Where are your two bits? the hooded man — Charon — howled, his voice the darkness at the center of a void.

“Don’t got ‘em,” the flimsy shadow, a mere Sheut, replied.

Then cursed you will be, trapped in purgatory for eternity, Charon whispered.

“Doubtful,” the Sheut said, a light emanating from his right shoulder.

Save for two bits, you shall not be allowed to pass, Charon continued. Bring forth your two bits, Sheut.

The light subsided from the Sheut’s shoulder, resurrecting itself in the shade’s chest and head.

Ah, Charon replied. One who has bound their Ib, Ka and Ba to their Sheut form. This is old magic, rare magic, forgotten magic, you dabble in, Sheut. So, Shadow, you still require your Ren to return. Name yourself.

The Sheut paused, trying to remember its Ren. “My name,” the Sheut fluttered, “is Robert Blake.”

By the old bindings and ways, the path back to life is yours to take, Charon barked.

“First,” asked Blake’s Sheut, “tell me about the infection.”