Day in the story: 16th December (Tuesday)

It wouldn't be bad to go with basics again, I thought, as I misted the entire sheet in light blue, cloudy patches blending into untouched white. Then I pulled open the drawer, took out a jar of coarse salt, and sprinkled it across the damp paint. When it dried, I brushed the grains away, revealing frost-like textures branching naturally across the fabric. A final glaze of pearl and iridescent paint made the surface shimmer, alive with cold light. The finished look was that of an organic frozen lake, delicate yet impenetrable.

Three new tools were ready. But my hands itched; I wasn't done yet.

I left the Domain's main hall briefly, returning to my room. My gaze caught the trophy case. A sigh escaped me—the necklace glinted inside, a reminder of the trouble I'd brought on myself by taking it. I forced the thought away and reached instead for another prize: the Hot Japanese Knife, taken from the flaming Chef.

The handle was carved from hardened wood, floral patterns etched like blooming cherry blossoms, fake-Japanese characters curling between them. Not from any script I knew, yet still artistic. My eyes traced the handle up to the blade, where the same unknown symbols continued, this time engraved in steel. The edge shimmered, steaming faintly as if the metal itself exhaled heat.

I gripped it and moved, working through a kata of my own invention. The knife flowed with me—my wrist turned, and the blade answered, hissing through the air with each strike. Soon, the steel caught fire. It wanted to burn. I could feel its eagerness in the way it vibrated against my grip, alive and hungry. The handle grew hot, but not painfully so, just enough to remind me of the flame coursing through it.

I let it dance a while longer, savoring the rhythm of fire in motion, before stopping. For a moment the knife held its glow, flame trembling like a candle's breath. Then, after a few seconds of stillness, it died away.

In silence, I walked to the main hall of my Domain and willed a small platform to rise from the ground. Placing the blade upon it, I studied the weapon closely, the heat still lingering in my palm.

I looked at the art in front of me. It was strange. Not something I had made, its author was unknown to me, perhaps it was the chef itself—John, or maybe it was just a projection into Ideworld. It was unsettling, a chaotic mix of floral lines and faux pictograms, that seemed to be arranged by a deranged mind. I tried to read them in countless ways: backward, diagonal, horizontal, trying to find among them letters I knew—but no matter how I tried—it was gibberish.

Yet I stood there, unable to pull away, trying to make sense of it. Why was it producing fire? Was the text a clue, something important or nothing at all? Was it even art? If someone had made it to represent something, did that make it art by default?

I closed my eyes for a moment. Focused. Took a deep breath.

It had to mean something, those letters. Someone had made an effort to carve them out or dream them. I looked at them again, trying to decipher the hidden sense behind them, but minutes passed and time provided to be no help at all. My mind was not sharp enough to break through it. Yet deep down, I felt there was meaning. A truth, hidden beneath the surface.

I exhaled and closed my eyes again.

A link was there. A shadowlight link between me and this thing. There was no authority of mine within it, yet the link was present all the same. Why? How? Until now, I had believed shadowlight links appeared only to items infused with my authority, but here it was, binding me to this strange artistic weapon, with no hint of my power inside.

What's going on Anansi?

[You are making a discovery, but even deep down, I still do not know yet what you have discovered. I cannot help you.]

I thought as much. But it was a first step toward understanding something about myself, about how I viewed the world. I felt deeply that this was art and was presented with a link between my soul and this strange piece.

I had removed links in the past by simply deciding that a work was no longer worthy of my authority, that it did not need it and they collapsed. But why had I created this link now, with no conscious effort? I decided it had to have meaning, right?

But it couldn't be that simple. I knew my cards carried meaning as well and yet they were not permanently linked to me. They only became linked when I gave them authority. So what was different here? Was it because I had not created this piece myself?

Lebens could cook with ingredients they had not made. The first thing I ever consciously infused with shadowlight had been an Usagi mask, something I had not created either. I simply recognized it as art and that had been enough. I did not have to be the author to recognize the worth of an item, to call it art.

I drew out a card, a light one and placed it on the floor in front of me, then stepped back. I had made many of these cards, trying each time to give them their own subtle differences, small, nearly imperceptible variations that lent each one a shared yet distinct identity. They were a work of art.

I closed my eyes and reached out with my aura sense. There it was, a link between me and the card. A link, because I recognized its value—no—because I assigned it value. I was the Author and until now I had only given my art value through direct shadowlight infusion. But it did not need to happen that way.

