Ideworld Chronicles: The Art Mage

Day in the story: 1st October (Wednesday)

He stood in the frame, a man once, maybe. But now, unmistakably a shadow. His left hand was fused with a welding torch, its nozzle still hot with phantom heat. His torso had become something else entirely: a slab of tarnished metal, shaped like a tombstone, with a name and two dates etched deep in its surface. His eyes were sealed with wide, rusted rivets and his hair hung in wire-thin strands. When he opened his mouth to speak, I saw teeth made of nails and rivets.

"Whom you might be, lass?"

"My name is Usagi," I replied quickly. Then, glancing at the engraving on his chest, I added, "I came to pay my respects to those who built this place."

He tilted his head, his movements mechanical and slow. Behind him, six more workers toiled in grim silence, their bodies similarly transformed, tools and scrap fused to flesh. One of them, the only one with both hands intact, methodically laid bricks in the far corner. Yet every brick placed crumbled into dust and every welded joint split apart elsewhere. The work never finished. The work never stopped.

"That is so strange," Zoe whispered in my ear from my shoulder. She must have seen what I was seeing.

"I don't know, lass," the shadow-worker said. "We still build, aye. Not safe for you here." His joints groaned as he shifted.

"It took me a long time to get here," I said softly. "I'd like to move forward, if it's allowed."

He rubbed his chin with his human hand the gesture unnervingly human. "I'll ask the Foreman. Wait here." He turned, leaving the door open behind him and I stepped into the half-constructed bridge.

It was a dream caught in amber, a section of suspended walkway, thick steel cables arcing above me, brick beneath my feet, all enclosed within massive stone walls. I peered over the edge. Below, a river flowed, not beneath the bridge, but straight into the castle wall, vanishing as if feeding the memory itself.

"Red!" the worker shouted. "Red! Some lass here!"

The water bulged.

Something rose from it, a massive figure climbing a submerged ladder, water cascading from his bulk. Towering. Silent. Where a face should've been, there was only a mouth sewn shut with cable wire. He carried a colossal wrench, dragging behind him and leaving ghostlike streaks in the air. His chest was plated in corroded steel like the others, but his name was etched deep and proud:

Silas "Red" McCray – The Foreman.

He moved toward us, eyes bulging unnaturally, as if holding back some unbearable pressure. He stared at me, mouth gurgling behind the stitching.

"Red says you're a thief," the worker translated, his voice flat but wary. "Is it true?"

How would he know that? I doubted Red had psychic insight, more likely, he said that about everyone. Let's not jump to supernatural paranoia just yet.

"Of course I'm not a thief," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "Why would Mr. Red think that?"

Red gurgled again, a horrible wet sound like metal grinding through waterlogged lungs. Then, without ceremony, he grabbed the worker by the torso and lifted him as though he weighed nothing, like a sack of tools.

The poor soul dangled midair, legs twitching, voice trembling as he relayed the next message. "Red says, only a thief wears a mask. You came for our treasures. You must die."

"I don't think peace talks are working," Zoe whispered dryly from my shoulder.

No shit.

I sighed and reached up to unclip the mask, peeling it off carefully. The moment it came loose, everything dimmed, the overbright light of the torches became murky, the industrial haze settled over the world again. Sound dulled like I was underwater. But at least I could breathe properly now and not fight the rising bile from Red's stench.

"I took the mask off. See?" I said, forcing calm into my voice. "Not a thief. It was welding protection. Just… fancy."

Red stared. His bulging eyes didn't blink, just hovered, full of pressure, threatening to pop. Then he set the worker down like a tool returned to its shelf. Slowly, ominously, he reached behind himself and took hold of his colossal wrench with both hands, the metal humming like a tuning fork of violence.

Another gurgle.

The worker, still catching his breath, translated: "Red says… you may pass. But he will move along with you. To watch."

Of course he would.

"Oh great," I muttered.

"Let's go then," I said aloud, stepping forward.

And the sound of footsteps followed, massive, echoing, constant.

And so, we walked further along the bridge.

