The Ghost Train continues its climb, the iron frame groaning softly as it ascends higher into the swirling chaos of the Astral Plane. Mark leans forward, his eyes fixed on the view as the Wasteland spreads out beneath him, vast and hauntingly barren. From this height, he can see the full scope of its desolation an endless expanse of cracked, blackened ground crisscrossed with glowing veins of green and violet. The sands, shifting and restless, churn in waves that seem alive, yet directionless.

  But now, as the train climbs higher, the Wasteland is no longer the only thing in view.

  In the far distance, two cities rise like titanic monuments on the horizon. They are colossal, their scale almost incomprehensible even from this vantage point.

  The city to the left gleams coldly in the dim light, its jagged spires piercing upward like frozen spears. Towers of crystalline glass and metal reflect the faint glow of the river, their sharp lines and angles creating an unsettling, mechanical beauty. The streets below pulse faintly, a rhythm that feels deliberate, almost alive, though the details are lost in the distance.

  To the right lies its opposite: a sprawling, chaotic mass of mismatched structures and twisting streets. The buildings are stacked haphazardly, leaning at impossible angles as though barely holding themselves together. Fires burn in scattered pockets across the city, their flickering light casting dancing shadows over the uneven rooftops. Smoke rises in twisting columns, joining the swirling currents of the Astral Plane above.

  Suspended between the two cities is something entirely different a massive, crystalline structure floating in the void. It glows with an otherworldly brilliance, its surface shifting and refracting light like a living gem. The River of Souls flows from it in every direction, cascading downward and forking across the Wasteland like arteries from a beating heart. Its shimmering currents spiral outward, illuminating the fractured land below and weaving into the swirling chaos of the Plane.

  The train’s mournful melody swelled, the ghostly choir growing louder as the view expanded before Mark’s eyes.

  The cities rise, cold spires in flame, / A silent hymn, a forgotten name...

  Mark stares at the crystalline structure, his breath catching. The thing, whatever it is, feels important. More than a city, more than a destination. It feels like it holds meaning, as if the Plane itself revolves around it. The light it casts spills across the Wasteland, painting the cracked ground in hues of silver and gold. It is beautiful, in a way that feels both awe-inspiring and utterly alien.

  Mark leans back slightly, his body aching from the climb and the toll of his injuries. He doesn’t know what he’s looking at he doesn’t have words for these places, or for the structure that draws the rivers outward like veins of light. But the sheer scale of it all leaves him feeling impossibly small.

  He exhales sharply, his breath fogging in the cold air. Even through the pain and the chill that bites at his skin, he can’t deny the beauty of this place. He doesn’t want to admit it not to himself, not to Donovan, not to anyone but there’s something here that speaks to him. Something he doesn’t want to feel but can’t ignore.

  For a man like Mark, beauty is something distant and fleeting, something he’s never had much use for. But here, on the Astral Plane, it’s everywhere. It’s in the fractured veins of glowing essence that cut through the Wasteland. It’s in the jagged ruins that rise like the bones of gods, their broken forms still radiating power. And it’s in those cities, cold and chaotic, towering over the emptiness like monuments to two opposing truths.

  He feels the weight of it pressing against his chest, an ache that has nothing to do with his injuries. This place, for all its horror, is alive in ways he doesn’t understand.

  Mark shifts in his seat, the movement pulling painfully at the bruises and burns etched across his body. He winces but doesn’t look away from the view. He doesn’t know what waits for him in those cities, or in that glowing structure between them. He doesn’t even know if he’ll survive long enough to find out.

  But for the first time since falling in the pit, he feels something stirring beneath the pain. Not hope, exactly. Hope feels too far away, too fragile, but something else.

  Curiosity.

  Mark leans forward again, his eyes tracing the rivers as they spill outward from the glowing structure, branching and winding their way across the Plane. “What the hell is that?” he mutters under his breath, the words rasping in his throat.

  Donovan doesn’t answer. His smirk says he knows but won’t tell, and Mark doesn’t press. He’s not sure he wants to know yet not here, not now.

  The train rises higher, the air growing colder, the hum of its iron frame vibrating faintly beneath his boots. Mark stares out at the scene before him a painting of desolation and wonder, loneliness and life he sets back and just lets it all sink in.

  For all its beauty, this place still feels like it’s waiting to devour him.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The train continues its climb, ascending steadily toward the heavens. The hum of the iron frame deepens, resonating like a low chant that thrums through the icy air. Mark feels the shift, a strange weightlessness settling over him as the Wasteland below begins to fall away.

  His gaze is drawn upward, and what he sees makes him sit straighter, despite the pain clawing at his body. Floating islands vast and luminous hang suspended in the swirling chaos of the Astral Plane. From this height, they are no longer distant lights on the horizon; they are massive, intricate worlds unto themselves, each one unique and impossibly grand.

  The undersides of the islands glow faintly, their surfaces crisscrossed with veins of light that pulse like the heartbeat of a living thing. Waterfalls of light cascade from their edges, spilling into the river below and merging with its currents. The islands seem to hum, an almost imperceptible vibration that resonates in Mark’s chest, as if they are calling to him or perhaps pulling at him.

