Ideworld Chronicles: The Art Mage

Day in the story: 30th September (Tuesday)

I walked for at least an hour before I reached the edge of the park. The trees gradually shrank, thinning out until I felt safe enough to jump down. I'd heard more howling along the way, low, guttural sounds echoing through the canopy and though I could smell them watching me, those strange creatures never attacked again. Maybe they were waiting for something. Or maybe they'd learned not to try.

I dropped down onto the grass.

On the other side of the park, just like back home, was a street flanked by storefronts and service shops. It looked almost identical to Earth, eerily so. The same blocky signage, the same window displays. It was uncanny, like stepping into a dream someone else had copied from memory.

Everything was closed, of course. But when has that ever stopped a thief?

There was one place I'd never dared visit in my own world: Big Mike's Guns n' Ammo.

If I was going to fight again, I didn't want to rely solely on paint and luck. I wanted to shoot. Fast, clean, efficient. No drama. No last-minute survival scraps.

I looked down the road. Were there even cars here?

Then I saw one pass by. And another behind it.

They moved slowly, silently, too smoothly. The people inside sat motionless, statues behind the glass. Something about them didn't feel right. Not quite human.

Maybe people here are twisted like the animals are, I thought. Let's hope I don't have to find out.

I crossed the street and passed rows of darkened windows until I stood before Big Mike's. It looked exactly like the one back home. Closed up, lights still humming softly inside and every weapon on display gleaming like a crown jewel.

I considered kicking the door in, but why be so uncivilized?

Instead, I tossed my makeshift spear aside, took out my black spray paint and painted a hole, just big enough to slip through, on the shop's reinforced front window. Bulletproof glass, maybe thick enough to stop a dozen rounds.

But was it strong enough to stop me?

Be a hole, I thought, pressing my hand against the painted surface. Peter had passed his hand clean through the blackness and back again, unharmed.

Still, something about this magic unsettled me. It didn't erase matter, it made it forgot it even existed. The paint didn't cut the window; it convinced the space that it was empty. Like the idea of a hole, painted into reality.

I took a breath, crouched and leapt through in a single motion. An acrobat's dive into nothing.

And then I was inside, alone, surrounded by racks of pistols, rifles, ammunition. Like a kid in a very dangerous candy store.

I turned back to the hole, touched the painted edge and released my authority. It sealed up without a trace.

No unexpected guests while I'm doing my shopping, thanks.

The shop was silent. Almost reverent.

Rows of weapons lined the walls and glass display cases like museum artifacts. Rifles, shotguns, revolvers, automatics, each one a study in form and function. It smelled like metal, oil, dust and something else I couldn't quite place. Age, maybe. Old intention.

I walked slowly down the central aisle, the soles of my boots thudding softly on the tile. My eyes traced over stocks and barrels, not really reading the labels. I wasn't here for brands or stats. I was here for something I could trust.

Something that didn't bleed or scream or gnash its teeth.

I passed an old M1 Garand then something bullpup and matte black, probably military surplus. They all looked so loud. Messy. The kind of weapons that shattered shoulders and perforated lungs.

No. Too dramatic.

I stopped at a display of revolvers, their fat cylinders glinting under the overhead lights. They had weight, sure and simplicity. Something romantic in their violence. But they reminded me too much of cowboy stories and last stands. I didn't want to make a statement. I wanted to survive.

Further down the wall, I saw a set of long-barreled pistols. Sleek, modern. Semi-automatics. Muzzle brake. Polymer grips. The kind of weapon designed for someone who didn't want to make mistakes.

I let out a breath I was holding.

There you are.

I opened the case and picked one up. Cold. Heavy, but not awkward. Its weight settled into my palm like it belonged there. I tested the balance, aimed it casually at the floor, sighted down the barrel.

It was long, precise. A shooter's weapon. Not made for flair. Made to end a threat.

I liked that.

It felt like it held an authority of its own.

Funny, isn't it? How easily I held it. Like shaking an old friend's hand. Like it wasn't meant to take lives. Like it hadn't been designed by humans who understood how quickly blood cools when the body's stopped moving.

Mr. Penrose once told me, "You don't pick a weapon because you love it. You pick it because it makes you efficient."

He said that after handing me a kitchen knife and telling me to gut a deer.

I hadn't cried that time.

But my hands had shaken for a while.

