"Thoughts are just meat with better flavor." No one remembers where Raph’Ael came from. That’s because he devoured the memory itself. Some believe he was once a psychic surgeon—slicing nightmares out of patients and bottling them. Others swear he was born in the Mind Tomb, a plane where consciousness rots and thoughts breed like parasites. Whatever the truth was, he swallowed it. Fira first saw him while processing astral echoes. She’d been tasked with cleansing a village where everyone had clawed out their own eyes and buried them. Why? The villagers couldn't say. They only screamed his name: “Raph’Ael… make it stop…” She tried to extract him for reaping, but instead, he spoke into her brain. "You’re new. That’s cute. I like the way your fear tastes." Instead of passing into death, Raph’Ael was yanked sideways—into the Death Arena. Whether by Arif's hand or some latent psychic reflex, even the Arena recoiled upon his arrival. In combat, Raph’Ael doesn’t throw punches—he injects madness. Opponents drop their weapons, claw their own throats, beg long-dead lovers for mercy, or fall into seizure as he whispers forgotten languages. His attacks don’t leave wounds. They leave cracks in the mind. In one match, a beast triple his size lunged—and stopped mid-sprint. It looked around, confused. Then it wept. Then it laughed. Then it tore its own jaw off, giggling. Fira had to watch from afar, eyes averted, ears sealed shut. Even then, she heard him. "Firaaaa… I remember you. Would you like to remember me too?" She never filed the incident. Arif never asked why. But ever since, Fira's dreams haven't been hers alone.