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Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 71

• Tier 2: Chapter 76

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 93

• Tier 2: Chapter 98

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 64

• Tier 2: Chapter 69

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 60

• Tier 2: Chapter 65

[Demons of NC] Chapter 98

"They mostly didn’t give a shit about us. Every now and then they’d remember we exist and start asking the same crap all over again," said the ex-nomad named Valerie. "Blah-blah-blah, where’s the chip, blah-blah, where’d you fuckin’ lose it. And they’d beat the shit outta us in the meantime. When they started leaning on me, Jackie’d pull their attention. Talked some nonsense. They’d lose their shit and beat him instead. Took me a while to figure out what he was doing. They’d already fucked him up good."

"He’ll live," I replied, lighting a smoke. "You two need to lay low. What’s your status with the Aldecaldos?"

"Know of them. Never visited. You suggesting we crash in their camp for a bit?"

"Yup. Otherwise someone else’ll be digging your graves. And what about DeShawn, by the way?"

"No clue. Either he dipped or got iced. He called us, tried to get us to meet, but we bailed after the job. Some netrunner from Konpeki told us to stay away."

"You mean a netrunner—like, Konpeki Plaza employee?" I played dumb.

"No. There was someone else. Besides T-Bug and the Voodoo Boys."

"Right. Maybe he was one of the Voodoo Boys?" I offered, trying to keep it casual.

"Fuck knows, but they were scumbags... used to be, anyway. Kinda weird to think they helped us back then."

"They weren’t helping you, they were trying to grab the biochip," I pointed out.

Didn’t want Valerie getting too chatty about the other netrunner in Konpeki.

"Seemed to me the Voodoo Boys were surprised too," she said. "Why the hell would they grill us about another runner if it was one of theirs?"

"Fair point," I conceded. "Alright. We’ll talk more about that ‘other netrunner’ later. Just keep it to yourself for now, okay?" Valerie nodded. "My guy Falco already took Jackie to a ripper."

"Vik?"

"Nope. Vik’s too close to you two. They might have eyes on him. But don’t worry, the ripper’s solid and knows how to keep his mouth shut. You’re going with Panam. I’ve still got some loose ends to clean up here—evidence, cover-up shit. Detective work. Private. Dirty. But in demand."

"A fixer?"

"That too. But I still shoot my own guns."

"Respect. Got a smoke?" she asked, squinting at the sun creeping up over Pacifica.

We sat there smoking, a new day beginning.

Half an hour later, Lucy and I were prepping to release our little pet back into the wild. I’m talking about Evelyn Parker. We’d combed through her software several times, making sure nothing would trace back to us.

"I came up with a way to cover our asses completely," Lucy said. "I wiped Judy’s program, but I’m gonna reinstall it right before we let her go."

"Smart," I nodded. "That way if Judy sees the traces, she won’t even question it. Memory?"

"All clean. Though she was in chip-mode for a long-ass time. If she has issues or acts weird, we just blame it on neural fragmentation. First faces she sees when she wakes up will be ours."

"Hm... and even if she dreams about fucking you or me, we can write it off as hot fantasies about her saviors. Perfect. I’ve decided we’re gonna ‘find’ her somewhere other than where we pulled Jackie from. Sooner or later, the Watch’ll sniff around that place. Might find DNA or some random trace. Fuck that. We’ll head to one of the Voodoo Boys’ smaller safehouses instead. We’ll call Judy there too."

"Let’s go."

INTERLUDE: Evelyn Parker.

Waking up was slow and strange. Above her was a bare concrete ceiling, rough and dimly lit by a couple dusty lamps. Her own head felt empty. Hollow. No questions. No answers. Just this lingering ache of loss.

Click!

Fingers snapped loudly in front of her face—chrome ones.

"Hey. Look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Evelyn dropped her gaze from the ceiling. A man was crouched beside her, his face almost completely hidden behind a chem-mask and blast goggles.

"Fingers?" she repeated dumbly.

"Yeah. Those handy things on the ends of your arms. You’ve got some too," he said. "Very useful little devices." Then he turned. "Lucy, you sure she’s okay?"

"Yeah," said a woman’s voice. Familiar somehow, like a song from a half-forgotten dream. "Looks like she was on a doll chip for a long time. Her memory and cognition are glitchy, but it’ll pass. Hey—do you remember your name?"

A girl knelt beside the man. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark. Something about her face sent an electric chill through Evelyn’s body. Recognition, but no clarity.

‘Doll chip,’ Evelyn thought.

The words hit like a switch flipped in her brain. And then—like floodgates cracking open—came a surge of murky, turbulent memories. The failed thief of the biochip was no longer blank.

"Evelyn Parker," she said. "That’s my name. Where am I? What is this place?"

"Basement of a rundown building in Pacifica," the man said. "One of the Voodoo Boys’ stash holes. You remember them?"

Evelyn did. Kind of. The memories hit like a wave of heat in a windowless room—thick, choking, blurry. A whole life, crammed into a mind that just seconds ago had felt like a vacuum. Panic set in. She lurched forward, but the girl with multicolored hair gently caught her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Easy, Ev. It’s okay. Here. Breathe."

She handed Evelyn an inhaler. Practically pushed it into her hands. The chemical vapor brought a jolt of clarity, but didn’t calm the internal storm.

"Let’s get her some fresh air, V."

"Fresh air’s at least fifty klicks from Night City, if not more," her companion snorted. "But yeah. Let’s ditch this hole for one that sucks a little less."

They helped Evelyn to her feet, guiding her outside while they filled her in—Voodoo Boys, the kidnapping, Judy Alvarez, the Konpeki disaster.

"I think they were trying to turn you into some kinda murder drone," the guy said, once they stepped into the blinding sunlight. "Found files with a list of chrome they’d already installed in you and what they had lined up. Some wild stuff. Optics to hide doll-chip signals, combat hardware..."

Evelyn seemed to listen, but none of it stuck. Her head was already too full—waves of the past crashing in, a storm of broken images and emotions. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a single, clear need crystallized:

She needed a fucking cigarette.

"I'm gonna call Judy now," the man continued. "She'll come get you. Hide you. Best you keep your head down for a while. Don’t go back home, and under no fuckin’ circumstances set foot in Clouds. I’ll tell Judy the same thing. So… pull yourself together, Miss Parker. You managed to slip through the sharp claws of fate with barely a scratch."

Miss Parker didn’t share his optimism. She was looking around at the slums and half-finished hotel buildings. Night City. Sticky like spiderwebs—the city she’d tried to escape from and… lost.

Suddenly Evelyn realized she was trembling, like from the cold.

The man took off his helmet. His face looked strangely familiar. And right on cue, a memory rose up from the depths—Oswald Forrest’s stinking, booze-reeking mug.

"Move your ass to the shower, cutie. Break time’s canceled. Got another loudmouth corpo prick here for you. What the fuck do you rub on your pussy to attract guys like that?"

Is it him? No, probably not. The face was similar, but this one looked more like a merc or soldier. Still, there was a whiff of corpo in the way he talked.

"Take another hit," the girl said, gently hugging her by the shoulders. "Your friend’s on her way. It’s gonna be okay."

Her voice and touch worked better than the inhaler. But again, Evelyn was struck by a weird sense of deja vu. Like she’d known this girl a long, long time.

"What’s your name?" Evelyn asked, then remembered what the man had called her. "Is Lucy short for Lucille?"

The man answered for her:

"Lucina."

"Maybe I wanted to stay anonymous," Lucina smirked softly, glancing at her companion, whose eyes were flickering—clearly scanning something in his implant interface.

Evelyn brushed herself off. Her legs were stiff. She was still wearing the same dress she had on the day she was taken. The glitter was dulled, dusty, faded—just like her.

"Come here," Lucina suddenly said, gently brushing Evelyn’s hair aside to expose the back of her neck.

She jacked into her port, and streams of code flickered in front of Evelyn’s eyes.

"You’re a netrunner?"

"A little. A small hobby," Lucina replied slyly. "I’m uploading some software. Your friend wrote these scripts. Might help if you get into trouble again."

"Yeah. Thanks," Evelyn said, her voice dull.

Suddenly she had the overwhelming urge to rest her cheek on this stranger’s shoulder and just—

A van pulled up between the buildings. Judy Alvarez behind the wheel, clearly doing close to a hundred. The thing swerved like it was gonna tip over any second. Twenty seconds later, her arms were around Evelyn in a tight hug. Judy was crying, whispering into her ear:

"I… I thought I’d never see you again. Eve… I’m so glad! Are you okay?"

The man spoke again. He told Judy the same things he’d explained to Evelyn earlier, all while Judy mumbled thanks through her tears. Lucina stood quietly beside him, leaning slightly against his shoulder. Yeah, these two were mercs. They were on some big contract wiping out the Voodoo Boys—and snagged Evelyn along the way. Evelyn herself had tried hiring someone from Afterlife not too long ago.

Or… not? Honestly, it felt like a past life. Over a month back, probably.

"We won’t mention Evelyn anywhere," the merc promised. "We’ll scrub her name wherever we can. Worst case, Arasaka figures she was spying for the Voodoo Boys and got killed by them. So again—cut all ties with the past. Best thing for Evelyn is to get the fuck out of the city."

A couple minutes later, Evelyn was in the van’s passenger seat while Judy drove them into the concrete jungle that was Night City—if this glass-and-steel beast even had a heart.

Evelyn adjusted her hair, looking at herself in the rearview mirror. She felt this clawing urge to clean up, shower off the dust and filth of whatever basement they’d dragged her out of.

"We’ll go to my place, I’ll call Suzie, then we’ll bring you to Lizzie’s," Judy was saying, taking charge.

They were trying to save her. What a disgusting feeling.

Her memories were slowly unscrambling. Beneath the receding waves, jagged rocks of old ambition poked out—cutting and stabbing her tired heart. Everything was gone. Evelyn smoked, staring out the window at the city slowly crawling past.

"I thought it’d be different. We deserve more," Parker said, pouring all her bitterness into the words.

"It’s never different here, Eve. Let’s just leave. Start fresh."

It sounded sweet. Naive. Pointless.

Sure, Judy could leave. But Evelyn? She was living on borrowed time, and soon she’d have to pay fate back with interest. She’d start aging, fading, losing her value in the eyes of men and women alike. Judy was a good tech. She’d still be needed when her beauty faded. Evelyn wasn’t like that. She’d need serious implants just to slow the decline—and even those only delayed the inevitable. That was just the surface. Something inside Evelyn had burned out too. No ripper or drug could fix that. Without the spark of life, she’d become just another doll.

She knew it. And it scared the hell out of her.

"I need to go home. Will you take me?" Evelyn asked.

"Are you nuts? He told you not to go back there!"

"I need to grab some cash. A few other things. Won’t take long."

"Eve, it’s not worth your life. I just got you back. Please..."

"Fine," Parker sighed, feeling that bitter, sour ache again. "You’re right."

"Of course I’m right!" Judy snapped, smacking the steering wheel with both hands. "You just crawled out of a deep-ass grave. Don’t go diving into another one. You mean something to me. I don’t wanna lose you again."