This pistol didn't make my hands shake.

That's something.

I found a spare magazine and some rounds in the drawer behind the counter. Hollow points. Useful. Not pretty. I loaded it with the familiarity of someone who'd practiced but never used, mechanically smooth, but not muscle memory yet.

Still… it clicked together like it knew me.

I sat down cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, placed the pistol gently in front of me and opened my paint pouch.

Time to make it mine.

I pulled out silver, black and blue, cool colors. Precise colors. Not the emotional chaos of yellow and green. Not fire. Not rot.

This would be clarity.

I shook the cans slowly, listening to the rattle, then started painting.

The black came first. I sprayed it lightly over the barrel, letting it sink into the metal's matte finish, then layered in blue streaks that shimmered faintly in the light. I didn't want it to look militarized, I wanted it clean. Like something pulled from a sci-fi weapon rack. Like something that hummed.

I added streaks of silver, highlighting the barrel edges, the slide, the magazine baseplate. Subtle detailing, like light glinting off something superconductive.

I wasn't just painting a gun.

I was designing a message.

No rage. No emotion. Just force. Control.

I touched the side of the grip and began painting a delicate set of parallel lines across the body, an aesthetic mimicry of a railgun's rails. I read about them after Zoe mentioned them on the bus ride – they sounded pretty damn cool and would go along well with my power armor. I layered the top with two faint blue coils that wrapped around an imaginary core.

The shape of it changed in my mind as I painted and so did its purpose.

Not a pistol now.

A tool. A lens. My authority shaped into physics.

When the paint settled and dried, nearly glowing under the shop lights, I placed my palm gently on the weapon and whispered:

"Be the railgun."

The response wasn't immediate.

The paint shimmered, then tightened, as if the metal beneath it was responding, rearranging.

My authority crackled.

Blue arcs of light danced around my fingertips, controlled, almost graceful. Not the chaos of the acid spray, not the raw crack of metallic infusion from before. This felt refined. Like I was syncing with something, not bending it.

The pistol didn't change shape, not at all.

But it felt different now.

Lighter, but denser. Sleek, but humming with intent.

Like a silent predator, not a barking beast.

I lifted it and aimed down the invisible sights, now slightly enhanced by etched grooves I had painted. A trick of the magic, or maybe my subconscious. Either way, they helped.

I flicked the safety. Chambered a round. Held it ready.

This was it.

This was the weapon I would carry. Not out of vengeance. Not even for survival.

But for balance.

I needed to be precise. Not wild.

This would help.

It wouldn't save me, not by itself. But it would give me a moment. A chance to make the right choice when there was no time to think.

A weapon like this needed a name though.

Not just for fun. Not for some childish fantasy of wielding power.

It was something deeper than that, naming was about acknowledging. Accepting that this thing was now a part of me. A piece of my skin, my story, my violence.

It had to be something precise. Something balanced.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Not vengeful. Not boastful. Something that remembered the line between destruction and necessity.

Equinox.

Yes. That felt right.

A name of symmetry. Day and night in equal measure. Life and death on a knife's edge.
A name that whispered: I do not kill out of chaos. I kill to restore.

I turned the weapon in my palm slowly, admiring the sleek edges, the iridescent finish of the painted rails now settled into a cool metallic gleam.

"Equinox," I murmured aloud, testing the name on my tongue.

It suited the weight of the thing.

Balanced. Unassuming. Deadly.

Then, without quite meaning to, I added, „You like that, don't you?"

And then I winced.

"Oh, hell. I'm talking to objects now."

I chuckled under my breath and ran a hand over my mask. The laughter didn't echo, it stayed right there in my chest, dry and a little frayed.

"Never mind. Let's get you something to eat, Noxy."

Yeah.
That part stayed. Noxy.

Short. Intimate. As if naming it again softened it. Like a blade being sheathed after a duel.

I moved toward the back wall where the ammunition was stored behind thick glass, cracked it open and began gathering supplies.

Ammunition, after all, was food for creatures like Noxy.

I found boxes of 9mm rounds, the copper-jacketed kind. Not the flashiest, not the most brutal, but common, efficient, reliable. They did their job without screaming about it.

Six extra magazines.

Fifteen rounds each.

Ninety rounds in total.

Add that to the full mag I'd already loaded into Noxy earlier and I had one hundred and five bullets in all.

