Chapter 1: No ｢ＴＩＭＥ｣. No ｢ＳＰＡＣＥ｣
The blank slate of reality stretches out before your eyes. Alabaster void as far as your straining pupils can discern, and not a thought in your head bar a single word; Zeppeli.
Your name. It must be, you rationalize. Your head doesn’t remain empty for long as like a field in spring more thoughts blossom, capitalizing on the empty space; Who am I? Where am I? What am I? Am I dead? Am I alive? Will this ever end? Like an anchor keeping you from drifting into the eye of the storm, this cacophony of noise within your head weighs you down, and your feet find purchase on some tangible aspect of the void surrounding you.
One shaky footstep echoes for eternity, as does the one that follows. By the third step you ignore it, and the fourth is background noise, even as deprived of input as your senses are. It isn’t until you stop to take a breather that you once again recognise the sound of footsteps. Though their owner made a valiant effort to move in time with you, your sudden stop trips them up and they come to a stop a moment too late.
You pivot on you heels and freeze, your shadow pointing towards your mysterious follower like an accusing finger. His look is strange, though there’s no obvious temperature in this void the two of you occupy you can’t help but feel he’s overdressed in his long, drab green uniform. The next thing that grabs you are his features; his rounded face and thin eyes.
Japanese. The word explodes across the forefront of your mind, his appearance unlocking the hitherto closed of avenues of your memory and letting loose a flood of information; Japan. World War 2. Pearl Harbor. Atrocities that make the bile rise in your throat and your hands clench into fists.
The soldier also stops, studying you in turn. His lips move, vomiting out syllables that you have no hope of understanding, and when your only response is a untrustworthy stare his hand leaves his side. For a moment you dread he’s reaching for a gun, but from the air itself appears a shimmering blade that seems to draw in the all encompassing light surrounding you both on all sides.
You step back in surprise, and the soldier does the same; looking at you, then to his sword. He barks more undecipherable phrases, his rant punctuated as he flourishes his sword and points it at you with the words “Sutando Tsukai?”
“What the hell are you saying?” You reply, answering his question with your own.
You confusion only mounts as he flourishes his sword once again, pointing the glimmering blade towards the sky and uttering the only two words that you’ve been able to understand so far, but if anything make your more confused: “｢ＭＡＧＩＣ ＳＷＯＲＤ｣.”
In an instant he drops into a stance that you remember only having seen in movies (the instant after you remember what a movie is, of course) and you cave to your body's commands as every fiber of your being tells you to throw yourself to the ground.
You receive a face full of infinity for your effort as you slam yourself into the ground. You look up only to find that the soldier is gone, an overzealous warcry the only warning you have to roll to the side, your effort rewarded by the hard scrape of steel.
You rise to your feet, the soldier having returned to his previous location. His sword, previously dazzling is now almost impossible to look directly at. Not only is the light reflected all but blinding, but the blade itself vibrating intensely, making innumerable micro adjustments in each direction every second and leaving a hazy afterimage of the blade hanging in the air.
He lunges, moving at speeds impossible for a normal man. You try in vain to dodge, praying to any deity that’ll listen to save you from becoming a human shish-kebab and, impossibly, it seems to work. As he swings his blade it crosses the threshold of your shadow, and his speed returns to something resembling normal. What would have otherwise been a fatal swing merely draws a angry red line across the front of your shirt and gives you one vital piece of information; How his sword works.
As if to confirm your hypothesis the moment the blade leaves your shadow his speed returns, and he uses it to follow your lead and take a step back. The two of you study each other, stuck in an ultimatum. You know how his sword’s power works, and he knows it. He also has no idea whether you have the power to beat him, and neither do you.
With a flick of his wrist the soldier mars the featureless alabaster floor beneath your feet with a clumsy splatter of blood. He shifts his weight, and you preemptively throw yourself to the side only to feel something hit your feet, spinning you like a top in the air.
You hit the with an ungraceful thud, and rise to your feet expecting another blow only to discover the pittance of blood has been joined by a ragged streak that leads to the soldier’s prone form.
“He..fell on his own sword?”
Putting it into words almost helps you wrap your head around the bizarreness of the situation, but then your mind backtracks and you realize there’s no getting around the fact that you’re standing over the body of a japanese soldier (with a self proclaimed magic sword) in the middle of a featureless void, with barely a handful of thoughts and memories floating in your head.
Despite it all you laugh at the absurdity of your situation, only stopping when the soldier’s body moves.For a second you’re scared that he’s survived his accidental self-immolation, only for that to almost become the more preferable option as a gilded door rises from the void, knocking the body to the side.
A haze descends upon the body, and in moments any evidence of your opponent is gone, leaving you standing alone in the blinding vacuum with the door and your thoughts. The only one of note being the thought that compels you to take one step forward, then another and to open the door and step through.
Your vision is assaulted as you step into an existence composed of more a than a single shade, colour and light playing across every surface, and the 7 other figures that step through doors just like your own.
