The poison took effect almost immediately. The room swam before the Warlock’s eyes, his legs went numb, and the cup fell from his hands only to roll around the stone floor. The darkness of the tiny crypt began expanding rapidly, absorbing the universe. The Warlock realized his body had reached colossal proportions which made the concepts of “top” and “bottom” lack meaning, his feet lost somewhere in the black abyss and his arms able to rake in hundreds of stars.

The quivering candle flame sitting on the table was now the closest of such stars. This tiny sun barely illuminated several pearls that were scattered around the table, which now seemed to be entire planets. They were no longer simply lurking in the twilight lying on an ancient tabletop, polished to a shine. Now, the worlds soared in the abyss of the universe, each moving along its own trajectory. Here was the Warlock’s native purple planet, but not far away there was a silver one. Thanks to the poisonous brew, the Warlock could rotate and examine them as he wished in his mind’s eye. The Warlock easily located the right place on the purple ball, Death Mountain on the outskirts of the Master’s land. On the floor of the abandoned crypt, the Warlock lay in a feverish sweat, listening to the Elixir of the Seers.

Suddenly, the Warlock noticed a barely perceptible movement to his side, so he turned his gaze there. Another black pearl emerged from the darkness, and it slowly rolled across the table’s surface towards the red ball. It exuded some threat.

The Warlock began to ask questions without saying a word. The answers to which started to appear in his head.

“Who is the leader of the Dark World?”

“The Obsessive Racer.”

“What sort of threat do I feel?”

“At three o’clock, the Obsessed will change his trajectory, flying into the Purple World and destroying both himself and you. After that, the Silver one will crash into them and also perish.”

“Why won’t our Racer slow down in advance?”

“He sees no threat. After all, worlds pass one another all the time, their paths never intersecting. But the Obsessed is unpredictable; that’s what makes him dangerous. He will change his trajectory abruptly and your world won’t have time to stop.”

“Is there anything that can be done to stop it?”

"You know perfectly well that the Racer chooses the speed of the Red Planet himself. You and the Master are his puppets. The Racer applies pressure on you, Warlock, and you clamp on to the Great Disc in a vice. The Master then experiences depression, a poor harvest, and the loss of livestock. There is very little Firewater, the World is paralyzed, and the speed of the planet decreases. He presses against the Master and he gets energy from pouring Firewater into the Caves. Hell rages and bubbles, and the Flywheel spins. You are raided, Warlock, making you leave for the shadows and causing the Purple World to pick up speed. A skilled Racer never pushes on both levers at the same time. It is foolish to do so. Now, as you can see, it is the Master’s time. Your World is accelerating. Indeed, the red ball moved from its place and rolled towards the black one.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Collisions cannot be avoided. You will not get the Master. Now it is his time. The mechanism is such that neither of you can meet or directly influence each other, even if at times you truly desire it. But think about the Racer. Is he as out of reach as you think? In the end, are you a warlock or not?”

Outside the window, it was beginning to get light. The tender paws of the Elixir gradually released the Warlock. Along with the morning light, the size of the crypt returned to normal and the sorcerer slowly recovered. Now he had no doubt that it was necessary to carry out the Rite of the Racer’s Curse. Puppets are simply puppets.

***

The Master’s advisor rushed through the long corridors of the Castle, his flickering purple cloak terrifying the guards on the wall. They fell into line and froze without a breath as he rushed past. The armored bodyguards were barely capable of keeping pace with the Advisor. Without slowing down, he threw open the doors and flew into the hall.

“My Lord! He has appeared!”

“Where is he?” the Master quietly asked.

“In the swamps. The astrologer spotted the beginnings of the Rite of Curse. The goddamn Warlock took it upon himself to direct a blow at the Sky Racer and slow down the movement of the Purple World.”

There you are, you demonic offspring, the Master, a gray-haired man with the burning eyes of a fanatic, gently commented to himself. Then he added, “What’s at the swamps? Death Mountain. An abandoned crypt. There is nowhere else to hide. Surround the swamp. He’s trapped.” The Master stood and spoke in a steely voice, like a person who has made their final decision. “The punisher with the cavalry. Send them there. Now. I want his head. Burn the rest. Make it so.”

“Yes, my Lord!” The Advisor disappeared almost as quickly as he appeared.

The Master leaned back in his chair and thought.

Why did the Warlock give himself away? He could have stayed off the map and waited out the raid before going to the Northern Tribes. He is not a fool. What made the Warlock throw caution to the wind and start the Rite?

The Master already regretted not giving the order to capture the Warlock alive.

Suddenly, he remembered the Sky Racer. Greater Reason, which had led the purple world through space for hundreds of years, was now in danger. For some reason, the vile Warlock wanted to curse the Racer and stop this world, so dear and familiar. His world. The Master’s lips thinned.

“I am here to protect them from evil spirits. Let the Warlock die with his secret. It shall be easier for all to breathe.”

***

…The Warlock gazed at the ridiculous-looking Scarecrow that sat in a chair, holding a large wooden ring in its hands. Under its right foot, there was a support, an iron bar turned upside down and bent in the shape of a V. The ragged leg of the Scarecrow was standing on one of its sides.

The Warlock rubbed his weary eyes. After the endless reading of spells and incantations, his neck was numb and his eyes were hurting.

Well, it was almost three o’clock.

It was time.

The Warlock drew a dagger and approached the seated Scarecrow from behind. He stood over him with his eyes closed, silently moving his lips. Then, with a sweep, he plunged the dagger to the hilt into the Scarecrow's chest. Then, once more. After the second strike, the effigy's foot slipped from the strut.