More than enough.

Unless I really pissed off the entire ecosystem of this world again. Which, let's be honest, was never off the table.

I packed the mags into a small side pouch I'd found near the register. Some kind of tactical bag, black canvas with a hard-shell interior and a dozen slots stitched with care. I appreciated good stitching.

And then I spotted it: a shoulder holster, draped over a mannequin's arm like it was waiting for someone specific.

The strap was rich, dark leather, soft to the touch but strong. Treated. Worn in the way only quality leather ever gets, like it remembers every contour of every shoulder it's hugged. The holster cradle itself had a strange sheen. Not metal, but something polymer-based, maybe with ceramic inlay. Lightweight. Durable.

I strapped it on.

It hugged my ribs. Sat clean beneath my jacket.

No noise. No tug. No extra bulk.

It was — right.

I took a moment.

Slid Equinox into place.

The weapon clicked against the holster with a sound that felt like punctuation. Final. Solid.

"Time to sleep, Noxy."

My voice was quieter now. Less sarcastic. There was something respectful in the words. Like placing a sword back into its scabbard after the duel.

I made my way back to the front of the shop, where my black-painted hole still hung in the window like a shadow cut out of reality. I touched the edge, infused it with the cool not-there-ness of it.

No alarms. No witnesses. No monsters for once.

Just me and Noxy and this strange world outside.

I crouched low, took one last look at the shelves of silent weapons and launched myself through the hole.

It welcomed me like an old stage curtain.

And I stepped out into the dark, quiet street, armed and steady. The mask clung to my face like second skin, my fingers twitched with leftover tension from the last fight and my eyes lifted to the end of the street, where the bridge stood like a waiting god.

It loomed above the city, vast and immovable, its backbone a series of steel towers stitched together with thick, sweeping cables that arced into the night like ribs of some slumbering colossus. From here, it swallowed the skyline. And at its highest point, impossibly perched atop the nearest tower, was something out of a fever dream: a castle. An actual, stone-built, battlement-lined, torch-lit castle. Not modern. Not metaphor. Real. It crowned the tower like a crown of madness.

Turrets, parapets, arched windows glowing faintly with flickers of orange torchlight, like some ancient monarch had decided to colonize the remnants of modern infrastructure.

I moved toward it, slow and deliberate. The cars that passed along the street glided by like ghosts, silent, their interiors dim, passengers motionless and mannequin-still. There was something wrong with them. Something wrong with everything.

At the edge of the bridge, where the pavement met service grates and old access walkways, the scent changed. The air was colder here, metallic and sharp, filled with the bite of rust, ozone and long-faded storms. Below, the water shimmered unnaturally. Its surface reached upward in distorted tendrils, rain in reverse, stretching, gasping, but never quite touching the underbelly of the bridge.

I stood before the first of the massive cables.

They weren't what I expected.

Not cables. Roads.

Each one was absurdly wide, thick steel and concrete, the texture beneath my boots more like hardened roots than engineered metal. They twisted upward at an incline, wrapping the tower like titanic serpents, coiling toward the castle in smooth, impossible curves.

I hesitated. Then I stepped onto one.

The surface was rough, ribbed for traction and groaned faintly underfoot. My balance held, paint-enhanced reflexes anchoring me like a wire-walker. One hand on my satchel, the other brushing the edge of my jacket, checking the comforting weight of Equinox, Noxy, against my ribs.

"I guess we're doing this," I murmured.

Each step felt heavier the higher I went. The castle was no illusion, it grew more detailed with every vertical foot. Banners fluttered in a wind I couldn't feel. High up, the glow of torchlight danced in window slits. This world wasn't copying Earth anymore. It was parodying it. Warping it through dream-logic and half-memories.

I wanted answers.

I wanted height. Clarity. A place to think.

And that meant reaching the top.

The wind picked up, sharper now, threading through my coat and tugging at my braid. The city shrank below, a mess of flickering lights and unmoving traffic. Then, halfway up the cable, I saw them, scattered along the upper arches and ledges of the tower: statues.

Figures frozen in hunched poses, wings half-unfurled, claws ready, faces twisted in snarls of stone.

Gargoyles.

Because of course there were gargoyles.

I slowed, my eyes scanning them. Silent. Still.

Then one moved.