To call the motley assembly of figures before you strange would be an insult to the word, and a vast understatement. Truth be told there’s no single way to collectively describe the collection of souls before you.
If you had thought that you had seen the last of figures from the 2nd World War then you were mistaken. The first person that you focus on is the young man standing across from you. His clothing, from the soles of his jackboots to the skull and crossbones on his cap screaming one thing; Nazi.
If anything the next man is rather underdressed; with plain pants, a sleeveless shirt, fingerless gloves and a pilot’s cap through which pokes chaotic tufts of brown hair. If anything he seems calm, taking deep, calculated breaths that give him plenty of time to process the assembly before him.
And speaking of hair, the girl standing next to him has altogether too much. Full orange curls with blonde highlights complementing her purple outfit, the centerpiece of which is the radiant red gem hanging off her necklace. She looks around, and her features twist in disgust as they fall upon the next 4 occupants of the room, all of which, as impossible as it sounds, are not human.
Beside her stands what you guess is a giant, hairy cow, adorned with gold across its horns, hooves and fur. With his gaze hidden my long locks of fur and no discernible expression, he is the very image of stoicism.
Next in line is a horse, no, a pony. It’s too small to be anything else. Sickly green in colour and with red dreadlocks overflowing from the flowerpattened headwrap it's wearing. It too wears no discernable expression, though it's visible (and very large) eyes seem to stare off, unfocused, distracted by something that isn't there.
Another pony stands beside it, offensively pink with hair composed of more chaotic pink curls. From the way she's (because you pity her with that colour scheme if she isn't a she) moving you can't help but imagine she's sapping the energy out of her equine partner. Her entire body seems to shake, full of energy, and she can't seem to get enough of the moment. Her gaze never lingers in one spot or on one person for very long as she tries to take in everything in the room.
The final figure looks to have stepped of the cover of a cheesy fantasy novel. Standing at about your height with blue scales polished to a mirror sheen, and decidedly draconic features screwed up in a look of confusion. A dragon. An honest to god dragon. Just another thing to add to the increasingly absurd list of things you have witnessed today.
Thankfully, confusion seems to quickly become the universal expression painted across all of your features as a 9th figure appears in a flash of light, suspended in the air above you. A bastard collection of limbs assembled from a number creatures you can’t even begin to name stuffed into a suit; he spins in the air lazily, observing you all and lets his own expression twist into what you hope is a smile.
“Welcome to cranial vistas of psychogenesis! This is the place outside of time and of space. Do not be afraid, I am Accord. The eternal spirit of order and discipline. Do not be afraid.”
“For a spirit of order you certainly don’t look the part.” Says the man with the pilot’s cap.
“Yea! You look alot like Discord!” The pink pony says, leaping into the air. A masculine figure appears to support her as she looks Accord in the eyes. “Is this one of your tricks Discord?”
Accord lowers himself to the ground, a cane appearing in his hands as he does so. “This is no trick. You are eight souls chosen from different eras, different worlds of infinite possibility. In one of these worlds the being you know as ‘Discord’ chose to give up his chaotic ways and became, well, me.”
“So why are we here?” You find yourself asking.
“An excellent question! I have dragged you all from the edge of infinity, ripped you from the grasping claws of purgatory to offer you a chance to return to your worlds intact.”
“Wait, we were dead before coming here?” The dragon says in alarm.
Accord nods, and a wave of discontent chills you all to your cores.
“However, if you undertake the task laid before you, you may yet live.” Accord says, before lifting a gnarled claw skyward. “To release yourselves from this Web of Wisdom, this knotted Maze of Delirium, you must enter the nuclear portals of the Electric Castle! There lies the maestro of misery to this cruel reality, a reflection of the creature you know as Discord.”
“I’ll do it.” The man in Nazi apparel says, his german accent coming as no surprise to you.
“Shah man. Sounds like a trip.” Says the sickly green pony. The rest of you voice your agreement with various states of enthusiasm, not that it seems to surprise Accord.
“Good. But be warned there are trials ahead. The path to the Electric Castle is winding and treacherous, and guarded by wraiths that would see your journey end. Do not be fooled by their appearance. These apparitions lay in wait like ｢ＲＡＩＮＢＯＷＳ ＩＮ ＴＨＥ ＤＡＲＫ｣. Take care too, to remain deft of foot. Even now eternity seeks to reclaim that which has been stolen from it. If you dally then you will be washed beneath the waves, back into the cold grasp of everlasting purgatory.”
“But fear not. Come, come. There is no time to waste.” Accord adds, tapping his cane before floating off and up the stairs that are the only other feature of the room.
Indecision and distrust grip you all, only to be forgotten as a low groan fills the air. The golden doors that you came though, having shut behind you on your way out, creak and bulge as oozing rivulets of white, like the void you awoke in, sneak their way out from under the door.
Reminded of Accord’s works, you come to a unanimous decision and head up the stairs, trying to prepare yourself for what you’ll find at the top.