‘We already lost ourselves a long time ago,’ Evelyn thought.

How much time had that chip stolen from her? Even the kidnapping felt like it happened off-screen. An endless plunge into a void. If the Voodoo Boys had succeeded, maybe she never would’ve woken up. Just… skipped a death.

She probably should’ve felt overwhelming gratitude to Judy. Thrown herself into her arms. But Evelyn kept thinking instead about the runner girl who helped her wake up. Ungrateful? Maybe. She knew that. It made her feel like shit—but she couldn’t help it.

The van stopped outside Judy’s apartment—a cramped little hive of disappointments and dead dreams. Charter Street. A dump with a view of glittering towers. A place where you felt especially small.

"You really do deserve better," Evelyn said as they climbed the stairs past walls covered in graffiti.

"Eve, stop. All I want is to be around good people. Honestly, I’m just tired. Of… everything. Good people dying, bad people thriving, gonks everywhere and… we’re here. Stay as long as you want."

Judy’s apartment actually had personality. Painted walls—not just random crap for show. Posters, gear, tech clutter. It looked lived-in. Real. Not some hollow corpo showroom.

"I’m gonna shower," Evelyn said quickly as the door closed. "I need to wash all this shit off me."

"Of course. Take a bath if you want. I’ll go after you."

"Stay with me."

Judy hesitated—clearly caught off guard. Evelyn found it kind of sweet.

"Come on," Parker insisted. "I don’t wanna be alone."

And that, at least, was true. But it wasn’t fear—like Judy probably assumed. Evelyn just didn’t want to be left alone with her own thoughts.

"Alright then. I’ll try not to peek… too much."

"How’d you find those mercs?" Evelyn asked, already peeling off her clothes.

"By pure luck," Judy admitted, standing by the wall and very deliberately turning away. "I ran through a bunch of fixers, got nowhere. Then I heard there was a new guy in town. Sometimes hung around Lizzie’s with his crew."

She briefly recapped the weird-ass story of Evelyn’s rescue while the latter rinsed off the grime.

"And the girl?" Evelyn asked, rubbing shampoo into her hair. "Lucina. Did he hire her from Afterlife?"

"Nah. Looks like he’s got his own crew. Some punk chick, kinda short, and a pair of nomads. They work together. Just bought a club recently. 7th Hell. You remember that dump with the blaring, tasteless music? Why? That girl catch your eye?"

"I don’t know. Her voice, her face… It all feels familiar. Or just… unreal. I don’t say this kind of shit about people often, but there’s something about her."

"Oh shit! Love at first sight?"

"Judy, I’m not twelve," Evelyn replied, slightly judging, as she leaned back under the warm streams of water.

Then it hit her—like she wasn’t fully back in her own body. Creepy feeling. She ran her fingers down her ribs, her chest, her stomach. Everything was still there… but it didn’t feel right.

“Probably just nerves from the chip. Calm down, Eve. You surv—”

"Look who we fucking have here!"

The familiar voice cracked through the noise like thunder. Neither of them had heard the door open through the rush of the shower. But now there were four of them, already inside.

Evelyn quickly shut off the water and spun around, snatching up a towel to cover herself.

Standing in the doorway, cutting off their exit from the bathroom, was Oswald Forrest—aka Woodman—and two fuckers from the Tiger Claws. Another one was probably still in the living room.

"What the fu—" Judy started, but Forrest easily drowned her out with that bass-heavy voice, aiming straight at Evelyn.

"You got some fucking nerve, bitch," he said with fake pity, shaking his head. "All that time and eddies we pumped into you, and now you try to ghost us."

"I was kidnapped," Evelyn said, still standing in the shower.

"Yeah, yeah, tell that sob story to Sato. Out. Let’s go. You’re talking shit. Out."

Like she was hypnotized, Evelyn stepped out. She hated this man. Despised him. Feared him. And hated herself even more for still being afraid. Her bare feet touched the cold, slick tile. Still clutching the towel, she stepped toward Oswald.

"Not like I enjoy dealin’ with you either," he muttered. "Gotta hire muscle, pay ‘em... Personally? I think you’re just another mid-tier tramp. But somehow, you got demand. Couple rich motherfuckers won’t shut the fuck up. ‘Where’s Evelyn? Nobody sucks dick like our queen!’ So now, you pack your shit and get back to work. You’re pulling extra shifts for ditchin’ on us."

"You’ve fucking lost it, Woodman!" Judy exploded, despite being surrounded by Claws. "I just pulled Eve out of one hell of a mess and she’s staying with me. That’s final! Get the fuck out of my place or I’ll tell Suzie—"

Forrest nodded. The two yakuzas grabbed Judy like it was choreographed. Dragged her away.

"I’ll explain it all to your big bad Suzie," Forrest sneered, scratching his bald head. "She’ll be thanking me for not busting your legs. Evelyn belongs to us—body and soul. She signed a contract. Suzie’s not gonna start a gang war over one used-up whore."

"I’ll tell—"

"Gag her. Lock her up somewhere," Forrest waved dismissively. "She’s fucking annoying."

"You fucking asshole! You’ll regret—"

One of the Claws punched Judy in the gut.

"Don’t!" Evelyn practically begged. "Don’t touch her. I’ll go with you. Just leave her alone."

By then, Judy had already been dragged out of the bathroom. Evelyn could only hope they wouldn’t push it with the Mox. Judy was still officially with the Lizzie’s crew. Evelyn, though? Woodman was right—she’d signed way too much shit with Clouds.

Judging by the sound, Judy was locked in the bedroom. Evelyn could only hope they wouldn’t lay a hand on her. But with Woodman… he wasn’t exactly known for his brilliance.

"I’m coming with you," Evelyn said as calmly as she could. "I’ll explain everything to Hiromi Sato. I was kidnapped. Now, please, step out and let me get dressed."

"No need," Forrest chuckled. "You’re already in uniform. Just clutch that towel over your ass and let’s roll. Car’s got tinted windows."

She was shaking again. From rage or self-pity, who fucking knew. All the bitterness in her chest boiled into a burning acid.

"Let’s go," Woodman nodded.

So he wasn’t even joking. He didn’t just want to reclaim “property”—he wanted to humiliate her on the way out. Feed his sick little fantasies.

Through the Claws’ laughter and jokes in Japanese, Evelyn could hear Judy trying to pick the lock. Please don’t let her get it open. If she does, she might not survive.

Woodman reached for Evelyn’s shoulder. She flinched away. Through the fog of fear came one pure, hot thought: gouge the fucker’s eyes out. Rip through his fat, twitchy little face.

She wouldn’t actually do it. That’d only make things worse. But then…

Her body moved on its own.

In a blur, the towel slipped down. Her right hand slapped away Woodman’s grip. Her left finger jabbed straight into his eye so fast she barely saw it happen.

Forrest screamed, clutching his face.

"What the fuck did you do, bitch?! I’m gonna fucking kill you!"

Yeah. She heard him. She knew exactly how dangerous and brutal he was. And somehow, this whole shitshow just got even worse.

One of the Claws grabbed her wrists.

"Drag this cunt to the car! Throw her in the trunk!" Forrest bellowed, blood running down his cheek.

Evelyn wasn’t trying to fight. She just wanted to run. The instinct was so strong her body acted on its own again. She dropped into a squat—quick and low. The Claw didn’t expect that. He reached down, reflexively tightening his grip—just as Evelyn twisted out, rolled back, and sprang to her feet.

"Grab her, goddamn it!" Forrest roared.

The Claw with the blue mohawk and chrome arms pulled a short tanto. Probably planning to hold it to her neck or slice her face. Evelyn just wanted to survive. To neutralize the threat.

Her body decided the best defense was offense.

What happened next, no one saw coming.

She found something under her right wrist. A hidden catch.

And with a faint spark of sensation, a monowire snapped to life in the hazy bathroom air.

The deadly thread looped the Claw’s armed limb. Evelyn yanked the wire downward in one fluid motion.

The cyberlimb hit the floor with a wet thud, severed clean with a hunk of meat still attached. The hand clutched the tanto even in death grip.

Evelyn couldn’t believe it.

Then she remembered what that man—Vincent Price—had told her:

"There was a list of implants already installed and others they planned to. Some interesting stuff. Optics to hide the doll chip. Combat chrome."

And Lucina’s soft, lilting voice:

"I’m uploading some software. Your friend wrote these scripts. Might help if you ever land in trouble again."

“Scripts for my doll chip,” Evelyn realized. “But not for sex. Combat routines.”

She took out the wounded Claw’s knee with a clean strike, dropping him.

The second one went for a gun, but Evelyn drove her knee into his gut—hard. Even chromed up, the bastard folded from the blow.

Woodman pulled a revolver from somewhere.

Time slowed. A single frozen frame in Evelyn’s mind:

The black barrel. Aimed straight at her.

“I’m gonna die. They’re gonna kill me right now,” flashed through Evelyn’s mind.

But her body had no intention of giving up. She suddenly dove to the side, like plunging into water. The world dimmed, sounds went muffled, and time slowed to a crawl.

“They gave me these implants too?!” Evelyn thought, shocked and... honestly impressed.

Sliding out of the line of fire, she slashed Woodman across the face with her monowire, then caught hold of his gun arm. His thick sausage fingers split apart like deli meat. As she exited Kerenzikov, she heard another scream from Oswald—louder and more pathetic than the ones before.

Gunshots rang out. The third Claw had pulled a smart Chao pistol. But Evelyn was already using Woodman’s massive body as cover. The smart targeting couldn’t lock on to her through the bulk of his flesh. Then she kicked Oswald square in the gut and shoved the wounded bastard forward with all her weight. She slid in behind him and, low to the floor, whipped the monowire around and sliced the last enemy’s leg just under the knee.

She spun around, remembering the one dude still armed. He hadn’t regained his bearings yet—Evelyn knocked him out clean with a brutal hook to the temple. Her hand didn’t even flinch from the impact with bone.

Thinking of the guy with the smart pistol, Evelyn turned and punted him in the head like a goddamn soccer ball. Nearly slipped in all the blood.

“Think that’s all of ’em…”

Evelyn stood in a vaguely familiar—but somehow completely right—combat stance. Naked. Flushed. Spattered in other people’s blood. But untouched.

She’d fought before. Back in the day with the Mox. But she always stayed close to the real muscle—girls like Rita. Evelyn never went in for the killing herself, and definitely never took serious risks.

This? This was different. Her heart was pounding. Adrenaline roaring through her. All her old fears and problems felt like they were dissolving in the heat of battle high.

"So this is what they get out of it…" Evelyn whispered.

She never really got people who went looking for danger—for thrill. But now? She felt... new. Clean. Real.

"You fucking dumb cunt!" Woodman screamed like an oversized, butt-hurt child. "You’re dead, you hear me?! You’re fucking dead, bitch! They’ll find you and fuck you up! They’ll give you to Jotaro! Fuck! Fuck! Call a ripper, dumb cunt!"

"Shhh. Easy," Evelyn said, completely unbothered by the bleeding pig’s insults. "I’ll fix it."

"Fix what?! I need a fucking ripper, you stupid bitch! Are you calling?!"

