hapter 8: Pocket Dimensions, Property Damage, and Lord Gumwrath's Very Bad Day
It all started with Harper's dumb decision to drag a "vintage" mirror home from a garage sale. You know the type: chipped, probably cursed, and radiating the same energy as a Ouija board at a sleepover. Lithia, naturally, zeroed in on it like a shark sniffing out the scent of legal loopholes.
"Tell me you didn't touch it," Lithia deadpanned, eyeing the dust-covered relic.
Harper, holding it like a toddler with a live grenade: "I licked it."
Lithia blinked. "Harper, that's how pandemics start."
Before any further roasts could be exchanged, the mirror pulsed — and the room folded inward like reality forgot how physics worked. Cue the swirling rainbow nightmare, cue the nausea, cue the landing face-first in a field of neon grass that smelled like cotton candy and crushed childhood dreams.
Welcome to the Jellyvoid: a dimension designed by a committee of sugar-addicted gremlins and probably run by the same people who design toddler TV shows.
Floating islands, sky whales with neon tattoos, and the sun? It winked at them. Literally. Harper screamed. Micah cried. Lithia remained unimpressed.
Their new host, the tyrant of this bubblegum fever dream, was none other than Lord Gumwrath — a seven-foot-tall, plushy-stuffed warlord whose entire army consested of weaponized gumdrops. Cute, until they pulled out knives.
Lord Gumwrath didn't immediately decapitate them. Instead, he invited them to a game show — a twisted Hunger Games-meets-Willy-Wonka ordeal called "The Gumdrop Trials."
The rules? Survive.
The prize? Escape.
The losers? Eaten alive by licorice wolves.
Lithia — obviously — wasn't scared. The first round involved outrunning sentient cupcakes with bear traps for frosting. The second? Answering riddles posed by a psychotic talking jawbreaker who definitely had beef with humanity. And the final round? Battle Royale against the reigning champion: a sentient candy cane with anger issues.
Lithia didn't even draw her weapon for that one. She just stared at the candy cane until it spontaneously combusted from sheer social anxiety.
Lord Gumwrath wasn't about to let them waltz out with their limbs intact. As they stood in the arena, basking in the glow of victory (and literal fire — thanks, Micah), the plushy tyrant revealed his real plan:
The mirror wasn't just a portal. It was a baited trap for aura-rich beings. He needed Lithia's aura to power his next dimensional conquest.
Cue the ambush. Thousands of gumdrop mercenaries swarmed the arena. Harper and Micah prepared for the worst.
Lithia? She released a sliver of her aura — the eldritch, velvet-black mist spreading like spilled ink on existence. The gumdrops melted faster than snowflakes on a bonfire.
Lord Gumwrath, now sweating pure maple syrup, surrendered. Lithia took his scepter as a souvenir. Another war trophy for the vault.
But the fun didn't end there. No, that'd be too merciful.
Turns out the mirror wasn't a one-way ticket — it was a becon. Other dimensions had locked onto Lithia's aura signature like hungry predators. Minutes after escaping the Jellyvoid, new enemies arrived: dimensional hitmen called The Fraywalkers — glitchy humanoids dressed like discount SCP rejects, armed with reality-bending weapons.
What followed wasn't so much a battle as a chaotic lightshow of collapsing geometry and casual space-time vandalism. Lithia, of course, stayed on-brand: calm, calculated, and occasionally sarcastic while dodging lasers that erased entire buildings from existence.
Harper: "Any plans, genius?"
Lithia, sipping iced tea mid-combat: "Yes. Win."
And she did.
After the hitmen retreated, a portal opened by itself. Out stepped a woman dressed like a Victorian noble crossed with a cyberpunk fashion model. She introduced herself as The Curator of Lost Dimensions — part librarian, part cosmic collector.
She didn't want to kill Lithia. She wanted to hire her.
Apparently, aura masters were so rare that they were practically urban legends, and Lithia's signature had pinged every dimension broker in the multiverse.
Lithia politely declined the job offer. Killing things was one thing, clocking into a 9-to-5? Absolutely not.
When they finally stumbled back home — muddy, bruised, and slightly more traumatized — the Hensleys barely batted an eye. Mr. Hensley was busy overcooking pancakes like usual, humming to himself like his teenage daughter hadn't just returned from another cosmic brawl.
Micah slumped on the floor, drained. "We need new hobbies."
Lithia adjusted her spider-silk gloves, deadpan: "That was my hobby."
And just like that, the mirror settled back into its harmless-looking spot in the corner, as if it hadn't tried to commit interdimensional murder. Typical.
Lithia glanced at it one last time, the faintest smirk creeping onto her face.
"Next weekend, we go treasure hunting," she whispered to herself.
Because the only thing better than surviving a multiverse death game… was going back for seconds.
End of Chapter 8.