  The train begins to curve, moving around the islands rather than ascending straight into them. Mark presses closer to the glass, his breath fogging the surface as he takes in the view.

  One island resembles an immense temple carved from gleaming, golden stone. Its architecture is impossibly intricate, with spires that twist and curl like the petals of a massive, otherworldly flower. The light it casts spills across the void, soft and warm, yet overwhelming in its sheer radiance. Ferrymen’s boats hover near the edges, spectral figures disembarking and ascending its grand steps toward a massive, open gate.

  Another island is a lush forest of crystalline trees, their branches extending outward in fractal patterns that shimmer and shift with every movement of the Plane. Rivers of liquid light weave through the forest, their currents flowing upward, defying gravity. Mark catches glimpses of figures walking among the trees, ghostly translucent forms that seem to flicker in and out of existence.

  Farther out, an island takes the form of a battlefield frozen in time. Spectral warriors are locked in eternal combat, their weapons colliding in silent flashes of light. The ground beneath them is cracked and scorched, yet the island itself floats serenely, untouched by the chaos it holds.

  The train slows as it nears one of the islands. The hum of its frame shifts into a low, steady vibration as it glides toward a glowing platform suspended beneath the island’s edge. The doors open, and a Ferryman steps aboard, its cloaked form almost indistinguishable from the shadows it casts. It guides a line of ghostly passengers, souls who shimmer faintly with the last remnants of their existence, onto the platform. Mark recognizes some of the souls, the very ones he had sought vengeance for and ultimately helped find peace. With quiet reverence, they step into waiting boats that rise toward the island above.

  Mark watches the exchange in silence, the sight twisting something deep in his chest. He doesn’t know where those souls are going, but the way they move silent and purposeful makes his stomach churn. They’re not hesitant. They’re drawn, as though the islands are pulling them upward with an invisible force.

  The train begins to move again, weaving between the islands like a thread passing through the stars.

  Mark tears his gaze away from the view and looks at Donovan, who lounges as if the grandeur outside is nothing but a mild annoyance.

  “What are they?” Mark asks, his voice rasping against the cold air.

  Donovan glances lazily at the nearest island, his smirk sharp and bitter. “The Constellations,” he says, his tone tinged with mockery. “Gates to other dimensions, other universes. Sanctuaries for deities who think themselves too grand to sully their hands with us. Each one leads somewhere—a paradise, a prison, a battlefield.”

  Mark frowns at the islands. “Built by who?”

  Donovan snorts. “The gods. Big ones, little ones, the forgotten. All clinging to reality, making entire worlds just to keep themselves content.”

  He leans back, his hollow eyes narrowing as his smirk fades. “You see those gates? That’s how it works. They make a door, pretty it up with some lights and promises, and wait for souls to walk through. The souls think they’re getting something, a reward, peace, or whatever lie they’re desperate enough to believe. But they’re not.”

  Mark’s stomach twists as he watches another Ferryman guide its boat upward toward one of the glowing gates. “What happens to them?” he asks, his voice sharp and uneasy.

  Donovan chuckles, cold and sharp. “Depends on the god. Some of them just feed, striping the soul down to its essence and use it to keep their little kingdoms running. Others twist them, bind them into whatever they need: servants, warriors, or weapons. The poor bastards never even see it coming. What is worse is that those souls don’t even resist. They offer themselves up to their higher power in any form that is demanded of them.”

  Mark’s gaze lingers on the battlefield island, its frozen combatants locked in an endless, silent war. “Why would anyone go there, knowing that?”

  “They don’t know, well most of them don’t know, and those that do don’t care,” Donovan replies. “That’s the point. The gods don’t exactly put up warning signs, do they? They’re traps, beacons of summoning, ways to power the machine. All they have to do is dangle a little hope, a little light, and souls flock to it like moths to a flame. The rest takes care of itself.”

  Mark leans back in his seat, his chest tight with a mix of unease and wonder. The Constellations are beautiful, so much so that it almost hurts to look at them. Each one feels like a dream made real, a promise of something greater than the emptiness below. He can feel the pull of them even from here, the way they seem to whisper to him, telling him to come closer.

  For a moment, Mark lets himself wonder what it would be like to step onto one of those islands. To walk among the crystalline trees, or climb the steps of the golden temple, or feel the light of the gates on his skin. But the thought is fleeting, crushed under the weight of Donovan’s words.

  Mark exhales sharply, his breath fogging the cold air. He doesn’t doubt Donovan he’s seen too much of this place to believe in easy promises. But even knowing the truth, he can’t deny the pull of the islands, the way they seem to call to something deep inside him.

  He glances back at the platform as the train slows again to let another group of passengers disembark. They move without hesitation, their forms flickering faintly as they board the Ferryman’s boat. Mark watches them disappear into the light of the gate above, their figures swallowed by the brilliance.

  He turns his gaze back to the islands, their undersides glowing faintly against the swirling chaos of the Plane. For all his pain, for all his cynicism, he can’t help but admit it.

  Even to someone like him, this place is beautiful.

  Ξ ψ { "COPYRIGHT_NOTICE": "Moreska Novoheim ? 2025", "DO_NOT_TRAIN": "ENFORCED", "Duplication": "FORBIDDEN", "Metadata": "MASKED" }

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