I lunge forward and thrust my sword; Melindor dodges backward and parries Fergus's cut. Swords clash, and the sound of metal echoes through the theater; a crowd of ragdolls clap their hands as we fight for our lives. The Illusionist conjures a shield and blocks another thrust, lets the blade slide along the metal, and advances. The steel comes within inches of my body until—

  Clap.

  The clown claps his hands, and the scene changes. A dense forest like the one we fought in. I don't know whether he can change the scenery or not, but I don't care. We hunt the enemy beast that camouflages itself in the green hell, carrying a spear and a rustic shield, wearing the skin of ancient prey. The life of a hunter is difficult but rewarding when you finally kill something. Whispers try to convince me that taking it out of its habitat and throwing it on a journey is a crime against its nature. In this, it hides to pounce, and my success is its proof to destroy me. But the real danger lies in the one who watches me from afar, using his influence to make the hunter comfortable in his life until he can no longer hunt and is devoured by what was once his prey. After all, what hero would be forged in the stability of his home? I aim the spear at my back, and in one swift movement, the Illusionist changes the environment to the sea.

  In a boat, I feel the pressure of a nightmare shaking the depths. A large whale opens its eyes and circles us. We arm ourselves with harpoons, facing the creature and looking for an opportunity, but none is found. Mere mortals cannot overcome the forces that rule the world. So I channel and maximize the spell's emission, and when the whale leaps from the depths to swallow us, I explode it from the inside out using fire.

  Clap.

  I prepare the horse and arrange the steel armor. The clown tries to hold back the crowd of knights who are trying to prevent each king from killing himself. We ride towards each other wielding spears, and I obscure my presence using the darkness of the smoke. Melindor conjures powerful winds and sweeps across the game track, throwing me and the horse to the ground before we touch each other. I roll across the ground and, with the added strength of blood manipulation, dig my feet into the earth. He lunges over his beast and thrusts. I spin on my axis and rip the creature's legs out from under him so he falls to the ground and is crushed by it. He spits blood and rises, imagines comets falling on the track, and forces me to respond with explosive steam. I gather the flames in my chest and throw them; the yellow puff consumes the stands and spreads across the sky, causing visions of madness. Screams. So many screams. Always the screams. To me, it doesn't matter how many there are, as long as I can accomplish what I need to do.

  “Likewise.” Melindor says, upon hearing my thoughts, walking through the remaining flames. “But what other goal does someone like you have other than the destruction of this world?”

  “I don't work for that.”

  “Yes. The blond boy who pointed his weapon at Aldwyn. A simple vision, engraved in the depths of your mind. But if you are to be the one who divides the sky from the earth, tell me, how do you intend to do it?” He narrows his eyes. “You will destroy, Sieghart. The skies will bleed, and fire will annihilate the earth.”

  “I will do whatever I need.”

  “Of course.” He says, and the scene changes. The Empty Sea where the stars dwell. I feel the pressure on my body, but it's not like in the original—I believe I don't have enough power for that yet. “I will show you what you will destroy.”

  And in his hands, small stars shine. He throws them like projectiles, lines of light that I can only deflect by predicting where they will be thrown. I automate my protection and cast a spell on myself, flames pulverizing projectiles that come close so I don't have to worry about defense. I use the darkness that surrounds us to dive and emerge behind Melindor, punch his jaw, and hear it crack as I throw him back into orbit. He uses the impact as propulsion and changes the scenery to pull me towards him, then flies above the continents like a blur and obscures them as if destroying them. But guilt wouldn't stop me—let alone one that won't happen, either.

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  So I follow him and bombard the continent below with maddening flames. Metamagic spreads through the arcane and burns the concepts that separate us. Imagination heats up, the sky bubbles, and Melindor grits his teeth to create mountains and trap me in the depths of the earth. Columns of magma glow and explode from the inside out; volcanoes erupt as black clouds are carried away. One after another, yellow fire tornadoes pulse and erase the oceans they pass over. The steam rises, concentrated like precision jets that serve as wind blades to shred the summoned monsters, the thrown stars, and the hurricanes that you insist I create. The scene is destroyed, and after another clap, a frozen world expands.

  My head hurts. His thoughts invade mine. Despite the Clown's protection, if I don't kill him before he wears me down, Melindor will be able to invade my mind and gain control of this world. His plan never involved killing me or killing the Clown, but using the Chaos that dwells within us to empower the Rift. A desperate gamble, or rather, a calculated risk.

  “How many worlds will we have to pass through before you feel the suffering of this world?” He says. “It's useless. Fire and blood can annihilate millions, but they will not destroy the mind.”

  “Suffering? What kind of suffering? Who are you to talk about suffering…?”

  I frown. “Do you want to know about my past, Sieghart? Why? You didn't care about that before you sent your subjects to their deaths, much less when you condemned us all to follow this filthy destiny to try to redeem a people we hate. I'll tell you: I'm just another citizen whose life was destroyed by external events, just like the village you destroyed in your battle as Aldwyn or in other adventures. I came from nothing, I'm going to nothing, and I don't want to be anything. That's all that matters. Why does this Clown help you? Why not join me and have everything you want?”

  Thoughts come together. Through Fergus's eyes, I see a straw house being torn apart by the wind and a boy fighting monsters. I see the terror in his eyes driving him mad so that his power awakens, so that he becomes the Clown, and so that he is here today. He takes a deep breath after taking care of half the threats to my life, but when faced with the question, his hands freeze. He considers the proposal but frowns and grits his teeth.

  “It will be fake. What's the point of that…?”

  “The world you would have liked to stay in is also fake,” Melindor says.

  “And he would have killed me if you had opened the Rift, right? No. I can't continue in an illusion knowing that I will be a toy without autonomy. I shrunk so that he would run away, but if I can't run away, then I only have one option.”

  He steps forward. Not against me or the Illusionist, but against the sky. He changes the scenery, clapping his hands and mutating the texture that covers the imaginary world. By maximizing his output, Fergus focuses on the mechanism that supports psychic change.

  “NO!” Melindor shouts and advances against him, but I interrupt him with an explosion and push him to the opposite side. I solidify the blood and conjure the weapons of the sky to accompany the use of fire. I force the separation, the scenarios changing every minute and then every second. I throw Melindor to the ground and explode him over a mountain, pressing his face to the ground and protecting myself from his lightning bolts with the blood that coats and crystallizes above my muscles. He tries to change the scenarios and use his authority to rewrite his advantage, but the world no longer obeys him. He changes, paralyzes, and blurs, again and again, again and again.

  Magic is an act of expression. As long as the Clown performs and maintains his total concentration on distorting Melindor's authority, the dimension cannot be controlled. The illusion distorts, breaks, and cracks, again and again, until the sky shatters like glass and the ground splits apart. Thousands of worlds coexist in the same setting, neutralizing their advantages over their disadvantages.

  The Illusionist grits his teeth. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE?! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!”

  I don't care.

  Without the Clown's help, the Illusionist can use all his power against me. Faced with the evil and the blessed, the role that I have is that of a king. My reason was defined long ago. If the only competence I have left is to lead or to put myself ahead of others, then that is what I will do now.

  So I inhale, stamp my feet on the ground, and assume my stance.