With effort, one of his swollen, busted eyes managed to crack open. Woodman saw the still-naked doll leaning over him. Parker had the pistol she’d taken from one of the knocked-out Claws. Whatever he saw in her eyes made him go quiet real fast.

"W-wait," he whimpered. "We can still work this out. It’s not too late."

"Yeah," the doll said softly. "That’s exactly what I’m doing now."

Evelyn Parker pulled the trigger.

[Elden Ring] Chapter 65

Melina had expected many possible methods for fixing someone’s brainwashing—but, honestly, Konstantin’s creative vision blew every last one of her expectations out of the water.

It turned out that to remove the mental comands from Maliketh’s head…

All you had to do was smack him upside the head really well.

…well, not just any smack—

You had to smack him right. Hard enough to knock out the foreign presence inside the so-called brother of the Goddess. The scholar deep within (a lore enthusiast), and the classic tryhard who solved things with brute force, both rejoiced in perfect synergy.

Extracting the Rune of Death went off without a hitch. Kosta dampened its overwhelming power with sheer casual energy, layered atop the casualness of all the other runes inside him.

The might of the Rune of Death did rattle him a bit at first—it stood out starkly among the others, emanating an unstable, not-so-safe energy. Thankfully, Konstantin managed to stabilize it, and the Sun within him eagerly devoured the excess, silently warning the rune that if it acted up again, it would get digested—completely.

The Goddess’s Shadow didn’t need long to come back to himself. He rose—and realized the world had subtly, irrevocably changed.

More importantly, the hunger that had haunted him all this time—if not gone entirely, had at least receded enough to ignore without fear of slipping back into madness.

"Tarni… what have you done…"

The creature before him stood unharmed. Completely unaffected by the dangerous rune inside. In Konstantin’s calm gaze, there was no lust for destruction. No hunger.

"What do you think of the Greater Will?"

Melina narrowed her eyes.

Hearing the question so calmly asked, Maliketh hesitated. He almost snapped—but then…

He stayed completely calm.

Which shocked the Goddess’s Shadow more than anything else.

"I… you…"

Seeing his reaction, Konstantin smiled, satisfied.

"When you’ve recovered, take your people and leave this place. There’s nothing left for you here. You’re free now. Praise the Sun."

The massive wolf flinched, locking eyes with him.

The golden eyes of the Tarnished reminded him so much of the Goddess—but they were utterly different, too. The contrast was disorienting.

"You couldn’t have chosen a better Tarnished, Melina…" the wolf rasped, closing his eyes.

He needed rest. And… time to think.

Hearing the unexpected compliment, Melina lifted her chin proudly, her golden eye gleaming.

"My faithful steed, Torrent, never makes mistakes."

She said it calmly. Almost neutrally. But it carried so much smugness.

For a split second, Kosta could’ve sworn he heard a skeptical snort from the spectral horse hiding inside his whistle.

"I need to head out for a bit."

"The witch," Melina sighed, instantly getting the message. "Please don’t let—"

"There may be many waifus, Meli-Meli, but there will be only one queen," he deadpanned.

Melina, hearing those completely uncharacteristic words from Kosta, mentally blasted off into the stratosphere.

From what he saw, the waifu was very pleased with the answer.

"I’ll be back."

Without waiting for a response, the man reached into the flow of grace.

Only a few things left to do before the DLC.

"You seem a little disappointed, Konstantin."

Latenna’s voice was laced with surprise. As someone with the best seat in the house—watching everything unfold—she couldn't quite understand why the man looked… vaguely dissatisfied.

"I skipped the part of the quest with the rotting swamps, the waterfall coffin drop, and the battle against the giant cosmic horror(1)," Kosta admitted with visible regret.

"...What?"

Sitting inside her spirit-summoning bell, Latenna tried to wrap her head around what the Tarnished just said—and failed.

He was upset that he… didn’t get to walk through swamps, lie in a coffin, fall off a waterfall, and fight a cosmic entity?

Okay, the swamp and boss fight she could kinda get. For some reason, Kosta really liked swamps. And who didn’t love a good fight with an eldritch beast?

But… the coffin? The waterfall? What was that even supposed to mean?!

Latenna genuinely worried the Rune of Death might have scrambled his brain and reignited the madness he’d worked so hard to suppress.

Thankfully, the albinauric quickly realized Kosta was actually in pretty high spirits overall. He wasn’t any crazier than usual.

And, honestly, as long as he stayed the same casual-hardcore waifu simp, his ending probably wouldn’t last too long anyway.

Exiting the cave, he stepped into a familiar scene: a bloody, lifeless doll slumped atop the corpse of the Two Fingers. To Kosta’s slight surprise, the blade he’d asked to be returned at the end of the quest lay nearby.

Saying nothing, he sent the item off to some obscure personal inventory spot and stepped in front of the girl with the outstretched doll-hand.

Up close, the seemingly indifferent doll looked… unusually dignified. And very, very puffed up.

A warm ring formed in Kosta’s hand. He figured the patron of one of the greatest waifus might have some questions about what he was doing—and tried to reach out. But there was no response. No resistance. Nothing.

Either the Moon didn’t mind his casual approach, or, like the Greater Will before it, it sensed a bigger fish and chose to lay low for now.

Either way, Kosta was fine with it. Worst case, he wouldn’t mind finding out how many phases the Moon had. Probably four.

Dropping to one knee, he gently lifted the outstretched hand and slipped the ring on.

For a brief moment, he could’ve sworn he heard a distant, satisfied otherworldly shriek—but only for a second.

The bloody doll vanished. And in her place, a brand-new, fully restored version of her materialized.

He had never seen the moon demigoddess this puffed up before.

"So… you’re the one destined to command my fee… me?"

Ranni paused mid-sentence, clearly surprised by what almost slipped out. Her voice, however, remained calm and deeply enchanting.

Kosta’s vision darkened.

One of the most important quests for any Soulslike player had just been completely derailed—by a single word.

"...I just slipped up once—"

"And I’m so happy you did!" Ranni cut him off, utterly ignoring his protest. A spark of visible excitement danced across her otherwise stoic doll-face. "It is an honor to serve you!"

Everything had gone almost exactly how she imagined it...

Kosta winced slightly, then forced his usual stoic mask back on and gave a nod. Definitely not the time for extra commentary.

Ranni narrowed her ghostly eyes and folded her doll-hands, shifting into serious mode.

The already-broken quest was now about to go even further off-script.

"I’ve thought a lot about the Sun that lights the night sky. You know what I want to achieve, don’t you?"

Back then, she wouldn’t have even considered discussing her ambitions with him. At first, because she didn’t trust him. Later… because—

He was just too insane.

…Well, and the trust thing, too.

Ever since their battle with the Shadow of Death, though, that had all changed. Especially since Konstantin already knew about her obsession—so now he was morally obligated to take responsibility!

Originally, Ranni had thought his stoic silence might actually be preferable.

But as the man kept showing more of his focused, sane side, the demigoddess started to reconsider her opinion.

A man capable of making his own decisions, able to speak with her as an equal, and still firmly on her side—wasn’t that the dream?

Perhaps Konstantin’s only obvious flaw was his soft spot for women—something he had yet to overcome (if he even tried). But honestly, such indulgences didn’t really bother the demigoddess... as long as he didn’t take things too far.

And, as it turned out, the one she’d chosen to serve was fairly selective about who qualified as a waifu. More importantly, his priorities placed her, if not at the very top, then right beside it—only slightly behind a certain long-forgotten spectral daughter of the Goddess who was just a bit too clingy and neurotic. It was amusing.

Melina could be an excellent source of inspiration for her future books.

For some reason, Kosta had the distinct feeling that one of the top-tier waifus was this close to letting out a smug, villainous laugh.

Then again, maybe he was imagining it.

"I don’t think severing the Lands Between from the starry sky will end well," Konstantin said plainly.

If his inner scholar (a lore nerd) hadn’t realized the messed-up localization(2) had completely twisted her original meaning, he might’ve assumed the waifu wanted to plunge the world into darkness.

Sometimes it really felt like the people localizing Ranni’s dialogue had it out for her—even back when translating her name.

"And why is that?" Ranni huffed. "Don’t you know how long the Lands Between have been crushed beneath the yoke of the Outer Gods? Don’t you want to free it—to help keep vision, sensation, faith, and touch all safely apart?"

"Locking something away isn’t the same as freeing it," Kosta shrugged. "There’ll always be cracks. Ways for something to slip through. All you’ll do is smother what little life is left, robbing it of the chance to grow."

As he understood it, the waifu wanted to seal off the Lands Between from any possible vector the Outer Gods could exploit. But setting aside the fact that the lunar demigoddess couldn’t possibly account for everything, the very act of sealing would inevitably stifle the world’s remaining life.

It’d be stagnation—something Konstantin had hoped to avoid.

Not that Ranni’s ending had become less popular among Soulslike players. It was, after all, the only ending where the poor Tarnished actually got to stay with his waifu. But Kosta felt her plan only worked in the short term. Short in the context of a world where time had long since gone off-script, of course.

In the long run, the Tarnished saw no real future in that kind of solution.

"And what do you suggest to your servant, then?" Ranni’s voice turned cold. The path—her vision—was too important to her. "You’d replace Gold with your Sun’s light? But how is the gold of the Sun any different from the gold of the Greater Will?"

Kosta sighed and began to speak.

This might’ve been the most important and difficult conversation he’d had since arriving in the Lands Between. In some ways, this was a unique boss fight.

Not against one of the greatest waifus, of course—

But with her.

Ranni, doing her best to maintain a dignified pout, listened closely.

His vision of ruling the Lands Between differed drastically from both Marika’s and Ranni’s.

He wanted death to return to the world—so that the countless undead, stripped of will and wandering the land, could finally rest. Only with death could they be reborn into new life.

After that, he planned to find whatever semblance of sentient life remained and gradually repopulate the world.

Then, he’d move to rebuild what was left. To develop it. To dive headlong into the game’s mechanics, casual flair, and broken lore.

His inner scholar, now significantly leveled up, had been itching to explore the deeper mechanics that ran on pure instinct.

And the only real insurance that an Outer God wouldn’t come along and obliterate everything? Himself—and those around him. Including the lunar demigoddess and her patron.

Konstantin had no intention of force-feeding the world his Sun the way Marika had forced the Erdtree and the Greater Will on it.

Besides, the idea of the world being overrun by half-naked casual tryhard clones of himself was a little disturbing.

He hoped Brother Corhyn and the turtle pope could help give the Sun doctrine a slightly more traditional look.

And he had no issue with Ranni continuing to explore the stars as she wished. If anything, the chance of encountering some mysterious cosmic boss out there was very appealing.

Ranni, listening this far, suddenly imagined bumping into something absurdly massive out in the void. She froze. She hadn’t considered the situation from that angle.

"...It’s not a perfect plan. There’ll be problems," Konstantin admitted easily. "At first, I didn’t think about any of this. I just wanted to finish the waifu quests my own way and fight some bosses. But now, I think there’s no other choice."

A Soulslike that had stagnated for decades, even centuries, needed to move again—even if not everyone wanted that outcome.

