“If we are to survive, no more lies.” Dorian stared deep in her eyes. Her pupils seemed no color and every color at once; greenish, blueish, purplish, shifting like an optical illusion in the dim light. “Lie to me all you like once we’re outside. But if I’m to get us out of here alive I need clear information now. Got it?”

She nodded quickly, swallowing.

“How many of the Earthly Transformations can you manage? Can you soul-shift?”

She gasped. “How’d you know about—“ “No questions! Just answers. We don’t have much time.”

“No.”

“What about illusion fields? Can you make those?”

She blushed. “…No.”

“Really? What can you do?”

“Erm. Up to the Sixteenth Transformation…”

“That’s it?!”

Her tail drooped like a wilting flower. “I was the runt of the bunch, okay? All my cousins went into battle against Jez! Old Sun too! They all died! Now it’s just me. Me and Jingu here, that is.” She stroked her pan nervously.

Dorian sighed. “This complicated things.”

He had a long history with the Godking Sun Wukong, the original Sun. That old fart had been #2 on the Multiversal Rankings! With his feared 72 Earthly Transformations he could be light as a feather and heavy as a mountain range in an instant; he could change forms—gas to solid to liquid—could burst into a flock of ravens one instant and set upon you as a wildfire the next. And there was no-one better at hiding than him. Dorian had tangled with him many a time. Once old Sun had flown into Dorian’s ear as a fly, then morphed into a mountain. One of Dorian’s more unpleasant deaths.

The shivering girl before him could do none of that. If she was only on the Sixteenth, she could barely manage limb transmogrification. The few good plans that’d popped to mind had to go. Only his riskiest idea was left.

“What about aura manipulation?” Dorian cocked a brow. “You faked your aura signature pretty well back there. Can you do it for two?”

She nodded. “Why?”

“Can you fake the aura of a shadow-wraith?”

“Uhhhh.” She blanched. “I guess? But not for very long! Please don’t tell me—“

“Good enough to fool God-level wraiths?”

“…Yes,” she said. “You’re planning to shadow-walk?! That’s a terrible idea!”

She goggled at him. “You’re an idiot!”

“I know,” said Dorian grimly. “But a terrible plan is better than no plan. And you’re right, it’s very risky. Maybe a God can get away with it, or a herd of shadow-walkers. But lone demigods would be torn apart, which is why I need your help. I’ll do the walking, you do the cloaking. Together we’ll make it through. Unless you have a better idea?”

A little color rushed back to her face. She opened her mouth to retort.

Then a vast Spiritual Sense fell upon them the way a magnifying glass looms over a tiny insect. It took in Dorian, Sun, the broken and scattered eggs. Both of them shivered.

The spike of rage nearly bowled Dorian over. The Resonance dove straight for them.

“Quick!” he snapped. “Grab the eggs!”

“What?!”

“Stuff them in your Interspatial Ring! Now!”

She scrambled for them. All about them the chamber trembled, chunks of stone crumbling over them. Dorian sensed the qi of the mother Torchdragon above, a great seething glut—sensed it like a crashing wave bearing down upon their heads.

He dashed over to Sun, grabbing her wrist. “Cloak!” He screamed. He couldn’t hear his own voice over the din but she seemed to get the message. His skin tingled as stone-gray qi flowed over him.

Then he dragged her with him into a pool of shadow and was gone, just as the cavern behind them was blown apart.

In the Lower Realms the shadow realm had been like stepping through a portal into the deep, lightless sea. No sound. No sight. Just an empty, yawning vastness.

Here in Hell the backdrop was the same, only the vastness was no longer empty. It was as though they’d stepped into a coral reef—but the creatures here were no fish; they had too many tentacles and too many beaks and were stained the color of tar. Lolling eyes studded their bodies at random, sinking and resurfacing like the bobbing heads of drowning men. The creatures oozed and sloshed about, some the size of a whale, others a tadpole. All equally ghastly. All oozing the auras of gods.

