There's always a certain shift that I hit with a story that hasn't been planned out from the beginning, where I go from meandering to finding the plot. Those of you who've read "Lightbringer" will know what I mean. When I was younger, I would go into stories to play. I wanted to explore, and so I would never give myself a finish line. I didn't want an endpoint, because that wasn't the purpose of the stories I wanted to write.

The problem with that is … I would get lost. Once lost, I would get overwhelmed.

Once overwhelmed, I would avoid the story entirely.

Hence the unfathomable gap between these chapters and the ones that have been online for so long. In the name of trying to find the kernel of narrative that I tried to plant so many years ago, I've had to prune the garden, so to speak.

So if it feels like things are going much, much faster compared to the older stuff …

Well. That's why.

I'm older now, and I'm trying to get to the point.

For my own sake, and for yours.

Verse One.

Pegasus stood from his seat and walked over to a little bar off in one corner of the room. He set about making himself something, and Seto watched him silently. It crossed Seto's mind that, if he'd still been 12 years old like he'd been in that illusion, being in the same room as Pegasus Crawford would have sent him over the moon and back.

What a difference only a handful of years made.

"Would you like something to drink?" Pegasus asked loftily, glancing over one shoulder.

Seto grimaced when he realized how thirsty he was. Hungry, too. More than he ought to have been after only six hours. Clearly, the magic had taken more out of him than he'd anticipated. He cleared his throat. "Yes, actually," he said. "I would. Something light." He paused. Then: "Please."

He spoke through his teeth; Seto didn't like the idea of treating Pegasus so . . . primly, so politely, but all the same he couldn't shake the notion that his parents were still watching him. Some superstitious part of him that hadn't reared its head in a long time was active, perked up and at attention, right now. It was tapping at his shoulder and insisting that he observe decorum.

To do otherwise would be disastrous, somehow.

Pegasus watched Seto thoughtfully, clearly surprised but not displeased to have his guest take him up on the offer. "So, then," he said, "you have managed to break the illusion. I don't mind telling you that that, in itself, is quite a feat. There are plenty of examples all throughout history, of would-be magicians nearly killing themselves just attempting what you've done. I'm sure you can imagine what would happen if you'd been trapped in stasis for too long. Especially before the advent of modern medicine."

The master of the house came sauntering back to Seto and handed him a glass of pink, sparkling liquid—garnished with a twist of orange rind—that smelled faintly of citrus. Seto sipped cautiously, and his eyes snapped wide; the drink was crisp, sweet, just sour enough. The flavors balanced neatly on his tongue and seemed to send light bubbles through his entire body. He eyed Pegasus suspiciously as he set his glass down.

"I pray forgiveness," said Pegasus, "but . . . given that you are still underage, I thought it best to avoid alcohol. I trust a mocktail will suffice. You asked for something light, after all."

"It's fine," Seto said, gesturing dismissively. "What's this about breaking the illusion?"

"Even when forewarned," Pegasus taking a long pull from his own glass, which Seto was certain had plenty enough alcohol for the both of them, "it can be easy for a prospective bearer to end up lost in their own memories." He shrugged. "Some have even decided that knowing the nature of the illusion is not enough cause to break it, and actively choose to live out their lives in . . . blissful ignorance, let us call it."

Seto didn't want to admit that some part of him had thought of that.

More often than he would have ever liked.

"Memories," was what he said, carefully.

"Now, then," Pegasus said, sitting down opposite Seto and setting his drink down on the table, "the game is not yet over. You've finished one leg of this journey. This is not to downplay what you've done, of course, but here comes the second, and most important, part." He gestured grandly. "Take as much time as you need, but understand this: how you respond to the question I now ask you will decide whether you leave this room victorious or empty-handed."

"Mm," Seto grunted. "Continue."

"What," Pegasus prompted, "have you learned?"

Verse Two.

Mokuba caught Kisara sitting on a bench in the back gardens of the Kaiba Estate, staring off at nothing; there was a wistful little smile on her face. The young Kaiba approached slowly, unsure of what he wanted to say. All the same, he knew it was too late to back out when she turned her attention onto him; her smile widened.

"Good afternoon," said Kisara.

"You look happy," Mokuba said, then cursed himself for a fool; what the hell was that? He felt like he was at school, asking a girl to a spring dance. "Get some good news?"

"Not exactly," Kisara said, turning her gaze up to the sky again. "It's just . . . I can tell your brother just accomplished something important. He's doing well."

Mokuba blinked several times. He'd expected his new house-guest to say something a bit strange; after all, he barely knew her. But he never would have thought she'd say that. "You . . . you can? How's that?"

Kisara shrugged. "I don't understand, exactly," she said, "but . . . there's a connection, between him and me." She favored Mokuba with a pleasant—if embarrassed—expression. "This isn't to say I'm confessing anything. I don't have a crush on your brother, or anything you might be thinking. I'm sure that's not an uncommon thing. But . . . no, I think it has to do with all the magic that's been springing up around him, and me, lately. Everything that's happened since I got here to Domino City. He and I . . . are meant for something. I don't know what it is, but it's important."

