Jim lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. His body was still, but his mind? That thing was sprinting laps.
Focus. He needed to focus.
It was time. He knew it. Whatever "it" was exactly, he just knew he had to leave when the thoughts finally stopped screaming.
But they didn't stop. They just kept circling. Jenna. The way she smiled when she forgot she was sick.
The Max situation—how it spiraled so fast.
The hospital. The doctors. The dull, padded walls meant to keep "danger" in and "normal" out.
They thought he was losing it. Maybe they were right. Maybe they had no idea.
He exhaled slowly, deeply. Almost like he was trying to empty himself.
Then, with the kind of quiet decision that doesn't need announcing, he shut his eyes—and let go.
And just like that, Jim released his soul. A shift.
A slip from body to something else.
Lighter. Sharper. Outward.
Jim's boots had barely kissed the battlefield when Dias's voice echoed in his head like a warning siren wrapped in silk.
"Don't die yet," Dias said—calm, steady, but undeniably urgent.
All around him, the chaos was thick enough to choke on. Denefremims clashed with Miteons in a brutal, beautiful ballet of light and shadows. Blades hissed. Cries rang out. The ground itself trembled like it wanted no part of this war. Zela against Senedro. Fire against storm. Belief against betrayal.
Jim froze. Overwhelmed. Spiraling. And then—
There she was. Shæz.
Pinned beneath a jagged rock, her blade yards away, her breath coming fast and panicked. She twisted, trying to free herself, but a Miteon—hulking, eyes like black suns...was closing in, murder in his gait.
"Don't think about it," Dias commanded, sharper now.
"You're still under cover. You're a shadow. This isn't your fight."
But Jim wasn't hearing him anymore.
Because Shæz wasn't just anyone. She was something.
The one who dragged him through gates and gave him belonging.
The friend he never had on earth.
And now she was seconds from being torn apart.
Jim reached. The night rider sword slid into his grip like it knew. Cold metal. Electric pulse. Destiny buzzing just beneath the surface.
He was ready to ride.
Then—everything stopped.
Like a thread had snapped.
Suddenly, he was out of his body—ripped free, untethered.
One version of him lay lifeless on the battlefield.
Another, back in his bed—pale, still, slipping.
He looked down at both… and realized he wasn't in either.
He wasn't a body anymore.
He wasn't even a soul.
He was spirit.
And then the wind hit. Not normal wind. Not even magic. It was divine.
A breath of power wrapped in moonlight. It swept through the battlefield, silent but undeniable. And with it, Shæz was lifted, her body carried away to safety like a leaf on a sacred breeze.
Jim turned, or maybe he was just pulled, and in an instant, the battlefield vanished.
He stood now before a celestial chamber—massive, radiant, ancient. Seven figures loomed in a semicircle of light and sky. Each one a god in their own right. Energy crackled around them like they were barely holding their forms together.
And on the golden throne, at the very center, sat Jessen.
Eyes like eternity. Voice like creation.
Jim was no longer a rider.
No longer a boy.
He was a soul summoned.
And this...this was his first meeting with the Setrums.
In the council of the Setrums, there were no masks, no filters—no hiding. Everything was laid bare, including Jim himself. His thoughts, his fears, the unspoken parts of his soul were exposed like open books before the ancient eyes of the gods.
It was strange. Terrifying. Sacred.
He stood weightless, voiceless, stripped of ego, watching flashes of his life and the truths behind them unfold like a divine slideshow.
He saw Mua, once the great rider—noble, flawless, powerful… until emotion cracked his foundation. He had loved too deeply. Trusted in himself too blindly. That, in the end, had been his undoing.
And then Jessen spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it rang with the weight of stars.
"Hope you can see, we are losing."
Each word felt like a verdict.
"No more faith in us. And all we've got left… is you."
Jim didn't flinch. He couldn't. He wasn't even sure if he still had eyelids or a heartbeat in that space. Just… presence.
"You are the Night Rider, Jim."
The name fell like a title—ancient and heavy.
"But a rider loses it when he stops hearing. And hearing… comes by the Setrums."
A pause.
"You don't ride with emotions."
Jessen's gaze bore into him—not with anger, but with that kind of disappointed wisdom that made you want to dig a hole in the cosmos and hide in it.
"Dias chose you not for power, but for heart. For quiet."
"You were mortal—and content. When you were dying, you didn't curse. When sickness claimed you over and over, they wrote you off. They pitied you. But you were grateful inside."
Jim tried to speak. Nothing came. Not because he was silenced, but because there was nothing to say. This wasn't a conversation. It was a download.
He was a storage device.
And this—this was the divine upload.
"The galaxy is at risk," Jessen continued, as stars pulsed across the chamber walls. "And the only remedy is the Scepter. A relic only a Night Rider can find."
Images flooded Jim's mind—worlds shattering, light bending, war creeping like mold across constellations.
"You must remain in shadow," Jessen said. "Because where there's a Night Rider, there is hope. And hope… cannot rise before its time."
Then silence.
No debate. No questions. Just truth. Etched into spirit.
And before he could even register a goodbye, Jim was gone.
Back in Senedro. Back in his body. Back in a war that had no patience for prophecy.
There was a ceasefire.
The air, once filled with screams and spirit-fire, now held only the quiet hum of loss. Smoke curled like mourning veils above the battlefield. Bodies—both Denefremim and Miteon—lay still. Dust settled on scorched earth. Zela had won.
But victory felt like a funeral.
Too many had fallen. Too many names would be whispered in grief tonight.
"Shean..."
The voice was weak, trembling—yet unmistakable.
Shæz.
Jim turned sharply. She was slumped near the edge of a shattered boulder, her face streaked with dust and blood, her leg wrapped in makeshift bandages, clearly in pain.
He didn't hesitate.
"Hey, hey—I got you," he said, crouching beside her, lifting her gently into his arms. She winced but managed a small smile, eyes fluttering.
The march back to Zela was quiet. Even the wind felt muted, like it understood.
The people called it a win.
But Jim knew better.
This wasn't the end. It was the opening note in a much darker symphony.
Attacking a Miteon dynasty wasn't just a strike—it was a statement. One that echoed beyond the battlefield. One that would not go unanswered.
They hadn't just provoked the Miteons. They'd declared war against Hennekas.
Against the Ozeleans.
And war with the Ozeleans?
That never ends clean.
Just as they reached the gates of Zela—Jim carrying a wounded but breathing Shæz in his arms—he dropped.
No warning. No stumble. Just… collapsed, face-first in the dirt like the universe hit an off switch.
Shæz hit the ground beside him with a grunt. "Shean?"
Nothing.
Zela's guards rushed forward, chaos snapping back into motion, but they never knew.
He didn't faint. He didn't break down. He left.
His time here was over, and nobody knew it but him.
Jim was gone. Back to Earth.