Deciding whether something was art did not have to be tied only to changing its identity or treating it as a connection point. My subjective opinion, my values, my experiences, were enough. My authority to call something art came not from its creator, but from the meaning I chose to give it, because it was my perception that defined its worth.

I had been right after all.

A revelation so simple in hindsight, yet so elusive before.

I looked at one of my cards. Since I did not need it in this moment, the link disappeared. Then, just because I could, I made the link appear again and let it fade once more. It was as easy as breathing now.

Something that had once seemed difficult, impossible, even, had become effortless, all thanks to a single realization about myself. That alone had opened the door.

I focused on the knife again. I wanted to use it—no, to claim it. To make it mine. Another weapon in my arsenal. But it needed to be tamed first, subdued when I didn't want its flame. And what better way to tame fire than with water?

I took my sprays and worked the edge, painting what was once grey into the deep blue of an ocean trench. Dark, almost black shadows sank downward from tip to hilt, accentuating the abyssal descent. Along the sharpest line of the blade, I layered lighter tones—streaks of aquamarine, blue, and white—to capture the fluid shimmer of water in motion.

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The knife hissed the entire time, resisting me, scorching paint as fast as I laid it down, its Authority clashing against mine. But inside my Domain, I was stronger. I pushed harder, until finally it yielded, and the blade caught the look I intended.

When it was finished, I took it in hand again.

"Become the ocean's abyss," I whispered.

The knife obeyed. Heat vanished instantly, swallowed by a rushing cold. The steel grew wet beneath my fingers, slick as if pulled straight from the deep. I ran my palm along the blade—it was freezing, almost unbearably so.

But then another thought struck me. Could I balance it? Strip away both the flame and the frost? Let it be neither cold nor hot, but something in between? It was still, after all, a knife—artistic in its own right, long before my paint touched it. That duality stirred something inside me: a tool and a painting, identity layered over identity.

I pulled my Authority back, pressed it inward, and willed: Become a simple, balanced blade.

Power surged, seeping into the weapon's very soul. I touched the edge again—normal, perfectly normal. No burn, no frost, no trick of power. Just steel.

A squeal of joy escaped me before I could stop it.

I had made a magical weapon believe it was ordinary. For the first time, my control over identity worked in reverse.

I stored the blade in my paints' bag. There was a slot for it anyway, where my old pocket knife was resting. I took that small, trusted companion out and placed it in the trophy case instead—a reminder of simpler times, when I didn't need canvases, sprays and Authority to fight my battles.

Then I teleported back into my Earth room and sat by the laptop for a few minutes. I needed a reference for what came next.

I already had a powerful weapon, one I rarely touched because it was too much for my own good. I still remembered the day I took that pistol in Ideworld's gun shop. Even then, before my paints ever touched it, it carried Authority of its own. A presence. A weapon that knew it was made for killing. Maybe that was why it grew so strong when I forced a new identity on it—because deep down it never stopped being what it was.

But right now? It was wasting away.

I didn't want to neuter it, not in its Equinox form. That raw power needed to stay as it was. Instead, I'd focus on the base form, try to make it more versatile. A gun that could shift its bite depending on the bullet. Something fancy with ammunition.

So I scrolled through pictures of heat-seeking missiles, studying the lines, the shape, the way they carried menace in their design. I needed inspiration. A way to turn that pistol into something I could actually use.

When I was finished gathering reference and had a general idea in mind, I returned to my Domain and went to work.

I grabbed two magazines and emptied them onto the table, each bullet clinking against the surface. They would need a white coat first, a clean canvas, before anything else. Then layered with sharp blue stripes and finished with a sleek, grey, pointed tip.

There was no way to manage that kind of precision with sprays alone—not on something this small. So I used my new knife, cutting thin stencils to fit each casing, a tool for accuracy instead of brute force. With those prepared, painting became almost mechanical. A rhythm. One bullet after another, the colors stacking into shape, the stenciled edges clean and sharp.

When it was done, every round sat gleaming in neat rows, no longer just ammunition but painted little predators. Each bullet seemed to accept its new identity eagerly, humming with vigor and intent, as if proud of what it had become.

I didn't doubt for a second they would fly the way I intended.

I had one more idée fixe gnawing at me through this whole process of regearing. Light. It always left my paintings freely, without resistance—one of the rare things that could. And yet, I had shackled myself to its simplest form, wasting that freedom.