"The Age of Sun and Moon," Ranni said suddenly.

Excitement flickered on her ghostly face. The poetic name clearly struck a chord.

"I understand," the demigoddess smiled grandly. "One who walks the path of a lord could never choose an easy road. I knew I wasn’t wrong to entrust you with my fee—my fate."

Kosta’s brow twitched.

This top-tier waifu definitely had some… preferences. And not just about covert observation.

Ranni, too lost in thought, didn’t notice his reaction.

"I thought I’d journey into the night sky to find my purpose. But now, there’s no need," she declared with regal finality.

Her doll-body crumbled. Konstantin felt a soft weight settle on his shoulders.

Startled, he glanced to find the spectral girl clinging to him.

Apparently, she’d decided to temporarily abandon the puppet.

"For now, I have no living body," Ranni said in her deep voice, wrapping her arms around the Tarnished’s neck. "Nor do I have Melina’s unique form of existence. I’ve used vessels to interact with the world, but I need them no longer. I have a lord now."

It would be far easier to follow Konstantin this way—no need to waste energy managing a vessel. And it would let her save her strength, avoiding the need to sleep for a while.

Still, sooner or later, she would need a full living body. Before, there wasn’t much need for such measures—in fact, it would’ve just made her less mobile. But now…

Things had changed.

Offhandedly, Konstantin noticed that the ring he'd placed on her doll had transferred to the spectral girl—faintly radiating ghostly warmth.

He figured he could think about that later.

Instead, his hands lit with light. He turned, wrapping the surprised spirit girl in his arms like she was flesh and blood, and kissed her gently.

"We need to go," Kosta said calmly.

Now that the quest was complete, it was time to move on.

He couldn’t afford to sit still.

The lunar demigoddess, barely holding onto her connection to the Moon, was not expecting that. She said nothing—just dissolved into stardust.

Somewhere beyond the material plane, a loud, high-pitched, otherworldly sound rang out…

Kosta touched his shoulder, still sensing that his waifu hadn’t truly left. She had simply descended even deeper, wanting a moment to herself.

Out of the immaterial shimmered a glowing blue greatsword(3). It looked like Ranni had originally meant to present it with a bit more grace, but… something had clearly gone off-script.

“I’ll still need your help,” the man smiled, reaching toward the stream of grace.

He needed to convince Iji to go to Stormveil Castle, where the Black Knives wouldn’t be able to reach him. The fact that none of them had shown up so far was starting to make him suspicious.

Soon enough, those suspicions would either be confirmed or disproven.

After that came the matter of Blaidd. Konstantin was curious where he’d been all this time, but he trusted Melina and had no doubt the wolf was alright.

…Well, hoped, at least…

And then...

Kosta had a surprise planned for one of the top-tier waifus. If she didn’t want to face her mother herself, then he was willing to be the push—and the guarantee—that made it happen. Queen Rennala didn’t deserve her current fate, and he was prepared to go pretty far to help her, too. After all, for a lot of people, she was a waifu even greater than the rest of the waifus.

A smile crept back onto the Tarnished’s face.

Even if one of the best waifus isn’t exactly thrilled about the will of the “Lord.”

(1) More a reminder than a footnote: during Ranni’s questline, the player must descend into the Lake of Rot, where they’re given the unique opportunity to enter another location by falling off a cliff… in a coffin. That leads to the fight with Astel, Naturalborn of the Void.

(2) As mentioned before, the Russian localization of the game has some serious issues, often twisting or completely mangling the meaning of item descriptions and dialogue. Perhaps the worst offense is buried in Ranni’s ending. To be fair, even the English localization has its problems—but it’s nowhere near as bad as the Russian version. (Eng localization error: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sS08xpL0m8U)

(3) At the end of Ranni’s quest, she gives the player the Dark Moon Greatsword—a sort of heirloom passed down by the Carian royal family to their chosen spouse.

[Life is Good] Chapter 69

Jump. Sprint across the roof. Don’t lose the van from my energy-sight radius. Another jump.

“You really don’t care about your joints, Yuri Venediktovich. Always thinking about the people,”(1) I snark to myself, chasing the kidnappers of the beautiful damsel.

And damn, she really was beautiful. I was this close to crashing on the attic I’d scoped out when four unfamiliar cars rolled up across the street. That alone was enough to grab my interest—they stuck out like a sore thumb in Hell’s Kitchen. “Now who’s the big shot pulling in?” I’d thought.

And I was right. Real big shot. From the first and last cars stepped out ladies with that signature “I’m packing heat” bulge under their tailored blazers. Professional security. No need to guess. They were dressed in matching business-casual getups—nothing that could fool me. I could smell the “uniformed muscle” vibe from here.

After the bodyguards did a casual sweep of the perimeter with suspicious glares, they took up their positions, and the second car door opened. Out stepped two women—well-dressed, important-looking, and completely forgettable in every other way. But then the third car spilled out the main event: an older woman who radiated boss energy and a girl so gorgeous I forgot for a second I was part bug-demon.

No, seriously—she hit every checkbox on my “dream girl” list except the hair color.

Her face was just… perfect. To me, at least. Straight little nose, full lips, huge expressive eyes. A crisp, pale gray suit and an expensive-looking coat framed her like a model in a winter campaign. Not a speck of makeup on her face, and it didn’t need it—she was naturally stunning. That clean-cut European noble look, you know? Sharp cheekbones, but not too sharp. Subtle chin. Dimples even, peeking out despite her otherwise serious expression. Okay, maybe her forehead was a little high—but I’m blaming the basic ponytail.

There was something about her and the older lady—same steel in the eyes, same posture. The younger one still looked like she was pretending, like a puppy trying to act like a wolf. The elder? Natural predator. Iron eagle surrounded by crows.

The grandma barked a few orders, called over two guards, and marched into the building with her entourage. The girl? She yawned shamelessly, practically showing her tonsils to the block. It was adorable. There she was, trying to look all cold and tough, eyebrows arched over those fierce brown eyes—then bam, sleepy baby. I might’ve purred up on that attic.

If I still had a human face, I’d have gone down to say hi. Maybe even flirted. If she were a redhead, I would’ve sprinted after her, interdimensional monster status be damned. But even as a pale blonde, she was breathtaking.

One of the guards gestured toward a coffee stand—conveniently under my window. The girl furrowed her brow, glanced at the building her grandma entered, and nodded.

And then… my inner monster had a full-on crisis. Kidnap her. Just for a little while. Beast from “Beauty and the Beast” did it! I didn’t actually plan to, but hey, fantasies don’t break laws.

Then the barista put two cups on the counter.

“And now presenting: Feature Film — ‘They Jacked Her.’”

I muttered, watching the girl get yanked into a tinted van. Right before the doors shut, she caught sight of me. We locked eyes.

She froze for half a second, clearly stunned—but there wasn’t fear on her face. “Stunned by my monstrous beauty,” I thought with a smirk as I launched into pursuit.

“Dimon and Valera to the rescue,” played in my brain, complete with the Chip & Dale Rescue Rangers theme. The buildings here ranged two to five stories. Tight layout, perfect for rooftop tailing. Had to give up on stealth, sure, but I figured I was fast enough that nobody’d catch me on camera before I vanished. Most people are still fumbling with their phones by the time I’m gone.

The van was hauling ass, but it was being tailed by two cars filled with the girl’s bodyguards. Honestly? I had no idea what the kidnappers were thinking. That clunky vehicle wasn’t gonna outpace a proper chase.

But then—

“Oh damn… clever,” I muttered, genuinely impressed.

A matching van rolled out of a side alley just past the intersection. Identical. And right as the original van turned the corner, it darted into the alley. Two women quickly lifted a metal sheet disguised with graffiti over the alley mouth. Looked like a random wall or some construction blockade. Instant cover.

Fake van peeled off. Guards took the bait and kept chasing the decoy. Smooth as hell.

Inside the alley: another car. Smaller. Trunk popped open. The real kidnappers were already unloading.

“How convenient,” I thought, spotting a sewer hatch just a few feet from them. And just as they pulled the girl out of the van, I dropped through silently—reappearing behind two armed women like a goddamn horror movie jump scare.

In mid-fall, our eyes met again. From this range, I felt her emotions spike: first betrayal and anger… then surprise. And, weirdly, a spark of smug amusement? A flicker of fatalism, too. Tough girl. Brave, too—only a faint edge of fear in her aura.

“Already here?” Caprice blinked in disbelief. They’d only driven for a couple of minutes, turned maybe twice, and already stopped? “Maybe Grandma’s people caught up and blocked the road?”

She tensed. These were the most dangerous moments—if a shootout broke out, you had to hit the floor and pray. Or roll, if you were lucky, to the safest damn corner you could find.

The calm, focused expressions of the kidnappers made one thing clear—this wasn’t some screw-up in their plan. Everything was going according to schedule. Maybe a vehicle swap? But during a chase? Seriously?

The van door opened, and they began hauling her out. Another car waited nearby—beat-up, boring, trunk wide open. Perfect for disappearing. As they moved her, Caprice glanced up… and caught sight of that monster from earlier falling from above.

“Of course,” she thought dryly. “Because this whole morning wasn’t shit enough already—now we’re adding monsters.”

What followed blurred into a wild kaleidoscope of motion—bursts of movement from the unknown creature, screams from the kidnappers, and a flurry of quick, calculated strikes. The creature was fast. First thing it did? Took down the two armed women with two surgical strikes. Then came the lunge toward the main group.

Caprice, despite the chaos, could tell—this thing knew martial arts. Not just flailing claws around—trained strikes. Clean, precise. And surprisingly gentle, considering it looked like a walking horror movie. It avoided using its claws, even the bladed tail only tripped or knocked enemies out cold with the flat of the blade.

All in all, twenty seconds later, only two beings were left standing—her, and it. Him, she corrected herself after catching sight of no chest... and a very distinct bulge in the pants.

Their eyes met. The monster winked. Caprice blinked in bafflement but felt a flicker of hope. He hadn’t gone for a bloodbath—even though she wouldn’t have minded one. He wasn’t showing hostility, which meant… maybe she was gonna walk away from this?

Fashion-wise? A disaster. Baggy T-shirt, army surplus pants clearly not made for those legs. If she were in a better mood, she might've laughed. But the intimidating arsenal of fangs and claws kind of killed the humor. Oh, and the massive revolver handle sticking out of a side holster? Nice touch.

Then, casually, the beast popped open a manhole cover like it was a Frisbee and started walking toward her.

“Naturally,” she groaned internally. “What better way to ruin a shitty morning than a detour through literal sewage? I could be at home, strangling my pillow. Or better yet—waking up in the arms of some gorgeous guy. But nooo, I’m a Manfredi. And gigolos are beneath us.”

He tore off the ankle chains like tissue paper, helped her to her feet—then before she could process anything, ducked his head between her arms, hoisted her legs up and over his back, and wore her like a fuzzy backpack.

“Hold tight,” the creature rasped, mouth just barely parting. “Pretend you’re a little koala and I’m your daddy.”

A string of low, clicky chuckles followed—and then they dropped into the darkness, the manhole sealing above them with a metallic slam.

