As the scream rippled through the world, the thin veneer of reality seemed to peel, away, to be replaced by a grey, washed out parody of the world. Blood seemed to bleed from the cracks in between the walls until the the whole alleyway was sticky and rich with the smell of iron. The sounds of the city, once so omnipresent faded, as if stuck behind a pane of thick glass and the occasional far off scream sounded, filled with suffering and despair. It wasn't entirely a whole new world, closer to a blister in reality, the real world infected with foreign elements and temporarily lacking the ability to purge it, instead sealing it away.

  "You're not just a baby ghost, are you?" Banks asked, his fingers twitching as he once more today desperately wished for a cigarette. "No, you definitely aren't." His words were cut off as he dodged backwards just as the walls collapsed inwards crushing the space he used to be. He barely had a moment to breathe before a feeling of cold despair instantly shot through his veins as a gnarled, freezing hand pierced through his chest, clutching his heart.

  -0.5 seconds

  He pivoted on his heels, gathering mana into his knuckles as he dodged the outstretched claw before slamming down his fist onto the head of the ghost causing it to fly backwards weightlessly disappearing into the walls of the alleyway. He frowned as he looked at his hand. By pumping a lot of mana into his hand he could interact with the ghost, by relying on the Mana Applicability Theory, but it was barely effective. Like punching water or jelly, mostly ineffective. Once again his lack of inventory vexed him, all his methods for dealing with ghosts were now probably floating in the river. He couldn't even go back in time a couple of hours and grab a bag of salt because he was broke as well. Curse his low sodium diet.

  The cracks in the walls seemed to widen incrementally as thin lines squeezed their way out of the holes, like noodles through a sieve. They were little hands, four fingers digits waving wildly and joints ending in a mess of bloody entrails, the like which should definitely not be found anywhere near the arm. He stepped backwards, dodging a clumsy jump and kicking the aggressive arm, before ducking under one launched from the nearby wall and grabbing one that was trying to grip his face. He swung the grasped arm, hitting another two out of the air, before his left leg was grasped with an iron grasp. He stomped down crushing the knuckles, only for the thing to lock into a death grasp and then another and another, grabbed into his flesh, squeezing and twisting and contorting, nearly tearing through his skin with inhuman strength.

  "Bugger," he said moments before he was swarmed underneath dozens of arms, and crushed into a fleshy blob, by the unending swarm.

  -5 seconds

  "----you definitely---." He cut his words off as he darted forward launching a punch towards the ghost at full force, causing it to glide back. He reached down towards the fleshy bodies, searching desperately for a weapon of any kind, ignoring the arms that gripped him, until he found something right before he was crushed beneath the wave of arms.

  -4 seconds

  He reached down towards the fleshy bodies, grabbing a large worn knife and a makeshift club, turning back and slashing one of the leaping hands in two before slamming another against the wall crushing it. He stepped backwards quickly, kiting the oncoming mass, and trying to narrow the number that could approach him as he lashed out, slimming the innumerable herd. The alleyway, that had once seemed normal, if a tad unclean, was now endless and afflicted by far worse than filth and as he moved backwards, more and more of the wall split open, spewing the endless horde of bloody hands.

  "Man, ghosts are the worst," he griped as he slammed the club down on one, sliced through another, and stomped on a third that was attempting to grab his ankle. Annoyingly enough he had no game plan to get out of this situation and defeat the ghost. Worse he was feeling more than a bit out of breath. This little scuffle wouldn't have even been a warm up at half his current age. Spinning the blade, he took advantage of his ambidexterity slamming and slashing and slamming and slashing, dodging sneak attacks by jumping backwards a couple of seconds, in an orgy of meaningless violence. It was immensely frustrating.

  -22 seconds

  -grabbing a large worn knife and a makeshift club, before he slammed the club, into the wall, causing the weakened and cracking structure to collapse entirely and burst into a room. Weak sunlight shone into a small room with a thatch bed, a few shelves covered in knick-knacks and a corner dedicated to cooking. On the far end sat a workbench next to a door, leaving to gods know where, but as he continued looking more and more started looking weird to his eyes. Looking behind him, the arms squirmed outside and the alley. That must mean that per the logic of this Ghost Domain they were restricted to the outside. That meant the interior was dangerous in a different way. Walking over to the shelf he picked up a pristine stone tablet, before his brow furrowed.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Galade," he muttered to himself as he stared at the script that even an amateur historian would recognize at a glance. Was the old man formerly a historian, an archaeologist of some renown, or did he run across some ancient fragment from history and became infected. Alternately, was he possessed by the aforementioned archaeologist. Either way it was confusing. Frowning he walked through the door and blinked as he came across a very similar looking room, except for the fact that one of the shelves were replaced by a stone water clock. Frowning he walked through the door and was surprised to see the workbench was replaced by a set of glass tubes, metal instruments, and stone slabs.

