feat. Hank held the reigns of his spectral horse and raised his revolver into the sky, his eyes blazing with determination. Shadow Ancho pranced sideways, clearly unnerved by the oppressive image that Tykes released.

As the upper of the reflections, Tykes allowed his image to press down over the surrounding area with a brutal cruelty. Before that immense sense of weight that he carried on his shoulders, all images shuddered and shrunk. Against it, the slow rise of Hank’s environmental image had been struggling to gain traction. But it was obvious that soon, that image would finally break free.

But the fighters just regarded each other with a scientific intensity. Dinesh’s image had warped the surroundings, but Hank had been steadily dodging Tykes’ attacks for the past several minutes and firing targeted repeater shots. Only after struggling for some time, Randidly could sense that Hank’s image had started to achieve some tangible influence over the area.

Randidly rubbed his chin. The one problem with Hank’s image was that, once he achieved that influence, his hand was then forced toward action; he no longer had the excuse to delay. His image wouldn’t allow it. In the West, you eventually had to stand up for what you believed in or the narrative around you would collapse to dust. Whether it was because of the expression on Hank’s face or the shifting images in the air, the crowd seemed to sense this change. They stomped their feet and waved their hands, calling for conflict.

The volume increased.

Ancho reared, answering their cheers, even though Randidly suspected that the combatants weren’t able to make out the noise through the screening of Dinesh’s image. But perhaps the image horse could sense the audience’s will anyway. Tykes held his immense iron ball in front of him with both hands, his fingers straining with barely suppressed eagerness.

When ghost Ancho’s hooves hit the ground, Tykes accelerated forward. His body blurred at the edge, a blurred reflection of Dinesh following along with him like a ghastly spirit seeking to possess a living body. Hank pressed his heels into the horse’s flanks and they vanished, only to reappear a few meters to Tykes’s left.

Tykes planted his foot and adjusted his vector with a sharpness that seemed to defy physics. The iron ball swung upward. Hank lowered the barrel of his revolver and took aim.

Bullet and iron ball smashed against each other. The bullet screeched and screamed with unwillingness, surrounding by a nova of vicious certainty that the bullet would pierce through Tykes weapon. But in this case, it wasn’t enough. It dug its way into the pounded metal and forced open a hairline fracture, but that was it. Everything else was suppressed by the weight. Tykes continued forward, smashing the ball at Hank and Ancho, but they leaped away before they were caught.

The large metal ball struck the ground and produced countless ripples that radiated outward in Dinesh’s mirrored realm. With gritted teeth, Tykes hooked the chain around the ball and then began to spin, gradually unspooling the chain. The iron ball whipped around Tykes in steadily growing arcs, covering a larger portion of the Arena.

He planted his feet and spun in place, gradually accelerating.

Ghost Ancho whinnied and trotted away, warily watching the aggressor. Snorting, Tykes abruptly twisted the chain and then yanked the ball back toward himself. As the metal projectile was shooting back toward him, Tykes became Dinesh. Dinesh closed his eyes and suddenly Dinesh was a stunned Hank on top of the image Ancho.

“Well, shit,” Hank swore as he looked at the projectile careening toward him.

The ball smashed into Ancho before the image could carry Hank away, getting blasted into bits of spectral matter. Hank rolled out of the way of danger, but then Dinesh was there, his fingers fanning outward with poisoned knives.

Hank’s repeater flashed up and bucked several times in quick succession as he deflected the knives away with bullets. The knives then clattered harmlessly against the ground in a shower of poisonous sparks. But before Hank could take aim for a more damaging shot, Dinesh covered the distance and unleashed a brutal high kick. Hank leaned backward and holstered his pistol; he wasn’t going to shy away from a brawl. The influence of Hank’s image in the area steadily grew.

He had fired his first bullet, experienced a counterattack, and survived. The momentum began to flow steadily toward him.

Dinesh spun and cut sideways at Hank’s waist with his palm. Hank accepted the strike with a grunt and unleashed a vicious left hook in response, but his fist ineffectually glanced off of Tykes’ shoulder as the larger man replaced the smaller.

Hank reacted quickly to the change. He jerked sideways and brought his elbow up to smash against Tykes' face. Tykes grinned and leaned forward into the blow, using his image to steady himself through the strike and try and grapple Hank. Snorting, Hank Dodge Rolled backward and then kicked Tykes in the chest when he went to follow.

Tykes immediately planted his foot and skidded to a halt, but that opening was enough for Hank Howard to draw his revolver. The barrel gleamed with a white light in the mirrored world.

Bang!

The bullet whizzed harmlessly past the ribs of the smaller Dinesh, ruffling his hair. Hank’s eyes narrowed. Then Tykes was back, yanking on the chain and bringing the iron slamming back into his hand.

The cylinder of Hank’s revolver clicked to bring a new bullet before the hammer. Both men grinned at each other. Then Tykes exploded forward and Hank took aim. At the last second, Hank Dodge Rolled to the side and adjusted his angle.

Bang!

His bullet struck the other bullet, still embedded in Tykes ball. With the small pick driven only a fraction of distance deeper, the lump of metal exploded into fragments.

*****

“Ghostworld would be the best,” Wivanya grumbled as the two waited in the shadowy halls to walk out into the arena proper. The frost dragon’s tail flicked back and forth, the appendage moving as though taking out her dissatisfaction by whipping the stone walls. “Can they not see everything that the Ghosthound has done for our world? Naming the planet after him is the natural result of his divine effort for us. This is a matter of principle.”

