Young Writers Society

“Do you see any gods yet?” These words swam to Myron as he floated into the abyss.

Myron held a hand to his earpiece, adjusting it. “Not a one. Induction is going splendidly.”

He paused. “Are you eating something?”

“Mhm,” the comm crackled slightly, cellophane accompanying the static. “100% disinfected potato chips. What has modern food come to, anyway?”

Myron materialized his arms and folded them. “A feast is characterized by the revelry of guests, not the quality of food. That said, raw cow’s meat is best.”

The comm snorted. “I forget that if we let you choose your food, you’d have caught five plagues by now.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Myron said, now feeling solid ground beneath his feet. As he exhaled, a landscape breathed out from under his feet, placing him on the dusty ground beneath a bright morning sky. Turrets of stone rose up, a grand coliseum taking shape around him. Figures began to tear through the world fabric, some as spectators, others as warriors on the arena floor. The dry, sandy arena was brand-new, and thirsty for blood.

Myron folded his arms and grinned. “Home at last, Horatio.”

“Whatever you say, buddy.” There was a rolling sound of Horatio’s computer chair as he slid between his monitors. “Cognition levels are stable, no bodily effects. Dread Zone complete: You have entered the Glory Arena: Hastilude Day!”

Myron paced around and began to stretch. “Any determination of our opponent?”

“Eh, no abnormalities just yet.”

He nodded to the other gladiators. “And those two?”

“Just your specters. Go nuts, buddy.”

“With pleasure,” Myron replied, drawing a sword from his belt. Its unique, whirling curvature caused it to slice the air in a way only he could make sense of. He felt the armor of a knight collapse into place around him, a shimmering helm warping to form. The knight of humanity, Sir Myron Basseter, rose up in thousandfold glory.

The specters, seeing this, drew their weapons as well. They took the forms of bizarre and bloody history; the wicked legionnaire was the first to charge forward, and thus began the carnage.

Myron’s sword flew through his opponent’s neck, puncturing a dark, viscous shape instead of flesh. The knight averted his eyes as his specter came apart. Leaving it behind him, he now charged toward his second specter, which had taken the form of a cloaked Nizari assassin.

The faceless man dodged beneath his strike, flowing outward like a ghost’s cloth. As Myron swung again, a hidden blade flashed towards his heart.

The blade clattered to the side, deflected by Myron thrusting straight down. Planting his sword in the ground, he grabbed the Nizari’s shoulder and crashed their heads together. As the assassin staggered backward, Myron rushed in, retrieving his sword and leaping skyward.

The bizarre blade sliced the man apart, cutting completely through on the downswing. Myron slammed his blade into the dusty ground, kneeling as his opponent collapsed. As the spectral crowd cheered, he stood up and bowed towards his fallen foe.

“Horatio,” he said nonchalantly. “I’ve won.”

“What?” He heard a scrambling as the headset was put on. “Already? Geez, I thought you’d play with them a bit more.”

Myron exhaled in annoyance, leaning on his sword. “I’m not interested in toying with my opponents,” he said. “I do not slaughter; I slay.”

A fit of giggling came from Horatio’s comm. “What the hell do you think ‘slay’ means?”

Myron looked to the sky in amusement, waxing poetically. “Why, to overcome something greater than oneself, be it a warrior, a dragon, or particularly a god. One must triumph over the greatest evil; only then can they truly slay.”

“You are an icon of wholesomeness. I- wait.” Horatio shifted at his table. “Saw a blip just now. I’d ignore it, but I’m paid too much for that. Don’t do anything.” As Horatio searched his monitors for any changes, Myron absentmindedly leaned off of his sword and stepped in a puddle of blood.

The assassin hadn’t stopped bleeding. Rather, the blood had continued to flow from his neck, poisoning the sand with its dark hue. It began to well up from the earth, churning at Myron’s feet. Suddenly, a wave of pain assailed him, almost collapsing his body.

“It’s here.” Myron struggled to keep his eyes open, his ears swollen with the dissonant ringing. “It’s here!” His nostrils were flooded with the iron scent, inverting his senses as the blood swirled around him.

“Myron!” He could hear Horatio’s urgent shout. “You have to tell me exactly what is going on.”

Wincing, Myron nodded. “Th-the blood won’t stop pouring out, it’s, it’s drowning the arena! It’s hot, viscous almost, it feels like-”

“No, it’s not!” Horatio yelled. “Don’t imagine-”

“It’s an ocean of magma,” Myron breathed, standing on the lone rock as the rest of the ground melted away to crimson.

There was a frustrated pause before Horatio responded, “Understood. Remapping the new cognition. Myron, your Dread Zone has been activated; now entering Madness Arena: Hastur Ludus!”

The coliseum had become high, hellian towers, from which jeering spectators yelled down. Myron stood at the bottom of the crater, the heart of magma pulsing around him.

This was all fine, Horatio had explained to him. This hellscape was what he could comprehend, what human senses could translate. What truly drove him mad was the force behind those changes; it pushed on his mind, the shadow of a greater being looming beneath the surface of the air. It had begun to puppeteer his nerves, nameless sensations warping through Myron’s body. “Horatio,” he gasped, the sound amplified between realities, “tell me what...is this?”

“Let’s see...there’s an old legend about this one,” Horatio said, clearly and quickly. “It’s a monster that dwells in the deep, an ancient sea monster. Destined to be slain at the hands of a hero!”

The entire world wrenched itself and burst around a single point, advancing on Myron with an otherworldly gravity that threatened to splinter his consciousness. Standing fast against it, Myron glared into the cascade and, faintly, made out a single image: a gigantic snake.

“I see you,” Myron said, “I see you! Now, I consign you to this world!” He raised his lance skyward, fighting the ripple of information cascading from beyond.

“I will slay you,” he vowed, “Leviathan!”

A writhing snakehead formed outward from the point of his sword, an endless burnt-black serpent materializing and looping through the lava. Leviathan reared back, screaming in rage as Myron swept his sword in a commanding arc. A shockwave erupted through the magma arena as Myron bent his knees and rocketed skyward towards the sea monster.

He narrowly dodged its striking fangs, rolling over the top of its head and running down its body. As Leviathan’s head reared again in the background, Myron ran swift, jumping above the monster’s head as it slashed through, then narrowly dodging as it looped around to strike again.

The two continued the dance, rising higher and higher above the lava in a frantic spiral. As Myron dodged away again, Leviathan cracked its body like a whip; the scales dropped out from under Myron, and he tumbled down through the serpent’s coils.

Myron gasped and rolled in midair, facing upward to see Leviathan’s head screaming down towards him, at the eye of the serpentine tornado.

Spinning between life and death, time seemed to unravel as the two of them plunged towards the lava. A final reality was being chosen, and Myron was determined to fight it.

“What you see is a monster,” Horatio began, as Leviathan closed in.

“And monsters are made to be slain!” Myron roared, thrusting his sword into the serpent’s mouth.

The otherworld sword drilled up through the Leviathan’s head, sinking up to the hilt and twisting out of its neck. A sickening shiver went through the serpent’s body, its eyes suddenly comprehending death, and the entire spiral began to sink into the lava.

Leviathan’s body whirled around him in a convulsing tunnel, its scales dissolving into violent gleams of light. Myron closed his eyes and fell, deeper and deeper.

He landed upon a dune of dry sand, sending up a cloud of dust. Two seconds later, a circle erupted around him as Leviathan’s distorted body crashed to the earth. As the cognitive crowd threw red roses into the arena, Myron eased into a hearty laugh.

“Dread Zone complete,” said Horatio, worn down to a whisper. “You’ve just slain a god.”