“Umf-vumffmff!” she mumbled angrily into her gag. Fucking comedian.

“Hang tight,” he muttered, focused now. “Climbing with cargo’s kinda tricky.”

Caprice wisely shut up. Falling into sewage was not on her to-do list. She clung tighter. Yeah, her name might translate to “impulse,” and sure, she had a bit of a temper—but she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t about to piss off the maybe-rescuer, maybe-monster-kidnapper hauling her around.

Sure, a few horror movie scenarios flashed in her head—panoramas of creatively grotesque deaths courtesy of screenwriters on acid. But hey—if this thing wanted to eat people, there were plenty of homeless on the streets. No need to snatch a mob princess. Which meant... probably not dinner.

“Maybe,” she thought, “he’s a hired super. Someone Grandma’s people placed nearby to keep an eye out.”

“If that’s the case, though, couldn’t she have hired someone better looking? Like Salamander. Or Spider-Woman.”

Too bad those two were big on the hero branding. Most of the morally flexible supers had been scooped up by the Kingpin already. Caprice’s grandmother wasn’t fond of that psycho-bitch, but even she respected the power of alliances.

Loyalty. The word cut deep. Her personal bodyguard—the woman she trusted more than most of her own family—had sold her out. The betrayal stung harder than anything.

“For us, there is nothing more sacred than Famiglia,” Grandma always said. Loyalty made the Manfredi clan untouchable. Money, blood, reputation, loyal people—four pillars of their power. And today, one of those pillars cracked. The bitch had bitten the hand that fed her. It hurt.

While Caprice spiraled into her mental firestorm, her not-quite-savior ran through the sewers with eerie grace. She barely jostled—he was fast, but smooth. The grip under her ass was a little intimate, sure, but given the situation, she’d allow it.

“Hey, at least I can say I’ve been groped by a guy,” she snarked internally. “No need to mention said guy was a sewer beast. I’ll just say he had a really... striking look.”

Then she felt him slow down. One clawed hand reached behind her head. She tensed—only for the strap of her gag to loosen, then fall.

She spat it out with a huff, then muttered hoarsely, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he rasped cheerfully in her ear. “I’m not into bondage. Just not my thing.”

Caprice snorted involuntarily. Okay, okay, so maybe this freak had a sense of humor. One that matched hers a little too well.

“Who are you? Where are we going?” she finally asked, the silence of the tunnels and the rhythmic click-click of claws on concrete starting to mess with her nerves.

"Call me Dimon," came the even reply, laced with an odd kind of amusement. "And where we're going... is far away from the spot where I, uh—re-kidnapped you."

"Mmm..." Caprice hummed skeptically, then cautiously asked, "And when we do get far enough—then what?"

"What do you mean, 'then what'?" Dimon let out a string of those strange clicks she was now sure was his version of a laugh. "We’ll live happily ever after and die on the same day!"

She tensed for half a second, then let out a dry, sarcastic smile. Fucking comedian.

"And seriously?"

"Seriously," he said, hoisting her a little higher up his back—palming her ass in the process. Again. "We get far away, head to my little temporary hideout—I’ve got a phone stashed there. You call your people. You remember the number?"

"I do," she exhaled, oddly reassured.

"Great. They’ll come pick you up, and boom—done." Satisfied, Dimon took a turn down a side tunnel.

"Solid plan," Caprice nodded, smiling for real this time. "But… why did you help me?"

"How could I not help a damsel in distress who just so happens to be a total knockout?" he rasped playfully right by her ear. Was he actually flirting?

"And that’s it?" the youngest of the Manfredis arched a skeptical brow. That sounded way too good to be true. Definitely another of Papa-Koala’s weird-ass jokes.

"Абсолютли," he said in a ridiculously thick Russian accent that made her snort out a laugh. It was uncannily similar to the way a few of her family’s Brighton Beach associates talked.

"So… you’re a hero then?"

"Ehhh," Dimon drawled. "Sort of. My face ain’t exactly poster-boy material, but hey—gotta work with what you’ve got."

"I think your face’s fine—impressive, even," Caprice said, surprising herself with how defensive she suddenly felt. Guess that makes him my savior, huh? "You could totally go by Mister Laxative."

She bit her tongue right after saying it, worried she might’ve crossed a line. But the string of delighted clicks reassured her—he wasn’t mad at all.

"Nah, make it Doctor Laxative," he shot back. "Slogan: Cures constipation and stuttering—expensively."

Caprice actually giggled, then added, "I’m Caprice, by the way." She didn’t give her last name. Grandma played it smart—no flashy claims, no “Hi, I’m the criminal boss of half the damn city.” Anyone who needed to know already knew. No need to risk alienating her savior just in case he was aware of the underworld power balance.

"Pleasure to meet such a polite young lady," Dimon said, extra emphasis on polite. "Some people greet you with ‘what are you’ instead of ‘hello.’"

Ah. That again. Sensitive monster, huh? Oddly endearing. She made a mental note to avoid that particular mistake again.

"My ba and ma really drilled manners into me," she chuckled, remembering a few well-placed belt whacks to her backside from Grandma, accompanied by: ‘Respecting others isn’t weakness. Empty arrogance humiliates you—and the family.’

"And they raised not just a stunning woman, but a proper Lady," Dimon said seriously, his voice a little softer now. "With a great sense of humor."

"Tell that to my grandma," Caprice huffed a laugh, picturing the way her abuela used to roll her eyes at every one of her sarcastic cracks.

"We’re here," Dimon announced, suddenly serious. "Dead-end up top. No people around. We go up, slip into an attic. That’s where I’ve got signal."

"Okay," Caprice murmured, snuggling a little closer to brace for the climb. She also made a mental note: somehow, this guy knew there were no witnesses up there. "Ready when you are, Papa-Koala."

A string of clicky-laughs, and they started ascending.

“Well I’ll be damned,” she thought with amused disbelief. “I got rescued by a hero. Who would’ve guessed? Shame he’s got that... unforgettable look. Grandma’s gonna have a heart attack.”

She was calm now. Even kind of having fun. Her imagination already ran wild with how she’d tell this story to the iron-hearted matriarch of the Manfredi family. Only thing casting a shadow over her mood was the fresh, bitter sting of betrayal—that memory of her not-so-former best friend...

But that’s a fire for another day.

(1) https://yandex.ru/video/preview/15119936800426927810

From a skit about corrupt politicians.

Narrator:

Very soon, we’ll be living in a world where grandmothers in parks won’t be collecting empty beer bottles for recycling, but full ones.

And all because Russia is in the capable hands of Deputies Pronin and Mamonov from the city of Oilwellsk.

Politician Yuriy Venediktovich (Pronin) (while counting money):

Five hundred sixty-seven thousand, sixty-seven thousand, five hundred sixty-eight thousand, sixty-eight thousand, five hundred sixty—

Politician Mamonov:

Ah, Yuriy Venediktovich! You don’t spare yourself, you never take a break. You really should rest.

Politician Pronin:

No time, no time to rest—not while the country’s in such chaos.

Ordinary people, they’ve got it easy. A little old lady gets her pension and counts it in ten seconds.

But us? We don’t spare our hands!

Sixty-eight thousand...

[Castling] Chapter 71

Fuming like a blasted manticore, I stormed down the stairs, nearly bowling over Hermione on the landing, and slammed into the bedroom.

First thing I did was yank on my hoodie, drag my bag out from under the bed, and start shoving things into it without even looking. Really, I should’ve taken off the bloody locket to ease the pressure, but there was a painting on the wall. Empty, sure, but now and then I’d hear a faint cough, a rustle of fabric, or some soft snickering from behind the frame — we weren’t being left alone. The few portraits that hadn’t been burnt were keeping quiet watch over the guests. I wouldn’t be shocked if Phineas was reporting straight to Dumbledore — like the headmaster would ever leave all this unsupervised. And I didn’t need questions. Or attention.

They probably wouldn’t search me, but they might take the bag if they tried to stop me — no way they’d let me just waltz out. That Horcrux had to go. I didn’t spend all this time rotting in this bloody madhouse just to lose it at the finish line. Whatever, Harry and Hermione lugged it around for six hours a piece in the book and didn’t go completely mental. I’ve only had it on two. I’ll survive another hour.

Harry barged in just after me, staring in disbelief from the doorway.

“What are you doing, Ron?” he asked, properly baffled as he looked at the heap of clothes on the bed.

“Something I should’ve done ages ago,” I shot back, not stopping. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Erm… Ron,” Harry hesitated, “Sirius noticed you liked the ornaments. He said you could take them. He’d be happy to give them to you.”

He said it all cheerful, like that’d fix everything. Poor sod thought it was that simple.

“Tell Black he can shove ’em,” I snapped, stuffing another pile of robes into the bag.

“Ron, come on,” Harry said, looking a bit lost. “He’s trying to do something nice. Don’t be daft — just take them. Why make a scene over it? You could’ve just asked. He doesn’t even want them.”

“You seriously think I care about some fancy baubles?” I barked. “You really think I’ve gone off the rails over a bunch of—”

Hermione slipped in just then, wide-eyed and anxious, cutting me off mid-rant. Brilliant. Now I had to watch what I said so I didn’t wreck her delicate inner peace.

“What’s going on? Harry? Ron? Did you two have a fight?” she asked, glancing between us with growing concern. I just waved her off and turned back to the bag, while Harry stayed quiet, still frowning at me.

“Ron, are you leaving?” she gasped, taking in the half-packed bag. “Where are you going?”

“The Burrow,” I muttered without looking, zipping the bag closed and slinging it over my shoulder.

“Wait, Ron — it’s dangerous!” Hermione protested, stepping in front of me. “Be reasonable! You could be kidnapped — they might use you to get to Harry!”

“Then don’t bother saving me,” I said flatly, gently moving her aside and heading for the door. “I’d rather die free than spend another bloody day in this mausoleum.”

But Harry grabbed my arm hard, stopping me in my tracks.

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna run off without a word?” he snapped, properly angry now. “You’re really leaving over nothing? What the hell’s got into you?”

I could tell he wasn’t letting me go without answers, so I flung my bag down with a dull thud, a puff of dust rising around it.

“I’m sick of it all, alright?” I exploded. “Living in this madhouse. Doing disgusting work that turns my stomach. Playing along with that lunatic Black and pretending I don’t notice he’s lost the bloody plot. He’s as nutty as his barking mad mother.”

“He’s not mad,” Harry shot back, clearly shaken, glancing at Hermione for backup — but she looked away. “He’s not,” Harry mumbled, less sure now.

“Oh, really?” I said, voice dripping sarcasm. “You think it’s normal for a grown man to spend his days screaming at a dead woman? What he’s doing — it’s like pissing on a corpse, spitting on a grave. I don’t even know how else to describe that twisted obsession of his. Whatever she was like, she’s dead. It’s over. He won. They’re in the ground, and he’s still breathing. What more does he want? He can shout at her portrait and burn every last box in the house, but it won’t change the fact he’s still a Black — in blood and magic. Don’t you get it? He’s not fighting his family. He’s running from himself. All that rage? It’s a breakdown, plain and simple.”