I had to leap across gaps in the structure, unfinished sections suspended above a void that swallowed sound. Each landing echoed sharply through the vast chamber, cutting through the melodic rhythm of the crews like a stone shattering stained glass.

But no one stopped us.

No heads turned. No hands paused mid-motion. They kept at their endless tasks, laying bricks, welding seams, tightening bolts, work that evaporated moments after it was done. As if the structure rejected completion. And still, they smiled. They sang. There was joy in their futility, like dancers unaware their stage would vanish with each step. Maybe the outcome didn't matter. Maybe doing was enough.

Red followed in silence. Each of my jumps he mirrored in his own terrible way, a giant of fused metal and stone moving with an unnatural grace that should've been impossible. His wrench, longer than I was tall, trailed ghost-light behind it as he walked.

The path spiraled upward now, curving like a rib carved from the tower's spine. Every so often, arched windows punctuated the gloom, letting in flickers of moonlight, cold and pale, brushing across steel cables and rivets. The impossible river still flowed with us, coiling along the edge of the path, rising as though gravity were a polite suggestion. Not a single drop spilled. No flood followed. The world bent to the bridge's will.

This place wasn't obeying physics as I knew it.

I leapt another gap, my injured ribs howling under the strain. My landing cracked across the stone and then I saw them, workers scattering suddenly from a tight knot up ahead. I slowed.

And there he was.

A boy, curled on the wet concrete like discarded tools. Blood spread like a bloom around him, mixing with the river-mist and runoff. I saw a boot print on his back, fresh. His lip had split all the way to his nose. Strands of iron hair clung to his scalp, but his body was small, too human for this place. Too fragile.

I froze mid-step, the need to act clawing up through my gut. But I wasn't a hero. Most thieves, contrary to popular belief, have no honor at all, myself included. I was here for a soulmark, not a salvation.

He was a shadow. Right?

"Hey Zoe," I said quietly, trying to swallow the weight in my throat. "Do shadows… do they feel? Do they have consciousness?"

Zoe hovered close to my cheek, her light dimmed to a cautious flicker. "I was just wondering the same thing. You want to intervene?"

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"It's too late, right?" I answered, but I didn't move.

The boy moaned softly.

Red made a deep, wrenching noise from behind me, a grinding churn that didn't belong in a body. One of the workers stepped forward to interpret, his right hand a hammer fused at the wrist, the usual nail-teeth glinting from his mouth like broken promises.

"Foreman says…" the worker rasped, "you should move the thief. Throw him into the river. That's where he belongs."

I looked at the boy again. He wasn't moving much now. But that face, under the iron-fiber hair, beneath the bruises, it was a human face. Not twisted like the others. Not gone.

"Why doesn't Red do it himself?" I said carefully.

I wasn't standing up for the boy. I told myself that. I was just stalling. Buying time. Not getting dragged into someone else's shadow-history.

Red gurgled louder, a rumble that vibrated through the bridge under my feet. The worker translated again.

"Foreman says: if you refuse, he will throw you in with the thief. This is your test."

Of course it was.

Simple math. Help a boy who might not be real, or survive to finish what I came here to do. The bridge didn't care about morality. Only choices.

I exhaled sharply, my side burning like torn paper and stepped toward the boy. My boots scraped through his blood as I crouched low and grabbed him by the shoulders. He didn't resist. He barely moved. Just a broken heap of limbs in soaked clothing.

Then,

He stirred.

A jolt of life snapped through him and he turned his head just enough for me to see his face. His eyes were human. Too human. Wide and terrified.

"Help… me… please," he gasped, blood running from his mouth.

My hands froze.

"Oh, bloody damn," I whispered.

Zoe didn't speak. She didn't have to.

Because in that moment, rationality cracked.

The boy's plea wasn't scripted. It wasn't part of some eternal cycle of creation and collapse. It was real, directed at me, an element outside the narrative. I looked over my shoulder.

Red stood motionless, but his grip on the wrench tightened. The stone beneath him groaned in warning.

