Mr. Tang was becoming a global phenomenon. A genius, a savior, a man hailed as the final hope for a dying planet. His name rolled off the tongues of presidents, whispered in royal courts, splashed across the front pages of every major news outlet. People who had never agreed on anything now knelt before the same idea: he could bring back the rain.
The Earth had baked for too long. The last real rainfall was almost a decade ago. The rivers were memory. The oceans had receded, leaving behind ghost ports and cracked salt beds. Farmers had become refugees. Children drew clouds and storms in their notebooks without ever having seen one. The world was exhausted, and Mr. Tang offered one thing no one else could — a miracle. But miracles demand a price.
He said he needed material. Special material. The kind no country could supply in bulk. The kind that would destroy entire economies to acquire.
And then he dropped the real bomb: "The world must pause childbirth. Six months. No pregnancies. No births."
The outrage was instant. Religious leaders screamed. Human rights groups cried foul. But Tang wasn't finished. He smiled.
"Inside every pregnant woman," he said, "is a compound. A substance the earth hasn't seen since the ancient biosphere. I can extract it. Refine it. And with it, I can make rain. Real rain. But if you're not ready for that sacrifice…"
People weren't dumb. They saw the threat. The darkness behind his genius. So he pivoted.
"Let me begin," he offered, "with the dying. Give me the terminally ill — cancer patients, primarily. They're already fading. Let them go out making history."
It was a vile proposal. But desperation rewrites morality. At first, there was global resistance. Then hesitation. And finally — agreement.
Hospitals began sending their lists. Families justified it as mercy. Governments praised it as heroic sacrifice. Tang's machines rolled into cities, and quietly, the first harvests began.
And now — Jim Slevann was back in that world. After everything he'd seen in Senedro — the blood, the gods, the wars, the betrayals — nothing shook him more than this.
Because Jenna Slevann, his wife, was very soon going to be on one of those hospital lists.
She was dying. The cancer had returned, faster this time, crueler. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes dim, but she still smiled when she saw Jim. And Jim? Jim wasn't smiling. He had fought demons, faced down Shams, stood against spirits ancient and wild — but this?
This was evil in a lab coat.
The world had begun to trust a villain.
And now that villain had his sights on the woman Jim loved. No.
Not while Jim Slevann still breathed. Not while he still had one shift left in him.
These were quiet days for Jim Slevann — almost too quiet.
There were no more voices from Senedro. No more distant whispers from Dias echoing in his dreams. The stars no longer shimmered with that strange pulsing hum he used to feel just before a shift. Nights passed without incident. Sometimes he went to sleep bracing for the pull — that sudden yank that would toss his soul back across time and matter — but it never came. Morning after morning, he woke up next to Jenna in their new room, sunlight brushing against her pale cheeks, her chest rising gently as she breathed.
And honestly? He was happy. Jenna was still fragile, her health unpredictable, but she laughed again. They shared breakfast. They sat on the porch and talked about the world like they were part of it again — not just characters in a cosmic war. Jim knew the peace might not last forever, but right now, he didn't care. He had her. And maybe, just maybe, Senedro was finally done with him.
But Senedro… wasn't done. Far across the realms, in that other world where warriors lived and died by the hour, the resting body of the night rider lay still — his soul far from the battlefield. Yet he had not been discarded.
By decree of the queen, the miteon girl was pulled from the shadows of the sex dungeon — no longer a plaything for nobles or a forgotten prisoner of pleasure. Her purpose had changed. She was given new garments, her wings bound gently in ceremonial cloth, and taken to one of the quiet palace chambers where Jim's body rested.
There, she was assigned a sacred duty: watch over the night rider. Wait for his awakening. And when he stirs — if he stirs — be the first to see him return. The queen was patient. She could wait years if need be. There was something about that boy, that Shean from Zela. Something deeper than what even Hennekas had seen.
Meanwhile, Dalab thrived in blood and spectacle. Gulutel and the one-winged miteon had become overnight legends. Their names were sung in the markets, painted on the walls, chanted by children play-fighting in the alleys. The two surviving gladiators had become the heart of Dalab's entertainment — honored, cheered, and given the best food and quarters. They no longer fought for freedom — they fought for fame.
And beyond the city's walls, Shæz was now on the move. She had joined Gideon's troop, riding out with hunters and scouts into the untamed lands of Senedro. Without a night rider to fight for, the elite had shifted their attention. Power had to keep flowing — and now that Jim had vanished, every force in Zela was finding new channels to survive.
The queen had her secrets. The people had their heroes.
But somewhere between two worlds, a soul still lingered.
And the question wasn't if Jim Slevann would return —
…it was when.