“You don’t know the full story, Ron,” Harry argued. “Sirius has reasons for acting the way he does. He’s not handling things well, yeah, but he grew up in a house full of Dark wizards. It was a miserable childhood.”

“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “You had a miserable childhood, thanks to the Dursleys. Black? He was born with a silver spoon up his arse. Had house-elves wiping it for him till he was eleven. Then he went off to Hogwarts, only saw his family on holidays — if that. Probably stayed with mates instead. And when he’d had enough, he left. Tragic, isn’t it? What, you think just because he had pure-blood rubbish rammed in his ears as a kid, he’s got the right to go mental now? As if all pure-blood kids grow up sacrificing virgins and roasting babies? Give me a break. Don’t try and excuse his behaviour.”

I glared at both of them.

“I don’t give a toss about Black, or his messed-up head. I kept my mouth shut while he spiralled, but now he’s dragging us into it — forcing us to help him destroy everything in this house. Stuff that belonged to people long dead, stuff that’s got nothing to do with us. I don’t want any part of it. You lot keep pretending it’s normal — I won’t.”

“That’s not true, Ron,” Harry said quietly. “I’ll admit, he’s struggling. But it’s not as bad as you’re making out. This is about hate, yeah, but—”

“Yeah?” I sneered. “How many times has he slipped up and called you James, eh, Harry?”

The lad deflated instantly, couldn’t even find a comeback.

“But don’t forget, Ron, Sirius survived Azkaban… and dementors,” Hermione said gently, stepping in for him. “He’s truly miserable, and he’s suffering. He just needs time—to rest, to heal in a safe place. And if what he’s doing now helps him feel—”

“He’s losing his mind, Hermione,” I cut her off sharply. “And it’s getting worse. Once we all leave, stuck here alone, he’ll crack completely. Wouldn’t surprise me if he slashed his wrists or drank himself to death. And everyone here’s just pretending nothing’s wrong instead of actually helping him.”

“That’s not true!” Hermione protested, shocked.

“It is true,” I said bluntly. “Sirius needs to be in a bloody clinic. Sooner the better. Preferably somewhere sunny. Right now, he’s just swapped one prison for another, and who’s to say which one’s worse?”

“But wait, Ron,” she said, clearly rattled. “If Mr. Black were really that unwell, someone would’ve done something. There are loads of adult wizards here—don’t you think they’d notice?”

“And who the hell would care, Hermione?” I snapped, tightening my grip on the bag. “Everyone’s too busy worrying about themselves. They don’t give a toss about Sirius. The Order needs a safe meeting spot, and this place is perfect—close to the Leaky, all charmed up. No one’s gonna bother sorting out his issues. It’s convenient to keep him locked up in here, even if it drives him mad. At least he’s occupied. Makes him feel useful. He’s not allowed out anyway. With his temper? Left idle, he’ll either go berserk or be totally useless. Happens all the time. Look at Harry—he rots on Privet Drive every summer, and no one’s asked him once how he’s holding up. And me? I’ll go off my nut just like Black if I stay here much longer—but who gives a damn? In the wizarding world, Hermione, it’s every man for himself. Anyway—see you at King’s Cross.”

I walked past them and started down the stairs.

“Ron, wait—” Harry called after me. I paused just long enough for him to catch up and step in front of me, his face set with grim determination.

“They’re not gonna let you leave that easy,” he said, pulling out his wand. “I’ll help you. I’ll cover you.”

Didn’t expect that. I nodded silently—then noticed Hermione trailing close behind me like a shadow, wand in hand, eyes blazing. Somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

But not for long.

We’d almost made it to the door when Moody and Lupin stepped out of the kitchen. They stopped talking the moment they saw us. Lupin looked a bit thrown, but Moody clocked what was happening right away.

“Where d’you think you’re off to, lad?” Moody growled, raising his wand. “No one gave you permission to leave. Don’t be stupid. Get back to your room.”

“I’m not staying here. I’m going home,” I said flatly, anger bubbling up again. “You’re not family. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m in the Order, and I’m responsible for security!” he barked, wand twitching.

“I don’t know anything about the bloody Order, I’m not part of it!” I snapped, my voice rising. “You’ve got no right to stop me!”

“It’s dangerous out there, boy,” he said, switching tack. Normally, I reckon he would’ve stunned me and dragged me off—but Harry was standing between us, and Hermione blocked the corridor like a human shield. “You’re a target now. The Death Eaters’ll come for you to get to Potter. Use your head. You’re not stupid.”

“You should know better, sir—if they really want us, they’ll get us even at Hogwarts.”

“What’s going on here? What’s all the noise? And have you forgotten the portrait?!” came a voice from the kitchen—and Mum appeared, scowling. “Ron?” she blinked at the sight of my bag, then glanced at the others. Took her all of two seconds to piece it together.

“Mum, I can’t stay here any longer. I’m sorry…” I said, lifting my eyes to hers. “I’ve done my bit, but I just want to go home now.”

She looked thrown for a moment. Then her eyes locked with mine, sharp and searching. Her brows drew tight—and then she turned on her heel and went straight back into the kitchen. My heart sank—if she asked me to stay, I wouldn’t be able to say no.

“Tonks!” Mum shouted. “Sweetheart, could you come here? I need a favour.” There was a crash and a clatter of plates.

“What’s up?” Tonks burst out, half a pie still in her hand.

“Be a dear and Apparate Ron to the Burrow, would you? He can’t do it himself yet.”

“Molly!” Moody growled.

“And you, boy—get back to your room and stop making a scene or I’ll give you a hand with it,” he added, raising his voice.

Wrong move.

Mum rounded on him, hands on hips, eyes narrowed like a thundercloud.

“Don’t you dare threaten my son,” she hissed. “I’ll hex you into next week. You want to shout? Shout at your own kids—oh wait, you haven’t got any. So leave mine the hell alone. You heard him, Alastor—he’s miserable. You lot should’ve let him go days ago. Tonks? We’re waiting, love. Or shall we stand in this hallway till Christmas?”

Tonks gulped the rest of her pie and wiped her hands on her skirt, throwing a glance at her superior. But Mum caught the look and narrowed her eyes in a way that meant don’t even think about crossing me.

“You can explain this to Dumbledore yourself,” Moody muttered darkly and stomped off, his leg clunking. Lupin followed, giving Mum an apologetic look. Harry gave me a grin and a pat on the shoulder, then led Hermione after them.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Mum said, hugging me tightly. “I’ll owl Percy, he’ll keep an eye on you. Just stay close to the house, alright? Don’t go wandering off and giving me heart failure.”

She kissed my cheek, wrapped me in one last hug, then stepped back.

“Alright, Tonks. I’ll close up after you.”

The girl appeared at my side in a flash. She grabbed my arm and reached for the doorknob.

“Apparate from the top step,” she said quickly, yanking the door open and tugging me after her.

The sunlight hit me like a punch after the dim corridor, and before I could blink it away, there was a jolt, and my legs slammed into the ground hard.

“Bloody hell,” I hissed through my teeth.

“Sorry,” she replied, and her hair shifted from pink to jet black. “I’m not the best at Apparition. But hey—never Splinched. Let me check—” she reached out to feel for injuries.

“Er… no need,” I pulled away. “Most of me’s still with me, and that'll do. Anything left behind, feel free to bin it on your way back.”

“You’re funny,” she giggled, hair flicking green now. “Right, I’ve gotta shoot. I’m on duty today.”

“Thanks!” I shouted after her, but she was already gone, vanished after taking just three steps.

I flopped into the grass, stretched out, and shut my eyes with a blissful sigh. It wasn’t exactly comfortable—sun still warm, but the ground a bit damp and the breeze carried a bit of chill. Still, the scent of late-blooming flowers drifted over from the house, and bees buzzed lazily overhead. I hadn’t felt this good in ages. The anger had faded—but the tension, not so much. Time to ditch the Horcrux.

Tonks had dropped me off in a field near the bridge, and I stashed the locket in the hidey-hole on the way home. Then, finally free, I headed into the house, where I was met by a jittery Percy. After the greetings and congratulations, things calmed down, and by the time we sat down for tea, it felt like I’d never left. The whole Grimmauld Place business may as well have been a bad dream.

“I’m so proud of you, Ron,” Percy beamed. “You’re responsible, serious—you’ll make a real Prefect. Not quite as polished as I was, of course, but I’ll help you. I’ll teach you the ropes. You’ll be a great asset to me when I become Head of House.”

Unfortunately, I found a note from Luna in the hallway—she wouldn’t arrive until four days before term started. Bit of a letdown, but I had things to do. I wrote to Snape to let him know I’d got the locket, and three days later, he arranged to meet me at our usual spot by the ruins.

I didn’t do much in those days—just lazed around outside, flew on my broom till my arse went numb. I’d already passed the latest tests for Flitwick, read all the books I’d been given, and mostly just slept in and stuffed my face—Dad kept bringing food for Percy and me every morning before work. Had a bit of a tense chat with him, too. But he didn’t lay into me—probably Mum had a word. He just said he understood but that running off like that wasn’t the way to handle things. Time to grow up, he said. Be a man. Life’s full of moments where you’ve got to do what’s needed, not what you want.

I nodded with my best guilty face, just to avoid another lecture. But in my head, all I thought was: just a couple more years and I’ll be out of here. I can wait.

Anyway, after being stuck inside, I roamed around a bit—hung around Muggle cafes, went to the cinema, got a haircut, even dragged Percy to Diagon Alley for a shopping trip. Mum had already bought most of our stuff for me and Harry, but it’s always nice to browse the new gear and splash out on a few things yourself. Percy stuck to me like a watchdog—something about security—but I still managed to load up on sweets and supplies.

That morning, right after breakfast, once Percy left on errands, I chucked the locket, the vial of leftover venom, and the fang into my school bag, grabbed my broom, and headed out to meet Snape.

He was already waiting. In the short time we hadn’t seen each other, he looked even grimmer and more on edge than usual.

“You’re late, Weasley,” he said, brushing off his robes as he stood from the stone.

“Sorry, sir,” I said mildly. “Left a note for Percy so he wouldn’t worry.”

“You should’ve planned ahead,” he snapped, but more out of habit than actual anger. “Hide the broom. We’re Apparating somewhere safe to destroy what you’ve brought. We’ll need the Pensieve and your memories. Then I’ll bring you back. Hurry up—unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of free time.”

I gave a silent nod and stashed the broom in the bushes. Snape cast a Muggle-repelling charm, then grabbed my arm and we Apparated.

The landing was smooth—barely a jolt. Even so, I needed a moment to breathe. But Snape gave me a push before I could take in the surroundings, and I found myself stepping into a shabby old cottage, down a dim corridor, and then into a small but oddly cosy sitting room. A stack of books towered on the telly stand—definitely a Muggle house, probably his parents’. But we moved straight through into the kitchen.

“Sit down, Weasley,” he said, and while I had a quick glance round the room, he disappeared and returned with a small but clearly heavy stone basin.

“If you’re done gawking, get out the locket,” he added dryly, setting the Pensieve on the table.

“Sir, why do we need the Pensieve?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He closed his eyes like my question was physically exhausting.