But what if I pushed it? What if I made lasers? Not toy lights, not stage effects—cut-through-steel lasers. Nuclear rotors should provide enough power for that, right?

[Seems right. Why don't you try it?]

"Oh, I am about to, girl." I grinned back at her in thought and headed toward my makeup station.

I stripped off my outer layers, rolling my shoulders, exposing my arms like a craftsman preparing fresh canvas. Then I began. I painted carefully along my forearms, winding cables in black and silver, connecting the nuclear reactors already inked into my flesh. From there, I extended the design into my hands—specifically, my middle fingers.

Yes, middle fingers. The most expressive finger of them all. A universal statement in flesh and bone, and soon to be in burning light.

I shaped them into sleek casings, not the flimsy design of a cheap laser pointer, but the heavy, brutal geometry of military prototypes. Sci-fi weapons disguised as anatomy. My own hands reborn as conduits of searing precision.

When I was done, I shaped my hand like a pistol—two top fingers outstretched, thumb as a crosshair, the two bottom fingers curled. I pointed at an empty wall inside my Domain and fired, pure instinct taking over the moment I felt ready.

Air hissed and burned as my Authority erupted, transformed into concentrated beam of energy.

[Nice one.]

Anansi's voice echoed in my soul as we both watched the smoldering chunk of wall detach from the main structure and tumble to the ground.

I couldn't keep the laser going for long. Just a brief burst cost a significant portion of my soul's stamina, but the effect—devastating enough to justify its use in a real fight—was worth every bit of the effort.

As I finished, I used the spare time before our planned meeting to slip under the Old Oak and try prying off a piece of its bark—for a future tool, though I didn't yet know what that tool would be. The tree loomed majestically, its vast branches and roots spreading in every direction. Hardly any light pierced the thick canopy overhead, and the air beneath it felt heavy, watchful.

When the world shifted me there, I heard leaves stir—footsteps behind me. Instinctively, I flared all the eyes around my head open with my Authority, pulling in every angle at once. A figure broke through the dimness: the Chinese guard I'd sent here five days ago, charging with a spear raised high.

I leapt aside, no effort wasted, and let my senses sweep the grove. If I remembered right, there had been two of them.

I found the other almost instantly. He hadn't made it far. His body was already half-swallowed by the Oak's roots, one mangled arm jutting out, fingers curled as though clawing for freedom. His face, only partly visible, was frozen in a mask of terror as the tree's grip choked the last breath out of him.

Nick was right. Best not to disturb the old trees here.

"Sorry," I said to the one already trapped, before turning to face the survivor. He was heaving from the effort of that single charge, glaring at me with eyes full of hate. Malice bled from him.

"Okay, man, listen—" I began, but he either didn't care or didn't understand. He sucked in another breath and came at me again, spear trembling in his hands.

There was no real strength in him. Five days without food or water, hiding under these cursed branches, watching his comrade get swallowed by the Oak… it had stripped him down to nothing.

"Truth be told, I didn't consider your… humanity when I sent you here," I admitted as he stumbled closer. He finally planted his spear between the roots and leaned against it, listening despite himself. "You were just an obstacle to me. I can send you to Chinatown if that's what you wish."

"What I wish," he rasped through a thick accent, "is for you to die. But I do not have enough strength left to do it myself."

"Why carry so much hatred?" I asked, genuinely. "I spared you. I gave both of you a chance instead of killing you outright. You were the ones who attacked me and my friends."

"You are an outsider who forced your way into my home," he spat, flecks landing on the roots between us. "I wish death upon you, and all of your close ones."

I didn't feel like being lectured by a xenophobe who would just be recreated anyway. I leveled my pistol at his chest, then shifted my aim slightly and pulled the trigger.

Noxy roared, the shot cracking through the air. My sharpened perception caught it—the faint curve in the bullet's path as it corrected itself, homing in. The round struck his head cleanly. He collapsed, joining his comrade in the Oak's roots.

I exhaled, holstering the gun. I hoped the next iteration of him would be a better man. But I didn't hold my breath.

At least now I was one hundred percent sure—the homing bullets worked exactly as I intended.

I sighed at yet another body lying at my feet, another death at my hand, and turned back toward the Oak. Its bark waited, thick and ancient, and I reached for the Depths Flame knife to pry a piece loose.

But before steel even touched wood, familiar voices stirred around the card Peter carried.

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