Mokuba's pensive face split into a tentative smile. "I think I get that," he said.

"Yami, everybody keeps calling him," Kisara went on, "told me that . . . I am the dragon." She gestured. "The Blue-Eyes White Dragon, that is. I'm connected to that, somehow. Whatever it means for me to be that . . . I guess that's why I'm feeling this way."

Understanding settled onto Mokuba's face. "That makes more sense," he said. Kisara gave him a dumbfounded look; she clearly didn't get it. "If you have some kind of bond with the Blue-Eyes, then it makes sense that you'd know how Niisama is doing."

Mokuba reached into a pocket and pulled out the card he'd won so long ago. But then, it wasn't all that long ago, was it? He held it up, showing Kisara the artwork that so spoke to Seto Kaiba's spirit.

Kisara smiled fondly. "She really is beautiful."

Mokuba nodded. "Anyway," he said, "Niisama's put a lot of . . . faith, I guess, into this dragon. He doesn't have a religion, but if he did . . . the Blue-Eyes would be the object of his worship. I wouldn't call her a goddess, not really, but I think she's close enough."

Kisara quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose that would explain the statues out front."

Mokuba shrugged. "Whatcha gonna do?" he asked. "Sometimes symbols mean a lot to people."

"I guess they do." Kisara hummed. "Well, I don't know too much about how any of this works, but I do know that your brother is doing what he needs to do. He'll be home soon. I can feel it."

There was something about the conviction in Kisara's voice that made it impossible to doubt her, so Mokuba didn't; it felt natural, it felt right, to trust her.

Verse Three.

"Magic has hard limits."

Pegasus tilted his head to one side, looking like nothing so much as a confused dog. "I know that I said you should take care with your words," he said, "but I hope you don't mind very much if I ask you to elucidate a bit on that point, Kaiba-boy."

Seto smirked. "I was thrust into a world where my parents survived," he said. "My mother lived past the day of Mokuba's birth, and my father survived past his thirty-seventh birthday. I was shown what sort of life I could have had if I'd remained a Yagami. If Mokuba remained a Yagami."

Pegasus nodded. "Correct," he said.

"I acted as I would . . . typically act," Seto went on, "and no doubt this is hardly surprising to you. I discovered a threat to Mokuba's health and well-being, and so I quite naturally took it upon myself to remove it."

Pegasus laughed softly. "Naturally," he repeated.

"I thought," Seto said, "for a time at least, that the lesson was to learn patience. To trust in my parents to do the job that I was so readily placing upon my own shoulders. Habits die slowly, and all that." Seto eyed his old nemesis suspiciously. "I think that was a trap. I think that lesson was placed there on purpose, Crawford, and I think that little grin on your face is proof that I'm right."

Pegasus didn't hide the aforementioned grin. "How did you see past this trap, then?"

"My parents praised my bravery," Seto said, decisively. He leaned forward and pointed at Pegasus. "you, and the Eye, only had memories of my parents to work from. This illusion was built by those memories. You said it yourself. Other prospective bearers get lost in their memories. All this means is that you only had my rose-colored impressions of them. You were limited, in that way. The magic was limited."

"You surely cannot mean," Pegasus ventured, "to tell me . . . your parents would have punished you for protecting your brother."

"They would have been quite clear," Seto said, "on what I ought to have done in the circumstances I found myself in: run. The body into which I was placed, during that illusion, was fully incapable of winning that fight. I would never have been able to take those boys down."

Pegasus's eyebrows raised. "Do go on," he said, sounding interested now.

"Did I grab Mokuba's hand and run? Even though I had plenty of space and time to do so? No. Did I seek out my mother, or my father, even though I knew they were both nearby? No. I picked a fight. I grandstanded. I made a point to draw the danger onto myself, for my own pride. That is unacceptable. That is how you end up in the hospital or the morgue. My parents would have known that, and they would have acted accordingly."

"You mean to say, then," Pegasus said, "that because I was limited by your memories of your parents, because the Eye was so limited, we were unable to properly predict how they would have reacted to your actions." Seto nodded. "I find myself with no recourse but to ask, then: how did you come to this conclusion? If you can't have predicted this, then how did you arrive at it?"

Seto held out his hands.

"It's what I would do, if Mokuba had done what I did," he said.

Verse Four.

Noa didn't bother to turn toward the footsteps behind him in the hallway, but rather kept his eyes on the painting he'd been studying for the past twenty minutes; he pretended to be doing nothing. He said, quietly: "I'm beginning to think that you don't like me."

Ryo Bakura, or rather his body, stopped about six feet away and regarded Noa through slitted eyes. "Have you made an effort to appeal to me? Or am I to appreciate your company as a matter of course?"

Noa didn't bother to hide the smirk that rose on his face. "Well played," he said. "I don't think I have an answer to that." He looked over, saw the boy he was trying to help; Ryo was standing there, glaring at him with a look that could have curdled his blood like milk. "I wonder: how can I appeal to you? What, precisely, can I do?"