“If you hadn’t noticed, Weasley,” he said calmly, “this Horcrux is different from the others. In your visions, Potter opens it before destroying it. Can you speak Parseltongue? I can’t. We’ll need your memory of him opening the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.”

“All right,” I said, a bit surprised. “You reckon we need to learn what he hisses and repeat it?”

“Weasley, you’re a dunce,” Snape sniffed. “Snakes are deaf, but they can detect sound vibrations. A Parselmouth communicates with them mentally—forms a connection. The noises he makes, that sound like hissing to us, are just the crude approximation human vocal cords can manage. That’s why Parseltongue can’t be learned—it’s a mental gift, a magical link between snake and speaker. Even if you copied Harry’s hissing perfectly, the snake wouldn’t understand you—most of the message is unsaid. It’s like hearing noise instead of proper speech. Are we clear?”

“Yeah. Just… why do you need the memory then?” I asked, puzzled.

“There’s a spell that allows us to— Never mind. You’ll see soon enough. Get the locket.”

I pulled the Horcrux and the rest from my bag. Snape paused when he saw the vial. He picked it up, held it to the light, swirled the greenish liquid around, then reluctantly set it aside and reached for the fang.

“Careful, sir,” I warned. “There’s still venom on it.”

He gave me a scathing look that said, don’t teach a potions master his trade, and finally leaned over the locket.

“You wore it, Weasley?” he asked, not touching it, but practically sniffing the thing.

“Yeah,” I admitted, wondering what he was seeing. “Felt bloody awful. Doesn’t exactly control your mind—just sort of amps up the worst thoughts you’ve already got. Took everything I had to stay in control.”

Snape shot me an intrigued glance, then turned back to the locket.

“Sir,” I said carefully, bracing myself for a verbal lashing, “can you… feel it through the Mark? That it’s a bit of the Dark Lord?”

“Not exactly,” he said unexpectedly, standing upright. “There’s something vaguely familiar, mentally, like a resonance—but it’s muted by the shell of the artefact. I suspect when we open it, things will get difficult. You’ll be the one to destroy it. Do it fast—before it gets a hold on you. Without the casing, you’ll be vulnerable too. Now, gloves on, and focus on Potter.”

I nodded and recalled that day. Truthfully, I didn’t remember much detail, just the general event. But as the silvery strand dropped into the Pensieve and Snape murmured a spell I didn’t recognise, a ghostly Harry rose from the mist. He hovered in place, full height, then began to speak—silently.

“Ready?” Snape asked, and I nodded, clutching the open vial in my palm.

“As soon as I lower my wand—start. If the venom isn’t enough, finish it with the fang. Go on, Weasley—now!”

He dropped his wand, and Harry began to hiss the same phrase over and over, like a skipping record.

The locket clicked and cracked open—but only slightly. I had to open it the rest of the way by hand. Inside the oval recess were eyes. Brown irises, pupils drifting in opposite directions. They flinched for a second in the light, then focused on me—sharp, curious, alive.

I froze, shocked. It’s one thing to read about it—but seeing it… it was alive. I felt it, like some invisible probe pushing gently but insistently into my mind. Something alien, unnatural, wrong.

“Weasley…” Snape groaned behind me.

I didn’t wait. I splashed the Horcrux with the venom before that thing could start talking.

There was a scream—piercing, dying—and I went cold all over.

This time was different. It felt like I’d poured acid straight into a living man’s eyes…

And I killed… it…

[Castling] Chapter 76

Hermione came back just before lights-out, arms full of books, and waved off our questions as she went straight up to her room. She looked a bit preoccupied and was scribbling away in her notebook like she was on a mission. Then, one evening, she came down to the empty common room where Harry and I were finishing up our homework, looking all smug and excited.

“Here,” she said, placing a few sheets of parchment on the table. “I double-checked everything in the school charter. We’ve got every right to practise spells under supervision if we form a Magical Manipulation Club. We’ll gather all the interested students and run the sessions ourselves. I think we should ask Professor McGonagall to oversee it — she can’t stand Umbridge. And once she hears what her lessons are like, I’m sure she’ll agree and give us a few hours a week. Besides, she’s in the Order,” Hermione added, lowering her voice.

“That would be brilliant,” Harry said, brightening up. “Shame we can’t just ditch DADA altogether. With Umbridge, it’s even more useless than when Lockhart taught it.”

“Exactly,” Hermione agreed. “If you’re in, Harry, write your name under mine. I’ll talk to everyone else tomorrow — the more we get, the more likely McGonagall’ll say yes. Ron?”

“Sorry, Hermione, but I’m out,” I said flatly, bracing for the row I knew was coming.

“Why?” Harry asked, genuinely surprised, frozen mid-signature as two blobs of ink dropped onto the fresh sheet.

“What’s the problem now, Ron?” Hermione snapped, clearly annoyed. “Why are you always against things? I think this is a great idea — a sensible solution for all of us.”

“You seriously think Dumbledore and McGonagall don’t know exactly what’s going on in this school?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “What Umbridge is—or isn’t—teaching? But they’re not exactly rushing to step in, are they? Even though they could. You think if you waltz up to McGonagall with a list, she’ll leap at the chance to support your brilliant idea? If she actually cared about it, she’d have done something herself already. She’s got way more options than we do, and she doesn’t have to worry about getting punished. But if the people in charge can’t be bothered, why should I do their job for them and end up getting hexed for my trouble?”

“You’ve turned into a proper cynic, Ron,” Hermione sniffed, sounding all offended. “And a coward. You used to be more helpful when people needed you.”

“Maybe I’ve just grown up,” I shrugged, not rising to it. “Maybe I’ve realised that not everything can be solved by throwing yourself headfirst at the problem like you do. And maybe I’ve learned you can still be useful in small ways, even if they don’t get your name in lights. Just so you know, while you’ve been dashing around with your revolutionary idea, I paired up every first-year with a second-year. They’re already practising first-year spells together in the dorms or in our common room. No rules broken. You want a revolution, Hermione — a fight against injustice and tyranny, not actual Defence Against the Dark Arts. But sure, if McGonagall gives it the go-ahead, I’ll join your official club,” I added, packing up my things, and headed up to bed. I couldn’t be bothered arguing with her.

For the next few days, Hermione and I barely spoke. We only talked when we had to. But one evening, she came back to the common room looking properly upset.

“I went to see the Head of House,” she said, forgetting our standoff. “McGonagall turned me down. Told me not to provoke the Ministry and said it’d be better to drop the idea.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” I said, nodding. “Less hassle. We’ll just learn the spells from books like we always have—”

“You don’t get it, Ron,” Hermione said, near tears, lifting her eyes to mine. “I’ve already got a list — nearly thirty people want to join. They’re expecting us at the Hog’s Head tomorrow. How am I supposed to tell them it’s off?” she added, sounding totally lost.

“We’ll figure something out,” Harry said easily, brushing it off. “It’s not your fault — it’s McGonagall’s.”

“But why did she say no?” Hermione asked miserably. “I checked everything, it’s all above board — it doesn’t break any rules.”

“She must’ve had a good reason not to stick her neck out,” Harry said, surprisingly level-headed. “Come on, let’s get some sleep. We’ll sort it tomorrow.”

Saturday came warm and bright, but Hermione looked like a storm cloud. She trudged behind us like she was being dragged on a leash. Eventually, though, she seemed to shake it off, and that determined glint came back to her eyes.

The Hog’s Head looked like a run-down version of the Leaky Cauldron. Dust and grime covered every surface, and the stone floor was so packed with muck it felt like walking on hard soil. The place stank — like livestock, honestly, as if it used to be a stable. Dim, greasy candles gave off just enough light to make the place feel even dodgier. And that was in broad daylight.

Hermione stood frozen for a moment, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and headed to a table in the back under the wary gazes of a few regulars. Harry and I followed close behind.

“I reckon in this dump they’d sell us Firewhisky even if we were twelve,” Harry whispered, dropping onto a rickety stool and glancing round in amazement.

I gave my stool and the table a once-over with a few quick charms and sat down too, subtly checking out the punters. The crowd was... interesting. A tall woman in head-to-toe black with a heavy veil. A bloke wrapped up in grimy, shredded bandages like he’d escaped from a Muggle hospital ward. Two shady types in hoods that looked like off-brand Dementors. And all of them were already knocking back something strong even though it was barely noon.

“Maybe we should order something?” Hermione muttered, fidgeting on her stool. “We’re drawing attention.”

“Alright, I’ll have a bottle of brandy, then,” I said jokingly, as Harry got up to fetch drinks.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded, clearly unimpressed. “We’re here for business, and you’re underage. They’re not going to serve you strong alcohol.”

“What, Ron?” I snapped back without heat, watching as Harry’s call brought out a scruffy old bloke from the back — ancient, with a beard almost as long as his brother’s and just as intense a stare, if not quite as tidy. “It’s for hygiene, alright? This place is so filthy I can already feel fleas crawling over me. You couldn’t have picked a worse dump for a meeting, Hermione? Or is this the absolute bottom of the barrel?”

“It’s the one place we won’t draw attention,” she shot back in a loud whisper. “Students never come here.”

“No wonder,” I muttered, just as Harry returned looking a bit sheepish, juggling three dusty bottles and a bowl of peanuts.

“Sorry, Ron,” he said, “I didn’t dare ask for brandy. The bloke behind the bar looked like he’d curse me for blinking. So, er… Butterbeer and peanuts.”

“Don’t even think about eating those,” I grimaced. “And that barman? That’s Aberforth — Dumbledore’s brother. So congrats, Hermione, pretty sure the school already knows we’ve sneaked off. Wouldn’t be surprised if the place is packed with tracking charms, considering the clientele.”

“Seriously? His brother?” Harry looked back toward the bar. “Blimey, he does look like him.”

“What a madness…” Hermione added with a meaningful look as she blatantly stared at the old man — who, judging by his smug grin, clearly knew we were talking about him. “Still, doesn’t matter. I checked — students aren’t banned from coming in here.”

“Yeah, sure,” I chuckled. “And when all thirty of us pile in, we’ll just say it’s part of an extracurricular field trip to Hogsmeade’s dodgiest watering holes. Only good thing about this place is we’re allowed to use magic — otherwise we’d be stuck to the century-old grime by our robes.”

Harry and I snorted, wiping down the bottles. I didn’t trust them one bit, so I transfigured my handkerchief into a proper mug and poured my drink into that. It wasn’t half-bad, actually — a bit strong for underage schoolkids, but it had a nice kick.

About fifteen minutes later, the doors swung open and a noisy crowd came pouring into the pub. They spotted our table and quickly swarmed the bar. The old bloke behind the counter looked less than pleased with the sudden rush — probably because his tavern doubled as a front for dodgy dealings, and a bunch of loud teenagers were scaring off the real customers. Every single one of them was glaring at us now, not even bothering to hide it.

Our lot came back over, all laughs and chatter, clutching bottles and bowls of snacks. A few of the lads I knew had brought their mates from other Houses, and they were all gawking at the place like it was a haunted house.