I could walk away. I could push the boy into the river. He'd vanish like everything else in this place, into myth, into water, into memory.

But he'd begged.

And something in me refused to let that go. Fuck.

I looked down at him. His eyes were fading now. Whatever spark had surfaced was being drowned again by the weight of this place.

But it had happened. And I'd seen it.

"I'm sorry, Zoe," I whispered as I rose to my feet, my ribs aching with every breath.

"No," she replied, her voice steady. "I understand. I'll help however I can."

I gave a tight nod and faced Red, towering and silent. "Hey, big guy," I called, voice sharp as a blade, "do it yourself. I'm not doing your dirty work."

A low, metallic churning began inside him, his version of speech. The interpreter beside him looked up, waiting for instruction.

But I didn't wait for a translation.

A single shot shattered the air, ripping the silence apart like glass. The interpreter collapsed instantly, a gaping hole where his forehead had been. The recoil from Noxy, even in its standard form, punched into my shoulder like a battering ram, but pain didn't matter now. Two more shots rang out before Red fully processed what had happened, one to his knee, one aimed at his head.

The first made him stumble, balance faltering, joints grinding in protest. The second shot struck the side of his head, but didn't kill. Instead, he flashed with a sickly grey light, as if some hidden authority resisted death itself. He rose, slow and deliberate. Still silent.

He was activating something. Power, memory, some hidden clause of his identity. But I didn't wait to find out what.

I ran straight at him.

I ducked low and slammed a fist into his groin, solid metal, but it made him falter. As he lurched forward and dropped his wrench, I bolted between his legs, pulling two spray cans, one red, one orange, from my belt.

I started tagging his lower back and thighs in sweeping strokes, painting flames along the contours of his armor.

He swept a massive hand backward to swat me like a fly. I ducked, rolled beneath the arc of his swing and kept spraying, igniting bright streaks of inferno along his flanks. He spun, his eyes flaring and grabbed his wrench again, raising it high to smash me like a nail.

My side was on fire from pain, but I sidestepped fast, heart pounding and as the wrench hit stone, I kicked off it, vaulting upward. I used his shoulder as a springboard and flipped over him, still tagging him with arcs of crimson and gold.

Then the light began.

Zoe shot past me in a flash, her glow exploding to ten times its usual brightness, like a living star circling his head. She flew fast and chaotic, weaving in and out of his vision. He couldn't track her. He couldn't even blink fast enough. He began swinging at the light, arms flailing wildly. I tried to shout, "Good job!" but my mouth opened and no sound came out.

My voice was gone. All sound was gone.

Then pain exploded through my ribs.

A sharp jab, something pointed, metal. I fell hard, twisting in agony as a new figure stepped into view. Another worker. I hadn't heard him come, of course I hadn't. He loomed over me now, mouth split in that nail-toothed grin, gripping a jagged tool-hand with both arms for leverage.

He stabbed down.

I kicked with all my strength, heel connecting with his shin. He grunted silently and dropped to one knee. I twisted, rolled, then sprang upright using my good hand boots sliding in a smear of blood and paint. As he lunged again, I slammed my armored fist into his face.

His head cracked like a melon, bone and brain matter splattering across my gauntlet and the concrete floor.

No time to process it.

I grabbed the cans I'd dropped mid-fight and kept spraying. The giant was still turning in circles, swiping at the light, swatting blindly.

Zoe was still at it, dancing just outside his reach, a radiant blur. I wanted to scream for her to get clear, but I still had no voice. She couldn't hear me. She wouldn't stop.

Then I saw two more shapes coming fast.

One had a welding torch for a hand. The other wielded a hammer like a goddamn executioner. The hammer-bearer leapt, trying to strike Zoe from above.

Red's hand came out of nowhere and swatted him away. The worker tumbled through the air and disappeared into the shadows beyond the bridge.

Well, that was new.

I raised Noxy and fired twice. One round took the torch-hand through the chest, he dropped instantly. The second shot followed the airborne one, just to be sure.

With the distractions handled, I turned back to Red.