Done.

The Rite was completed.

The Warlock removed the dagger from the tightly packed burlap and, for the first time in days, he stepped out of the stuffy crypt and into the fresh air. A gust of wind cooled his face.

Glancing at the foot of Death Mountain, the Warlock saw the Master’s cavalry riding along the rocky path. Noticing the Warlock, the commander barked a command and unsheathed his sword. Soldiers spurred on their horses as they set off towards the quarry.

Oh, look at them. They eventually found us, the Warlock thought, detached.

He looked up to see a dark cloud advancing, blocking out half the sky. The world was rapidly turning dark, and it became clear that the Obsessed had already changed its trajectory.

The Warlock looked down at the soldiers again. The deafening sound of armor clanking was lost in the pounding of hooves. The front horsemen were sitting high in the stirrups.

Standing still, the Warlock spoke with his eyes closed. “You are too late, Master. Not by much, but late nonetheless. Thank you for that. I did everything I could.”

Lightning flashed, the dazzling crack splitting the sky in half. Neither the Warlock nor the soldiers heard the sound of the thunder.

***

Nikolayevich’s vision darkened from the stabbing pain in his chest. The green wave of forest faded away and lost color. He tried hard to take a deep breath, but the invisible dagger pierced his heart again. Nikolayevich decided not to try again until the pain subsided.

He had removed his foot from the gas pedal, allowing his Hyundai to lose speed. As it slowed down, the green bar outside the window began to divide into fragments as trees and shrubs flashed by. The man carefully gulped in a long-awaited breath of air before looking in the rear-view mirror. The silver Ford wasn’t sticking close to his tail, but keeping a good distance. Well done.

The pain slowly subsided, a hollow echo remaining in his side and left arm.

Nikolayevich looked at the dashboard.

Three o’clock.

It’s midnight at Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, his memory recalled from somewhere deep in the recesses of the past.

Suddenly, a flying black Mazda rushed into the left lane, blocking out the narrow forest mono-strip.

Time froze from fear.

A thump, and the space was filled by a cloud of glass. Multi-colored splashes of broken headlights fell slowly to the ground like snow. The twisted cars crawled to the side before coming to a full stop. A ringing silence echoes in the November air.

The silver Ford managed to slow down, miraculously avoiding the maroon Hyundai. Its driver, a round-faced, rotund man with glasses, stood a few meters away from the scene of the accident, not daring to go closer.

Finally, Nikolayevich's bloody face appeared from the broken window of the Hyundai. Having failed to open the jammed door, he crawled out the window.

“Hey, man. Are you okay?” The fat man’s numbness passed long enough for him to run up to Nikolayevich and clumsily help him sit. Now he was chattering away without stopping.

“Are you alive? That was something! Where does it hurt? Can you try to move your arm? Were you buckled up, man? How do I call the police from a mobile? And an ambulance? Is there anyone else in the car? No? You’re lucky your speed dropped or you’d be dead right now. How did you know you had to slow down? Are you a psychic or what? That Mazda… it’s finished. Must be a drunk driver, I think. I won’t dare to even look there… let the ambulance take care of them...” The man continued talking, squinting at the black Japanese car.

Nikolayevich was not answering, he kept nodding and looking somewhere through the man. He saw a man wearing a black hood with a thin, tired face in front of him. Behind the Warlock were the ruins of an unfamiliar ancient city with maroon towers and lonely figures roaming around.

“That means the Purple World survived, huh, Warlock?” whispered the Sky Racer, not at all surprised that he somehow knew the man in the cape.

The Warlock stayed silent, a faint smile on his face.

Does the Warlock know how to smile? Nikolayevich thought, his split lips smiling in response...

***

“Grandpa? What are these pedals for?” six-year-old Vlad asked, pointing at the pedals as he sat behind the wheel of the repaired Hyundai. Nikolayevich had just picked up the car from the auto repair center and was placing the contents of the trunk back to where they had been before he had removed them when he left the car at the shop.

“One is the gas and one is the brake,” he answered. “Now move.” Three weeks had passed since the accident and the numerous cuts on his face had almost healed. His left arm and broken ribs still ached, though. Generally speaking, he had gotten off easy.

“But what are gas and brakes for?”

It seemed his grandson hadn’t heard the instruction to leave the control center.

“If you press on the gas, more gas enters the engine and the car travels faster. If the brake pads press on the wheels, the car slows down,” Nikolayevich explained, simplifying for the child’s age.

“So they spoil each other?” the young driver persisted.

“It seems so,” he agreed. Elusive, semi-familiar images began to pop up in his memory.

The Master…

The Warlock…

The Purple World…

Nikolayevich couldn’t hold on to any of the memories long enough to get a good look at them.

“So that means the gas and the brakes don’t like each other?” Vlad continued to ask, and without waiting for an answer, he immediately shared a new idea that dawned on him. “Grandpa, what happens if you press on both pedals at the same time?”

“A skilled Racer never presses on both levers at the same time. It is a silly thing to do,” the old man unexpectedly said, in a dull, alien voice.

Vlad gave a start and lifted his gaze to look at his grandfather.

“What do you mean a skilled racer, Grandpa?” he asked in all seriousness, stepping out of the car and getting into the back seat.

“A skilled Racer is a driver himself.” Nikolayevich smiled. He didn’t want to frighten the child with some half-forgotten delirium that appeared out of nowhere. “Let’s go have dinner. Your mom already called me. So, Racer, are you hungry?”