"Are you asking in earnest," Ryo pressed, "or are you simply playing your role?"

"Is there a distinction that matters?" Noa lobbed back. "Go on. Tell me. What is your aim? What is it you want to do, and why is it so important to you that you would hijack someone else's body to do it?"

Ryo's mouth curled. "My lord agreed to help me in my mission. I don't suppose he bothered to tell you that part, did he?" He laughed darkly. "No, I don't think he did. It seems he's gotten cold feet lately. Perhaps I've gone too far."

"I know a thing or two about going too far," Noa muttered.

"Perhaps you do, Kaiba. Perhaps you do." Ryo's arms crossed over his chest; his every move brought to mind a puppet being manipulated by invisible strings, pulled by invisible hands. "All right. I'll try talking, then. Why don't you tell me, prodigal son? Does the name Kul Elna mean anything to you?"

Noa scowled. "No," he admitted. "It does not."

Ryo's head shook, sadly. "I don't suppose I've any right to be surprised," he said. "Allow me to educate you: too many years ago now to be of any interest to a living man, there was a village. It was a throwaway little shanty town, where lived only the dregs of a desert society. The rich men who lived nearby, they surely loved to hire these pitiful little villagers to do their most dangerous work. The sort of work that kills people as often as it lifts them up. But did the villagers have any choice but to do this work? They did not. So, they did it. Anything the rich men tasked them to do, they would do. Then, one day, a true visionary found a new purpose for these dust-streaked little nobodies. Oh, yes. You see, this visionary learned of a secret ritual, a special recipe to create weapons of vast scope and power. That power could only come from one source: the blood of the living."

Noa's eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak. Not yet.

He couldn't.

"The visionary was willing to sacrifice blood to this ritual, to hold these weapons in his hands," Ryo went on, "but he didn't see the need to sacrifice his blood. Nor did he wish to give up the blood of his children, or his brothers, or his sisters. No, none of his fellows. No, no, no. Why do that? Why bother, when there was a whole community full of miscreants and vagabonds right there, just yearning for real purpose? Why throw away the blood of decent folk when there was a village just itching to be a part of something greater?"

Noa let out a shaky breath. "That village," he guessed, "was Kul Elna."

Verse Five.

"So," Pegasus said, "magic has limits. I will not deny that you are correct. You make a strong case. I'm compelled. Truly. However, there is another element of this lesson. You have given me an observation, yes, but what have you learned from it? How will you apply this understanding, this knowledge, to your future trials?"

Seto leaned back in his chair. "I cannot rely on magic to solve problems for me," he said, "nor can I comfort myself with delusions. Any kind of vision I could summon for myself would only ever be made of what I, myself, am capable of knowing. I cannot make anything new out of such visions. I cannot summon my mother to my side, learn from her wisdom, because her wisdom is not part of the magic. Mine is. I will only ever be able to learn what I already know. This is a useful tool for reflection, but little else."

Pegasus drank from his glass. "Tell me, Kaiba-boy: how do you think the magic works?"

"You said it yourself," Seto said. "It shows you what you want to see. You used that eye to defeat me, the last time we faced each other as adversaries. You were able to sift through my mind and find the knowledge locked in it. You used that knowledge to plan your own strategies. These visions work in much the same way. They sift through the bearer's own mind, bringing out whatever memory they might want to see. From what little I have been able to find on the nature of the Millennium Items from other sources . . . and, trust me, when I say little, I'm being generous . . . it's believed that the Millennium Eye can breach past the veil of mortality and glimpse into the world of the dead. But I don't think it can. At all."

It was Pegasus's turn to lean forward in his chair. His interest was more than piqued now; it was enthralled. "Go on," he said, almost desperately. "Why do you believe this?"

"Think about it," Seto prompted. "You've learned about a magical eye that can show you whatever you want to see. What would someone seeking out this kind of ability think about? An edge over other people, much as you used against me—and other business rivals, I don't doubt—or . . . a loved one? Why would anyone need to see a loved one through magic, when they could just go and visit them? Because they've been cut off, or because they're dead. So, people got the idea in their heads that the Eye can reunite its bearer with spirits of the dead. What it actually does is render memories in full in the bearer's vision. Much like how used the Eye to read my mind, you can also use it to read your own. I did not meet my parents in that illusion. I saw my own memories of them, dancing on your strings, speaking lines you wrote for them."

Pegasus took a long, long moment to compose himself.

Eventually, he said: "You make . . . a very compelling case. I'm impressed."

". . . Thank you," Seto said, through his teeth; he didn't want to say it, but he felt compelled. "So," he continued, "what does this mean? Simple: magic is a tool. It cannot be leaned on to break reality. It can only be used the way that any other tool can be used. To build, or to destroy."

Pegasus's expression morphed into something that could only be called paternal.

He placed his right hand over his left eye, beneath his hair.

"I wonder," Pegasus murmured, "which you will choose."

END.