I sprayed the final streak across his chest, painting a fiery painting where his heart would be, if he had one.

Be the fire, I thought.

Something answered. Energy sparked down my arms, veins of light, red and yellow and white, crawling through my skin like living lightning. The paint on his armor shimmered, then ignited, metaphorically. The colors became the heat of the flame. Real, searing, authority-driven flame.

Red thrashed violently.

The grey light in him, the Authority I had seen before, began to unravel like fog hit by sunrise. He dropped to his knees, the wrench falling beside him with a deep thud.

The silence broke.

Sound returned in a rush, Zoe's buzzing flight, the crackling of fire, the wet hiss of burning oil and flesh. Red let out a final, bellowing roar, then collapsed. Metal groaned, stone cracked and he was still.

I stood in the sudden stillness, chest heaving, body shaking with pain and exertion. The whole platform stank of burnt oil and rusted blood.

Then I remembered why this started.

I turned back and rushed to the boy.

He was still there, somehow still breathing. His small body trembled, soaked in blood and memory.

I crouched beside him and lifted him carefully, he was feather-light. A shadow, yes, but more than that now.

Zoe floated down beside me, her glow faded, her form flickering slightly like an overused bulb. She was clearly drained, but her smile was genuine.

"We made it," she said softly.

I nodded, though my heart was far from steady. "Barely."

As we stepped away from the wreckage, boy in my arms, the scent of burned oil and blood still clinging to the air, something in the bridge groaned. Not just structurally, but deeply, like a breath drawn through old lungs.

And then he appeared.

He walked with the certainty of ritual. Cloaked in layers of heavy, black cloth, the figure's face was lost deep within a hood and with every movement, pages fell from his robes. All yellowed with age and wear, fluttering in an unseen wind like dying birds. Some crumbled the moment they hit the floor. Others vanished midair.

In his left hand he held a bell-lantern, its fire flickering with a shimmer that defied the normal spectrum, neither warm nor cold. Just — present. The light cast long, trembling shadows that bent strangely along the platform's edge. Across his chest, suspended by chains that vanished into his robes, hung a small tarnished metal plate, like a name etched into the armor of memory itself.

He approached slowly, muttering something I couldn't hear. His voice was buried under the strange hush blanketing the area, as if the silence hadn't left with Red's death, but instead lingered, waiting.

I pulled my mask from my bag and strapped it on with aching fingers. Its sensors hummed softly. The world lit up again, outlines brightened, movement sharpened and my rabbit-enhanced hearing returned.

The muttering became a chant.

"Raise up tools, raise up to be used. Raise up tools—"

Over and over.

His voice had the cadence of a priest giving last rites to the living.

Through the filter, I could finally read his nameplate.

Reverend Josiah Thorne – The Mourner.

He stopped thirty feet away. The air around him took on a faint orange hue, a subtle shimmer, like dying coals under ice. The bridge responded, I could feel it in the soles of my boots. It shifted. Bent. Acknowledged.

The pages around him fluttered violently and then dropped. I could see them now. Hymns. Prayers. Mourning rites. His lantern pulsed. He lifted his head slowly. And then:

"RAISE UP TOOLS!" he shouted, voice no longer muttering, but ringing out like a bell toll for the dead.

The light surged from the lantern, an orange wave of flickering shimmer that stretched outward and struck the fallen bodies. The workers. Red. Even the boy in my arms.

The thief jerked in my grasp. His body convulsed, then went eerily still. A second later, his arms pushed against me. He stood.

No wounds. No blood. No pain. Whole.

He smiled.

Then turned and ran.

Gone.

In that instant, my stomach dropped.

I was totally fucked.

"Run!" I shouted, heart pounding. I turned, searching for Zoe, but she was gone. No silver shimmer. No trailing sparks. No glow. Nothing.

Instead, rising like puppets re-strung by invisible fingers, were four workers.

And Red.

Whole again. Restored. Not even scorched. They stood up in eerie silence and turned toward me in perfect synchrony.

This wasn't resurrection.

This was rewind.