A twitch, a claw flexing. A head turning. A silent acknowledgment of my presence.

It launched itself from the tower like a cannonball of stone and sinew, wings snapping wide, eyes glowing with faint purple fire. My hand went to Noxy in a blur, instinct driving faster than thought.

She was out, warm and ready. I raised her with both hands, planted my feet and fired.

The sound, holy hell, the sound, was thunder wrapped in a scream.

Blue-white light raced through the barrel, spiraling down in arcs of raw current. The air ignited with the smell of burning ozone. The moment the trigger clicked, the recoil hit like a truck.

My reinforced frame held, but it hurt. The shock rattled through my forearms, slammed into my shoulder and rang down my spine like a hammer to the ribs. I bit back a gasp and staggered, one boot slipping slightly off the cable's edge before catching again.

But the gargoyle? Gone.

It exploded mid-air, fragments of black stone and ash raining down onto the road and river far below. No scream. No drama. Just unmade by velocity and voltage.

I exhaled through clenched teeth. "Okay, Noxy… we're definitely going to need to work on your finesse."

I readjusted and tucked her back to my ribs. The other statues hadn't moved yet, but they would. I could feel their awareness. They were watching. Judging. Waiting for the right moment.

I ducked behind one of the thicker support ribs, breathing slow, centering. I'd faced worse, hadn't I? Shiroi and squirrel monsters. This was just… moving rocks.

Still, something had changed.

Penrose always said pay attention to detail and something in my last shot stood out. My magic can't leave the medium directly, but some of its physical effects can. I'd noticed the warmth of my fire before, but not the light it gave off, outside, it had simply been too bright to see. I'd heard the quiet hum of electricity before, too. But now, when I fired Noxy, I could see the light travel the length of the barrel and hear the sharp thunderclap of the electromagnetic discharge.

Paint that bled into the world with side effects I hadn't studied yet.

Not only force. Sound and light too.

Tools and weapons I could use.

I lay there for a while, curled against the cold steel ridge of the cable, my back pressed into the curve of the arch, half-hidden from the wind. The air this high up bit through my jacket, carrying the sting of altitude and the faint copper scent of ozone left behind by Noxy's discharge. My shoulder throbbed. My wrists ached. The recoil had been vicious, no, surgical. It had gone straight to the bones.

If I hadn't been reinforced, that shot would've shattered me. Maybe even killed me outright.

I'd known she was powerful, but this… this was overkill. A handheld railgun, even a beautiful one, was still a railgun.

I reached inside myself, where the abstract meets the real and nudged her presence.

Be a pistol again, I thought, a quiet plea layered in regret and survival. Not because I didn't love her. But because I wanted to live long enough to use her again.

I felt it shift, the weight at my ribs recalibrating, dialing back, becoming simpler. Less thunder, more breath. It wasn't shame. It was necessity.

And I was cold.

I pulled my satchel close and rummaged through its folds until I found what I needed, one of my fire pieces. A small, palm-sized square of thick paper, painted edge to edge in saturated orange, red and black. Originally, I'd intended it as a weapon. A flare of chaos. But here, now, I needed it to be something quieter. Something made for humans.

I slid it between two of the cable ridges, tucking it tight so the wind couldn't steal it. The steel was cold enough to bite my fingertips through gloves.

Be the fire, I whispered in thought, touching the edges of the paint. Keep me warm.

And it obeyed.

The image didn't burn this time, there were no raw edges left to curl and smolder, no chain reaction of destruction. Just magic. Pure and steady. The whole painting glowed softly, as if it were backlit from within, like the canvas remembered what warmth felt like. And then, heat.

It radiated out gently, just enough to take the frost from the air. The painted flame flickered without consuming itself, giving off a soft, pulsing light like a campfire that only existed in half a world.

I sat beside it, letting the heat soak into my legs and chest, watching the wind stir and then sidestep me like I wasn't worth the effort.

My breath slowed. My muscles stopped shivering.

Funny, how sometimes the most violent tools become your gentlest comforts.

I leaned my head back against the curved steel, eyes briefly closing and let myself rest, just for a moment, in the space between invention and survival.

**********

"He was right after all."

The voice slipped into my ears just as my eyes fluttered open. For a heartbeat, I had no idea where I was, then the cold steel at my back, the flickering warmth beside me and the aching pulse along my shoulder reminded me. The bridge. The fire. Noxy. The castle.