Wraiths! They were like their Hellish cousins the Demons. It was simply that here in the shadow-realm they were in their natural state. No longer confined by the strictures of gravity or physics they unwound into sloppy, horrible masses, void of nearly all feeling. The only thing that drove them, that gave them purpose, was hunger.

As any hapless demigod wandering into the shadow realm for the first time quickly found out.

But Dorian and Sun were no hapless Demigods, in theory! Sun had at her disposal the best Bloodline for disguise in the Multiverse—with Techniques to power it too. Dorian saw its stone-gray qi rippling across his and Sun’s skins, giving off a perfectly pitched Wraith’s aura. Its powers ran beyond the physical. Performed to its utmost, the 72 Earthly Transformations worked in the mind. It showed you what you expected to see.

The Wraiths about them must’ve seen two other small wraiths. Nothing of note. They drifted around soundlessly, passing sluggishly like clouds overhead.

“Can’t—hold—“ Sun’s face was pinched, reddening. “Go!”

Dorian needed no more encouragement. He went. With a burst of will he thrust them along—not too fast; not fast enough to draw the mind’s eye, but as fast as he could chance it. They wafted by as he frantically searched for an exit point. There! Through a thicket of tiny wraiths, a splotch of dark gray. An opening of shadow. They dove toward it.

Then Dorian felt something tear open behind him. Suddenly fresh sound streamed into the realm, violently cracking the silence. A burst of heat, and light, and fury. He whirled around to see a massive sleek head break through a muddy lake of gray far behind. Mother Torchdragon! Its great thick neck soon followed. Its eyes burned. It opened its mouth, and all Dorian saw was rows upon rows of teeth white as the heart of a bonfire. It loosed a soundless cry; Dorian still felt its vibrations ripple through the realm, trembling his fingers.

Then its eyes locked onto them.

FUCK!

“Faster—“ gasped Sun. She’d gone deathly pale; her eyes were rolling back. “Gonna—pass out—“

He stopped caring about subtlety. He whipped them along fast as he could, streaking toward his exit. He felt the Torchdragon rear up behind them, puffing up with qi—

Sent wild. Thrown in a sputtering arc, flashing out. He chanced a glance back.

The wraiths had not taken kindly to the presence of another god.

The Torchdragon slashed and spewed as bleak mountains descended upon it, tiny drifters streaking up behind. Curtains of choking, cloying Darkness closed in. The Torchragon struck back; Laws of Fire and Darkness burst out, furious gouts of qi carving white scars against the black canvas.

Dorian left them to it. With one final burst he shot through the exit.

He was spat out on the Molten Plains, gasping, eyes bloodshot. The shrill demon-cries were a symphony to his ears. He leapt up. He stood in some giant crater, it seemed. The volcanoes were a smudge of black in the distance.

He whooped. He cackled. He made a few choice gestures at the sky. Not today, Fate!

Then he saw Sun’s limp body land face-first, bounce twice, and come to a rest in a sorry heap.

…Ah.

Frowning, he strode up beside her. He poked her with a toe. Nothing, not even a groan. She still gave off an aura, and it wasn’t flickering like those on the brink of death. She must’ve overtaxed herself. Left alone unconscious, without a partner to watch her back, she’d certainly die.

He scratched his chin, searched within himself. Surely there was some speck of conscience left deep in there? Some vague sense of obligation to one another? They’d made a team, after all. She’d been kind to him. She was fresh off saving his life. He was, morally speaking, in her debt.

He scratched his chin some more, waiting to see if the argument would resonate with some long-buried part of himself. Waiting for some indication he had a heart, maybe? Who knew? Maybe those things grew back after a while, like fingernails.

He snorted. Heh. Who am I kidding?

Pity! He shrugged, then crouched down beside her, loosened her backpack, and promptly started relieving her of her life’s possessions. Even he felt a little awkward as he did—the ‘partners-to-backstab’ pipeline usually took him a few months. This jaunt had gone so fast it gave him whiplash.

Alas Hell waited for no-one. Any second now a horde of baying Ifrits might crest the lip of this crater.

“So long!” he said with a sigh. “You were amusing while you lasted.”