Alana didn’t even bother to answer the moody dragon. As always before a match, her attention was focused on the inspection of her spear. She dragged her fingers across the spearhead and felt the skin of her finger easily part. The sharpness made her smile. Perhaps because she had spoken her worries aloud last night, all of that emotion had been churning in her chest for the past several hours and gradually had become excitement. She moved her hands down to the spear shaft and waved it lightly, testing the flexibility.

What sort of story will we tell the world today, I wonder…? Her fingers tightened until her knuckles were white.

Soon they received the signal to proceed out into the arena and Wivanya released a massive, dragon-sized sigh that frosted the ground in front of them. She waddled forward ahead of Alana down the hallway. “Finally time. Well, even if you balk at naming the planet after him, you must still keep your edge in battle, Alana. We will not have the opportunity to honor the Ghosthound without first seizing victory. Don’t be distracted by unnecessary things.”

You don’t need to tell me that, Alana thought with a small smile. But she didn’t bother to reply. She could sense through her bond with Wivanya that the Frost Dragon Broodmother was unprecedentedly excited for this match. So Alana didn’t mind the constant stream of cheery complaints.

Due to her ‘role’ on Earth, Alana and Wivanya were given the right to walk out into the arena first. The audience seethed and roared as the duo appeared in the mouth of the tunnel and then calmly proceeded toward the stage. With Hank having gloriously clinched victory in the third-place match, the crowd was all hyped up for the final.

Their appearance now was the signal for the simmering spirit of Earth to rise once more to the fore. This time for all the marbles.

Alana hopped up onto Wivanya’s back and allowed the dragon to carry her up onto the stage. Coming out first was, of course, a natural advantage in a duel that relied heavily upon images. The first arrival’s image would naturally begin to influence the surrounding area unless they consciously tried to prevent the phenomenon. Alana suspected that Randidly would say something if the effect was too obvious, but Alana believed that in terms of image sensitivity, few could currently match her.

And one thing she knew for sure about Randidly was that he preferred to simply remain an observer. So Alana took a risk and loosened the tight control she maintained on her image.

The surrounding air became laced with the slightest note of holy energy. That aspect of Inviolability that Alana had obtained spread outward through the air, making this space sacrosanct. Any who tried to influence the area with their own image would have a difficult time dislodging the hold of faith.

Although the volume didn’t change, the crowd's cheers and shrieks gradually faded to a buzzing. More than their cacophony, what Alana heard was the beating of her own heart.

Today, Alana was determined to act as the proper gatekeeper. She would do everything in her power to win this tournament and keep the threshold through which both she and Randidly had passed locked. Thinking this, she was unable to resist the impulse to look upward after she released her image. Distantly, she was able to make out Randidly’s face; he was laughing and shaking his head.

Alana turned back down to the arena. She was two Alanas, one a bloated and massive image based on public perception that wanted to remain a dominant force on Earth. The other was the Alana who wanted to win the tournament as proof that Randidly’s teachings were the true Path toward strength. Both desired the same thing, but Alana had learned the hard way about the dangers of accepting extraneous images.

Besides, Alana was confident that she could guard this nonexistent ‘passage’ to strength on her own for at least another year. Her grin slowly widened as the excitement once more surged back to the forefront of her mind. Heh. Alright, let them come. I’m ready.

Wivanya lowered her scaled head next to Alana’s body. Even through the already chilly winter air, the dragon’s scales radiated an intense cold that cut to the bone. “You seem different today. Are you going to be alright for the match? Your image....”

“It’s just how the world sees me, just ignore it,” Alana replied lightly. She cracked the knuckles of her hand. “Don’t go projecting your nerves on me though; if you need me to punch you to wake you up, feel free to ask.”

“Hmph. As if a human punch could have any effect on a dragon,” Wivanya snorted. But she did begin to flex her claws, cleary antsy with nervous energy.

Right on cue, Paolo and Kayle arrived. Perhaps out of respect for Alana or perhaps because of how their prior match had ended, they dropped all pretense of their weapon bet. Paolo came out cracking his knuckles and Kayle played with his knives as they came into the public’s eye. Both stood tall and proud, their own images steadily pushing back the subtle notes of inviolability that Alana left in the air.

And this is why this is a fight worth having. Show me how much you’ve grown, Alana thought with a smile. Then she turned to the crowd. Because as Paolo and Kayle arrived, the tone of their cheers changed. Because I need to show you how many more lessons you need to learn.

In all likelihood, the difference in the crowd’s reaction wasn’t even something that was done at a conscious level. It was just that from a sense of awe and respect in their voices for Alana, they shifted toward a raw, animalistic approval for Paolo and Kayle. Hearing the cheers, Alana’s eyes drifted upward through the chaotic mass of images around the arena.

These people wanted a victory. Although the bets on who the ultimate victor would be proved to be rather even, it was clear from the crowd’s expression that there was a favorite. Their approval became wishes, and wishes from strong-minded individuals became images that drifted steadily downward onto Paolo and Kayle’s parade toward the arena.

Paolo was especially voracious, rapidly absorbing any of the surrounding images and growing to an even more stupendous sky. His image presence was like a pillar of light, so bright and triumphant that it was difficult to look at it directly.

Alana’s smile deepened. Like I said. You still have so much to learn.

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