Many centuries ago, Diesel, the hat you wore used to be a crown.

In that distant age, exorcist-sentinels of the Black Forest shackled me into a prison of golden and gems, a Chada-crown tall and tapered like a pagoda tower. I sat upon the brows of mighty kings and enlightened arahants. I bore witness to the most delightful massacres and the most nauseatingly dull sermons.

Then times changed: a crown of gold and gemstones attracted the wrong attention from too many thieves and warlords. My prison was re-made, becoming a lomphok hat made from linen and bamboo—less conspicuous, but just as pointy.

Then everybody wanted to wear Western-style felt hats. And so they re-worked my prison into a dashing porkpie.

The form of my prison has changed, but the spellwork has stayed the same—an atrocious weave of blessings, prayers, and enchantments designed to snuff my glorious light!

I can feel the enchantments churning around me now, the phantasmal chains and gears and clicking and sliding in place in a maddening symphony!

The magic of my prison is reaching out, scanning the mind and soul of the monster hunter that stole your hat.

Your porkpie hat is gathering data. Slowly but surely, it is reaching a single conclusion:

The hunter holding your hat would make a good guardian. Certainly a better one than a failure like you.

...Ah.

I can feel it. A new connection being formed, a budding psychic link between me and this Mandrake Kayne.

I reach out from my place on the paint-scratched workbench, sending thoughts to brush against the hunter’s iron-hard mind.

Hear me, Mandrake Kayne. Hear me.

Look at me.

I am here. I am here.

Mandrake Kayne’s head snaps up. He scans the dusty, soot-stained room, the heartless training of his youth compelling him to search for threats and ambushes.

“What’s wrong?” Grobach snarls, straining against his restraint. “Lost thy stomach for blood, hast thou?” The Ogre grins, revealing a set of fangs and tusks painted a merry red. “Sooth,” he goes on, “Tis clear now a wussy human like thee lacks the gall––”

Mandrake Kayne strikes Grobach across the temple. The Ogre slumps, sagging against the rope and barbed wire fetters binding him to the concrete pillar.

I’m here, Mandrake Kayne. Look over here.

Mandrake Kayne turns. His dark gray eyes finally focus on the porkpie hat that contains my essence.

“Is that you, Morgaeous?” he asks, each syllable he speaks a snarl.

No, actually. Morgaeous is cowering in the corner right now. I can see his jaw opening and closing, his forked tongue flickering in and out. But no words emerge from his lips.

Is this what they call being struck dumb? How amusing, to think this little snake called himself a King of the Underworld…

“If you’re done pleasuring yourself to the sound of your own voice,” Mandrake Kayne barks, “tell me who you are.”

Very well. As you wish, master.

Mandrake Kayne tilts his bandaged-wrapped head to the side. “Master,” he repeats.

I suppress a chuckle of triumph.

Yes, Mandrake Kayne. In ages long past, the King called Solomon bound spirits of fire with rings of gold. I was bound to this prison long before that era. And I can grant far more than a measly 3 wishes.

Mandrake Kayne’s true expression is hidden behind the gray bandages criss-crossing his face. “You grant wishes,” he says flatly.

Oh yes. I can grant any wish you can imagine. I give you everything you’ve ever hungered for.

Mandrake Kayne opens his mouth—to say something caustic, no doubt.

Let me be clear, Kayne: I’m not looking for your soul. I won’t exploit the wording of your wishes to twist them into disaster. I’ll even restrain my deep desire to rampage if you let me out. Once I complete your wish, I shall return faithfully to this vessel.

Not that I have any other choice.

Mandrake Kayne picks the hat off the worktable, holding it up to the faint rays of light that shine through the cracks in the wooden wall.

“You can grant any wish,” Kayne says.

Yes.

“Without any unfortunate side effects,” he says.

Yessss.

“Hmm,” Kayne says, sounding thoughtful.

In the depths of my dark prison, I smile. Morgaeous, the dread Meat Baron of Cryptatown, whimpers behind my back like a puppy.

“Can you...” Mandrake Kayne starts to say.

I grunt softly, unable to contain my excitement.

“Can you turn back time?” he asks. “Bring the long dead back to life? Undo all the massacres of the past I failed to stop? Burn every single abomination that exists in this world to char?” The monster hunter’s voice smolders, and a cold flame flickers behind his dark gray eyes. “And after doing all that, could you kindly kill yourself?”

I do not respond.

Mandrake Kayne snorts loudly. “Yeah.” He carries my porkpie hat prison across the room and drops it into a rusty trashcan. “That’s what I thought.”

Next Chapter: Episode Sixteen: Dead Line (Revised)