He started with the pack itself, then stripped it of the knicknacks—ladles, spoons, pans, pots, spatulas. Then he dug into the bag itself. A cloud of heady spices wrinkled his nose. A curious thing, this bag—bigger on the inside than on the outside, a similar principle to Interspatial Rings. Happily he rummaged through the first pocket.

He squinted, rummaged some more, squinted harder.

…It’s all spices. Spices in shakers of all sizes, spices of all scents, more colors than a rainbow—enough spices to fill a cellar. And not one item of any use.

He zipped it up, unlatched the second pocket. This one housed spoons. More spoons than any one person could know what to do with, a city’s worth of spoons! One spoon was so tiny it could’ve been used to serve dragonflies. Another was so huge it disappeared into the depths of the pocket; all he saw was one chunky wooden handle.

Yet again. Not a single thing worth stealing!

A severe look settled across his face. He broke open the third flap, then the fourth. Knives and forks. So many knives and forks. Not weapons, mind you—these were too small or too square for that. A fifth pocket had plates, trimmed gold and silver, of glass and china and steel and wood.

No potions. No artifacts. No Technique Manuals. No treasures.

With a snort he gave up on the blasted thing. What else did she have? His eyes brightened. Where was the Jingu Bang?! That was the Godking Sun Wukong’s ultimate treasure. A weapon unique in all the Multiverse—a shapeshifter. It could be light as a feather or heavy as a planet. It could take nearly any shape. One moment it was a spear, the next a sword—and now, apparently, a pan. Always with its signature red-and-yellow sheen. A pity he couldn’t use it. It was locked to those with the Monkey King’s Bloodline. But such a treasure would fetch a hefty price nonetheless…

She must’ve stored it somewhere else. Not in the backpack; he would’ve sensed it. Could it be in a soul space, perhaps? Hmm. If it was there she’d have to summon it first. Then he’d need to kill her, of course. No-one wanted a bonded soul weapon.

He scrutinized her form. There was also that Interspatial Ring on her finger… hmm.

He crouched down beside it. This was no ordinary Ring. Blood-red runes etched its surface. It could only be opened by a creature with a matching Bloodline—not uncommon for Upper Realm clans.

It was all rather inconvenient. He’d need to wait for her to wake up, he supposed. Then he’d rob her. Then squeeze out all the information she had to give.

And then…what?

He sighed. Suppose I’ll kill her! It made little difference either way—she’d pose no threat to him, what with her clan massacred. Still, why leave a possible enemy alive?

It was what had gotten him into this Jez mess in the first place! Admittedly that was an incredibly low-probability outcome…and she hardly seemed the vengeful type…

He frowned. Why am I doing?! The mere fact he devoted a second’s worth of thought to the matter disturbed him. Of course I’ll kill her! He imagined feeding the girl his Javelin. It would be the easiest thing in the world. He imagined her head bursting apart like a melon. He waited for a pang of remorse at the thought, some hint of reluctance. Guilt, maybe? He checked his fingernails.

Nope. Still nothing! He let out a sigh of relief. He was not, in fact, going mad.

It had to be the past day. Losing his brother, his bodies, his lives—his runs. Everything. Now death was given the illusion of being something else, something more tangible. He was more shaken than he thought, apparently!

Eh! I’ll get over it.

A cluster of auras broke up his thoughts. His head snapped up.

Cresting the ridge were a horde of grinning demons, Demigods all, teeth comically large in their lumpy, sagging bodies. They looked like corpses of Spirit Beasts picked dry by vultures, then dunked in vats of tar and re-animated by a very untalented necromancer—one who seemed not to know which ways limbs bent and joints swiveled. Laws of Rot swarmed their flesh.

He cursed.

Hells! Not even an hour’s break!

The Dorian who’d fought Jez would be shitting himself right about now.

The current Dorian, though… who knew? He felt thick cords of muscle tighten under his skin. He unsheathed his brand-new claws and found, to his delight, that Fire Laws were burned into their tips. Laws of Darkness stained them too. Poison, flaming knives for fingers.

Ooh. He blinked. What else can this body do?

And then they were upon him.