  "This is starting to look very familiar," he admitted to himself as he walked through room after room, the original discordant scenery eventually trended towards something that was 100% out of the Galade Empire. Eventually he found himself stepping into a room that looked like it was, if not royalty then somewhere not to far below, on the hierarchy obsessed Empire. The major difference between this room and the previous room was that the doorway shockingly, possessed a door. Large, made of a dark grey metal and inscribed with a series of runes, to be more specific it was Galan script, the standard way of writing throughout the history of Galade. Thankfully it was one of the few languages that he could actually easily read, as it was remarkably stagnant.

  Putting his hand against the grey door he injected some mana, causing the runes to glow blue, for easier reading.

  Laboratory 7

  Managed by: Lkarrn A.

  Goal: Ancestral Reversion

  ID: Not verified

  The center of the Ghost Domain was through that door, but it was impossible to proceed further. Brute force was ineffective against the many myriad rules set by the owner and captive of this place. Even if all that protected it was a flimsy wooden door it would be equally as impenetrable without the 'key', or at least enough power of the anti-spectral variety that he could blast through the door. Without entering the Ghost Domain then there was no chance of confronting or defeating the ghost, basically making any further attempt at fighting a massive waste of time. He would need more than just salt to get through that door.

  Sighing, he turned around only to pause as he found that he was not alone. The new visitors were naked, eyeless, and sexless, with grey skin and a height that forced them to hunch over, even in the generous proportions of the room. There was wild barbarity to these humanoid figures, broad and primitive in nature, with thick, wide and flat faces and muscles that seemed to ripple with each unintentional twitch. However the biggest aspect that stuck out about them, was the dozen arms overall, that looked like thick gnarled branches of a tree, four massive fingers about as large as his wrist to each knotty limb. They looked as if they were drawn with more enthusiasm then skill. As if a child was given a painting set and told to draw something strong and just never got around to stopping.

  Banks raised his knife and club, summoning mana and attempting to pump mana into his two makeshift weapons, before the club burst into splinters and the already worn knife cracked in two. Dead silence filled the room, as the remains of his only weapons fell to the ground before he sighed and calmly sat down on the polished stone floor.

  "Come get it over with," he said, wishing once more that he had a cigarette. "What are you waiting for. Come on." The things hesitated to attack for a moment, and the air filled with silence before the damn burst and they charged forward slamming their oversized fists down on to the sitting man. It took a full minute for him to stop twitching. Death never really comes easily in a Ghost Domain.

  Pragnosis 1589 PGE Day of Human

  "Still, have my clothes," Banks noted as he appeared once again in the poor house. It felt more difficult then normal. Even the once easy task of tricking a few items through town, tired him out and placed stress upon his mana and body. Notably the last few meals that he had stored in his bag, were gone and unless he went out of his way to queue up again, he wasn't going to get anything to eat. Still that was fine for now. He didn't feel hungry. The desire to eat, or drink or explore was completely absent. Instead he just wanted to sit and maybe if he felt like it, he could be extravagant and lie down.

  His goal for the day was swiftly achieve as he picked an empty spot in the room and slumped down. It was dark and quiet and while there were a lot of people, they were relatively silent and he could close his eyes and pretend to be alone.

  "Hey, bruva, that was some neat teleportation magic," the much improved translation of the Nevadie broke the silence, but he didn't even look up, content to just sit with his head on his knees for the time.

  "Hey," he said. "Yeah, it's pretty neat." He liked the Nevadie, he really did. He just didn't feel like engaging with them now. That last fight had exhausted him, mentally, physically and magically and right now he just felt like relaxing in a cool dark place.

  "Had a bit of a hangover," the Nevadie said sympathetically. "You know what the cure for that is. It's more booze."

  "I'm broke, I'm afraid," he admitted without a hint of shame.

  "Well mamman always used to say 'you're never broke if you've got friends'," the Nevadie said. "Why don't you join me at the bar friend. Drinks are on me. It's a great insult in my culture if you turn down free booze." That was lie. He was familiar enough with the culture. Still...

  "If you're paying then you can lead the way," he said after a moment, dragging himself to his feet with herculean effort. He brushed his hair and wiped dust off his clothes in a half-hearted effort to look somewhat presentable, before he looked down at his new drinking buddy.

  "Fantastic," the Nevadie said, been looking for somebody who might be down to experiment with the finer art of getting plastered. "Come on let's go. Drinking is better started early in the morning." The tiny man raced off, only stopping just before he went out of sight and after a tired sigh, and an inward lament, Banks followed behind.