he only remembers fire and the feeling of his skin cracking and burning away. he retains his memories after death, but only to fuel his desire for vengeance on the world of living for abandoning him in his time of need.

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Fire crackled and hissed as it burned away at wood and stone foundations. The entire house was obliterated. Too many things had gone wrong for anything to remain salvageable by the time the fire was put out. There was only one casualty: the owner of the house. He hadn't been lucky enough to escape on time.

The source of the fire was a small table in the middle of a simple living room. A bottle of an opened mystery chemical was burning brightly beside a fallen figure. His face was burnt and charred beyond recognition, his arm reaching out, as if seeking help before death claimed his soul.

He vaguely remembered screaming out "NO!" as the flames sprung up and the audience ran, screaming as they did so. He pleaded for them to not run, that this was all part of the plan and he had it under control. They never listened, and all disappeared, practically climbing over one another to escape. They didn't try to help, like they claimed they would should anything go wrong.

He remembered stumbling around blindly, shrieks of agony escaping his throat as flames rose higher and engulfed his entire body. The liquid that he'd coated his clothes in acted as a guide for the fire, allowing it to spread more rapidly than he could put it out.

Why hadn't that elixir worked? It was supposed to work. Nothing was supposed to hurt him if he used it.

It was their fault. They did this to him.

Everything was so bright. Everything hurt... it was so painful and he just wanted it to stop—

"Whoa, what happened to you?" an unfamiliar female voice asked.

A faint thud was heard, followed by "Bansha, you don't just ask the new spirits that."

"You asked me that!"

"I asked who you were."

He forced his eyes open, expecting to see the wreckage of his house and a crowd gathered around him. He didn't expect to see three green people (well, two green people and a green skeleton) looking down at him. One held a bow, another had two swords sheathed across her back, and the skeleton carried a scythe. He was smart enough to realize that he was no longer in the world of living.

"Wh-what?" he muttered. He pushed himself onto his feet, wincing in pain as he did so. His face paled when he saw his hands. Charred, blistered, and raw skin ran all the way up his arm from his hands. Almost hesitantly, he let his fingers touch the burnt areas. He felt nothing. Now panicking, he grabbed at his arms, realizing that his clothes had burned away, leaving his torso bare. It was also covered with dark red splotches and blisters.

His entire body was covered in third degree burns. Maybe even fourth degree. He didn't want to imagine what his face looked like.

"Is it bad?" he asked quietly, not caring that these three green people were complete strangers.

"Well..." the female spirit — Bansha — said. "I mean, it will heal."

The scythe-holding skeleton elbowed her and mumbled something into her ear. Her eyes widened slightly and she winced. "Oh."

"If it's more than a third degree burn, it wouldn't heal on its own," he said, still looking down at the ground.

"Take him to the Preeminent," the archer said. "She'll know what to do."

"Who-who's the Preeminent?" he asked, shrinking back when they approached.

"She's the queen, and she'll be able to help you." Upon seeing his look of distrust, the archer said, "Don't worry. We're not gonna hurt you either."

He let them guide him down a bright green carpet that ran from the grand entrance, all the way to another set of double doors that were just as elegant as the decoration around them. They paused there, each spirit taking the time to straighten their clothing, to polish their weapons until they shone. Then the skeleton pushed the doors open, revealing a large, spacious atrium.

"Who is this?" a new voice asked, seeming to echo around them.

"He's new," Bansha called. "And he's burnt."

"Burnt, you say?" Smoke condensed onto the ground in front of them, the voice following the wispy tendrils. "How did the fires start? Arson?"

He felt embarrassed as he said, "I was performing a magic trick." When none of the spirits laughed, he continued. "There was this elixir that was supposed to prevent anything from burning. I used it on myself."

"You were scammed," the archer said immediately.

"No kidding," he mumbled. "It was a mixture of acetone and bleach."

The smoky figure seemed to laugh and he bristled with anger.

"Calm down, young one," the figure, a woman, said. "I don't mean to laugh. But if you knew it was dangerous, why did you use it on yourself?"

"I don't know!" he snapped. "I thought that it was something else. I should've known it was too good to be true."

"Based on the... extent of the wounds on your face and body," the woman said. "It would be near impossible for me to heal you without—"

"Skin grafts?"

"You're a ghost, you don't get skin grafts." The woman seemed to recollect herself and continued, though her calmness sounded forced. "The best I could do is give you something to wrap up the burnt areas in. They would be enchanted, of course. It will numb the pain until you take it off."

As she spoke, a roll of bandages dropped into his hands.

"Use these," she said. "And come to me when you need more."

"I... thank you," he said quietly. He wrapped a strip around his hand, almost sighing with relief when some of the pain, when he could feel it, subsided. Without stopping, he wrapped his arms, his torso, and his face. He probably looked ridiculous, but he didn't care. He felt better now, and could stand properly without wanting to curl up in the fetal position.

"It worked," he said, flexing his fingers, then his arms. Then he took a few steps and even dared to run. He rotated his head around, turning it from side to side. Everything felt fine. If it weren't for the ghostly green sheen and bandages that now covered his entire body, he would've thought he was still alive.

He wished he was still alive.

"Thank you," he said again. "I feel better."

"Well enough to train?" the woman asked. The smoky figure raised an arm and something else appeared. A long chain with a sickle blade attached to one side and a handle on the other.

"A chain blade?" he asked, lifting the weapon as thoughts of what he could add to it popped into his mind.

"I have a feeling you're best suited with this weapon, Wrayth," the woman said. "It would certainly make a statement, and I know how much you craved the attention."

He hated that the woman was right. That it was because of that exact reason he was standing in front of her as a ghost. But he kept his thoughts to himself. If the woman wanted him to use the blade, then he would.

But he was going to make some modifications to it. He wondered if this world had the same chemicals the realm of the living did.

"Alright," he said, coiling up a length of chain in one hand to reach the blade while holding the handle in the other. "I'll train. When do I start?"

"Now."

The smoky figure vanished and the three other spirits turned to him. The archer gestured for him to follow them and he did.

He would train, as the woman suggested. But he would also work on his new weapon because he didn't want it to be an ordinary chain blade.

After all, the woman was right. The weapon alone would catch the attention of many, but that wasn't enough for him. He wanted something more, he wanted an ability, as he suspected the other three spirits all had.

Upon asking them, he realized he was right.

Bansha could sing. Her songs were powerful enough to cause destruction, the other spirits claimed. Soul Archer never missed a shot. No matter where he aimed, the arrow would always find its mark. And Ghoultar may not look like much, but he had an uncanny ability to detect poisons and to lift things that were clearly heavier than he was.

He mulled over ideas of what he could do to his weapon in order for it to appear more threatening. At the same time, he mulled over the name the Preeminent had given him; Wrayth. He knew a wraith was a vengeful spirit that appeared as a bad omen of terrible things to come. It wasn't much to work with, but he suddenly knew what he wanted to do.

His presence would appear as a warning and his chain blade would deliver a slow and agonizing demise.

He wanted them to suffer, just as he had.

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Wrayth's story was probably the most interesting thing for me to write since we don't really see much of him in the actual show. this gave me a lot of room to come up with headcanons and possibly backstory ideas for him since we only know that he's a ghost and he has a chain blade.