Had I fallen asleep? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?

Hovering in front of me, hands on her hips and glowing with that same silvery brilliance I remembered from the rooftop, was a figure small and radiant. The same kind of being I'd seen once when I first entered the Ideworld, like a streak of starlight poured into human shape. This one was shaped like a woman: slim, tall in proportion, with flowing silver hair and wide, luminous eyes. She pulsed with moonlight rather than reflected it.

I knew her now.

"Zoe?" I asked, voice cracking a little from sleep and cold.

"Of course it's me," she said, arching a glowing eyebrow. "Peter said you'd be dumb enough to come through again. I told him you wouldn't. Guess I was wrong. Guess he really is your brother after all. Nice mask, by the way."

Her tone was a strange cocktail: condescending, amused, but supportive. Like an older sister who couldn't decide between laughing or scolding. But I didn't care. Seeing her like this, whole, glowing, here, brought a ridiculous wave of comfort.

"So that's what seers look like when they enter the Ideworld?"

"Yeah. If we do it through dreams," she said, floating slowly around the ridge. "Not exactly easy to manage."

"You said you hadn't done it in a long time."

"I hadn't." Her glow dimmed slightly, gentling. "But Peter's my person now. And he was worried about you. So, when we went to sleep, I decided to peek in. Just to prove him wrong." She grinned, rolling her eyes. "Clearly that backfired."

"Sorry about that part," I said with a half-smile. "How did you even find me?"

"I checked the park first, the one where we found the entrance. Found a few dead squirrels. That gave me the general vibe," she said, circling slowly above my makeshift fire. "Then I heard the thunder from this direction and followed it. Saw the glow. Found you. Simple."

She tilted her head, studying the flickering fire with curiosity. "You can store fire in a painting?"

"Kind of," I said. "It's not real fire. Not exactly. I make it believe it's fire. It can't leave the medium I painted it on, none of my creations can, but they behave like what they think they are. This one believes it's warm. So, it is."

She crouched mid-air, toes barely grazing the steel as she reached toward the flame. "So, if you painted it on, say, wood—?"

"It'd burn for real. Then the real flame would spread. It's the painting that carries the illusion, but the results can chain-react into the real world."

"Fantastic," she whispered, twirling around it like a slow orbiting moon, basking in its glow. Then her eyes returned to mine. "So, your portal really closed?"

"Yeah. It was already gone by the time I stepped through. No sphere, no shimmer, no shadows, nothing. I thought they were supposed to stay open twenty-four hours?"

"They are. That's what my grandmother always said. I don't know why it would close early. I'm sorry, Lex."

"Don't be. Shit happens. That's life." I shrugged and winced as pain lanced through my shoulder. "I'll find another way out. Always do."

"You could go back through your Domain," she said, hovering closer. "It always lets you return. But you'd have to reach it."

"Yeah. I figured that might be my exit card. But first…" I nodded toward the towering silhouette overhead. "I want to check out the castle. Something tells me it's not just for show."

She blinked, wide-eyed. "You're actually going in?"

"Why not? What's the worst that could happen?" I smiled.

"You're not afraid of the things up here?"

"I haven't had a reason to be yet. Besides, can any of them even hurt you?"

"No. I'd know immediately if one could. They'd have authority of their own."

She hovered silently for a beat, then sighed. "I could be your eyes. Scout ahead if you want. But I might disappear if I wake up suddenly."

"You don't have to, Zoe. You've already done more than enough, just by finding me here."

She didn't answer that. Just stared quietly at the fire a while longer, letting its painted warmth settle around us.

"You were right," she said eventually. "There is something up there."

"What do you mean?"

"I can feel a strong soulmark in that castle. Very strong. Maybe the strongest I've ever sensed in the Ideworld."

"You can feel them?" I asked, sitting up straighter.

She nodded. "That's what seers are mostly used for, by mages. We track soulmarks or other items infused with authority. That castle is humming with it."

I looked up toward the tower's peak, where gothic shadows twisted against the starless sky.

"Then I'm definitely going," I said, standing slowly, pain pulling tight across my ribs. "Thanks for confirming it."

Zoe just smiled. "Don't die, alright? Peter would kill me."

"Not planning to."

"Good," she said, spinning lazily in the air.