Cho had brought a friend along. Judging by the girl’s pinched look, she wasn’t thrilled to be there, but Cho didn’t seem fussed. She plopped down beside Harry, who immediately forgot the rest of the world existed and was now mumbling answers to her soft questions. Every time she leaned in, a loose strand of hair would brush his cheek, and Harry would turn red and look away, completely smitten.

Neville, bless him, looked like he’d been dragged into a brothel by mistake. He sat next to me, clutching his bottle and looking too terrified to drink from it.

Finally, when everyone had settled and the noise died down, Hermione stood up. With that many eyes on her, she didn’t look quite so confident anymore.

“Er… Right, here’s the thing,” she began. “You all know why we’re here. But, well… Professor McGonagall’s refused to help us,” she finished, scrunching her face in disappointment.

“So you dragged us into this hole for nothing?” Zacharias Smith muttered sourly.

“It’s not her fault,” Dean piped up straight away. “How was she supposed to know McGonagall would say no?”

The group didn’t seem particularly impressed with his support — everyone started grumbling.

“But I’ve had another idea,” Hermione said quickly, voice a little shaky but determined. “We can just do it ourselves.”

“Ourselves?” Neville blurted out in the sudden silence, then flinched like he’d shocked himself.

“Yes, ourselves,” Hermione said more firmly now. “We just need to find a place where we can meet.”

“That’s actually a good shout,” said Michael Corner, sounding intrigued.

“I’m in,” added Anthony Goldstein. “That new teacher’s a joke. We’re never going to pass DADA like this. I want to practise.” Most of the room answered with excited murmurs and nods.

“Then let’s pick two days a week,” Hermione said, looking pleased. “That should be enough.”

“Just keep our practice schedule in mind,” Angelina chimed in.

“And ours,” Cho said, tucking her hair behind her ear and shooting Harry a shy glance.

“Right. Anyone who’s interested, write your name on the parchment,” Hermione said, digging in her bag for the enchanted scroll.

“What for?” Cho’s friend asked, narrowing her eyes.

“This’ll be a secret organisation,” Hermione said shortly. “We could register it officially, but we’d still be breaking Umbridge’s ban on casting spells outside class. The parchment’s charmed — it’ll bind us to secrecy.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Marietta snapped, shooting Cho an accusing glare. Cho quickly looked away, pretending to examine the foam in her butterbeer.

“No one’s forcing you,” Fred said sharply, scrawling his name beneath Harry’s and Hermione’s and passing the quill to George. “You don’t want to learn, don’t bother. Ron?”

“I think I’ll pass,” I said, and the room went weirdly quiet. Everyone probably thought that since I was mates with Harry and Hermione, I’d follow them into anything. But this wasn’t some Philosopher’s Stone nonsense — risking trouble over something daft?

“What d’you mean?” my brother frowned, and Harry tore his eyes away from Cho, now staring at me, confused. Hermione looked like I’d just stabbed her in the back — hurt and angry all at once.

"You see, Fred… I just don’t get why it has to be so complicated. Like, take you, for example — what are you going to learn from us fifth-years if we’re not being taught by McGonagall or another proper professor? The only spell that comes to mind is the Patronus. And honestly, most of our lot who cared to learn it picked it up back in third year. Parvati even taught it to her sister from Ravenclaw. So why take the risk and round up a big group, when you and Angelina could just show us one school-level spell a week in the common room? By the end of the year, we’d know them all. You could split it up too — Ginny and her mates could teach third-years their lot of spells. It wouldn’t even take that long. Hermione’s learnt loads just from reading in the library and practising on her own, and it’s not like the rest of us are thick. If someone can’t be bothered, that’s on them. But why take the risk?"

“What risk?” Hermione snapped, not able to hold it in any longer. “You don’t really think they’ll expel us all, do you?”

“Not all of you. Just the ringleaders,” I said with a smirk. “Like you, for instance.”

“You’re just a coward, Weasley,” Anthony muttered while everyone watched the argument unfold.

“Maybe. But at least I’m not selfish like the rest of you,” I shot back.

“Selfish?” Hermione gasped, looking genuinely offended. “I’m doing this for everyone—!”

“Hermione, half the people in this room have parents working at the Ministry. And Umbridge is the Deputy Minister. What do you think will happen when your little club gets shut down? Think that'll go over well for Percy? Or my dad? Or Madam Bones? Cho’s mum? It’s always easier to risk other people’s necks when it benefits you. I’m not trying to stop you lot, I’m just saying why I’m not joining in. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

“So what do you suggest then?” Angelina asked after a tense silence.

“Already said it,” I shrugged. “Everyone pairs up with someone a year younger — teaches them a bit, learns a bit. We can also list the spells we’ve picked up outside the normal curriculum and swap them around. Two students meeting in an empty classroom for twenty minutes won’t raise suspicion, especially if it’s under the guise of Prefect duties. Loads of us know the Patronus charm. Harry can teach Cho, she can teach her lot. I’ll teach Abbott, Hermione can take Smith, the lads can show Dennis and the younger ones. As for the first-years, we could talk to the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Prefects about it. Best if it comes from the students themselves — Houses handle internal stuff faster on their own. Bet you anything Slytherin’s already learning spells in secret and couldn’t care less what the other Houses or Umbridge think. And Hermione and I’ll pair our younger Gryffindors with older ones — they’ll still learn the school programme. Maybe by the time we’re through, Umbridge’ll have packed up and gone back to the Ministry.”

What followed was a loud and chaotic discussion. My plan got the thumbs-up, but only partly — they went with it for the younger years. The older students dropped out — made sense, really, we didn’t have much to teach them. Anyone with family in the Ministry opted out too. Neville said no, worried he’d let his gran down. Cho and her mate didn’t sign up either. And Harry, rather than pick sides between me and Hermione, chose to stay neutral — said he’d maybe join after Christmas. Truth was, we didn’t have time for extra lessons — between Quidditch practice, homework, and Harry being constantly shoved into detention with Snape, he barely had time to breathe. It felt like Snape was punishing him on purpose, keeping him under supervision to scrub cauldrons instead of going off chasing adventures. Creepy kind of ‘mentorship’, really. But when it came to essays, Harry was totally useless. Hermione and I helped him with research — then he’d rewrite it in his own words.

In the end, about a dozen students went with Hermione and signed up for the club. She promised to find a classroom for the meetings — being a Prefect made it easy enough to enchant one.

Hermione and I settled into a sort of cold truce. Until the next day, when we had a proper row.

“You’re trying to sabotage me on purpose, Ron!” she snapped. “It’s not enough that you’re always criticising me — now you’re mocking my ideas in front of everyone. You’re too small-minded to understand the real reason we fight for truth and fairness. But at least there are people who agree with me!”

“When exactly did I mock your ideas?” I shot back. “You keep biting off more than you can chew. You think you’ve outsmarted Umbridge? Won something? She’s got more power than ever now — and if she didn’t before, Fudge will give her what she needs. If a war starts in school and someone gets hurt, just remember you kicked it off. You could’ve gone about it quietly, worked behind her back for everyone’s benefit, and had a good laugh while she stayed clueless.”

Next day, Hermione went ahead and registered the club — called it The Study of Magical Properties. Big cheers all round in the common room. But they only managed three meetings before The Prophet dropped an article announcing Umbridge’s promotion to High Inquisitor — we got the official announcement over breakfast. Two days later, a new decree went up on the notice board: All clubs, societies, and extracurricular groups must register with the Inquisitorial Office.

“Well done, Hermione,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “You’ve done it. Now we’ll be begging that toad to let the Quidditch team onto the pitch. Cheers.”

“You reckon that includes sports teams too?” Harry asked, exchanging worried looks with the twins. Angelina beat him to it.

“Pretty sure it does, Harry. We’ll have to go to her and get the team roster approved. Please, lads — until we get this sorted, you have to put a stop to the club meetings. Don’t give her another excuse.”

“So… it’s war,” I said as I stood. “Score’s one-all.”

Daily Updates

All uploaded chapters are open for [Single Story Tier] subscribers

(Will reupload to Discord in a couple of days)

P.S. Tuesday chapters are not included

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 68

  • Chapter 69

  • Chapter 70

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 73

  • Chapter 74

  • Chapter 75

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 68

  • Chapter 69

  • Chapter 70

  • Chapter 71

Demons of NC

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 91

  • Chapter 92

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 96

  • Chapter 97

Life is Good

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 62

  • Chapter 63

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 67

  • Chapter 68

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 58

  • Chapter 59

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 63

  • Chapter 64

[Elden Ring] Chapter 64

Only after a short time had passed—once the initial shock began to fade—did the girls start to fully process the situation they were in.

The issue wasn’t just that their Tarnished had been hiding such a terrifying level of swordsmanship this whole time. It was that he used it—defeated the strongest swordswoman in the Lands Between—and already had a plan to teleport them, post-victory, straight into the hidden den of the former Elden Lord himself: the great Dragonlord Placidusax, who barely escaped death by betrayal, and whom he then finished off in mere seconds. As if that towering godlike being hadn’t once been one of the most powerful forces in the world (and sure, maybe he was kind of weakened, so what). And then? He went and completed the thing Miquella had spent decades—centuries—trying to figure out: how to save his sister.

Konstantin could’ve had the favor of a hundred Outer Gods, and it still wouldn’t have made it easier to comprehend the scale of what he’d just done.

The girls now resembled typical Soulslike newbies who just found out bosses can have a second phase.

Kosta, who up until now had never gone into "phase two," had just gifted his waifus the exact same experience every rookie gets when they finally reach the transformation phase and go oh no. Of course, he himself probably wasn’t thinking in those terms.

His priority had simply been finishing a waifu questline—by taking the worst possible ending and snapping it over his knee like a twig.

Did it matter what anyone else thought about that?

...Maybe a little more than he let on.

Malenia hadn’t felt this good in a very long time. In fact, she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d felt such peace. A lifetime of torment, constantly resisting the curse of the Outer God trying to mold her into the Goddess of Rot—she had trusted only one person.

Her brother.

He was the only one who’d come even close to solving her affliction. The one whose sweet words had always melted her resolve, making her bow her head before another cursed, broken being like herself.

The woman slowly removed her helmet, turning to look at the dead dragon who hadn’t even had time to realize what killed him.

“My brother… tampered with my mind,” she whispered.

Now that her thoughts had cleared in a way they never had before, the memories were coming back.

How easily she’d believed him.

How raptly she’d listened to every word.

How she’d taken his promises as divine.

Gentle. Soothing. Perfect. Her one and only hope.

None of that changed the fact that it was thanks to him she’d still been herself for so long. But even so…

He, just like the Outer God, had tried to take her soul for himself. And it wasn’t necessary. Even just for the help he’d given, she would have knelt to him sincerely. But he hadn’t trusted her. Still thought it safer to turn her into a puppet.

That… hurt. And what hurt more was that, in the end, he never came for her. Instead, something else had arrived—something that imposed its own rules through brute force.

Why had it helped her? What was the point?

Malenia focused on the warmth still flowing through her body, speeding up her recovery. She was weak. Deeply so. She had no idea how long it would take to regain her strength.

But the lightness she felt now... the world she now saw with her own eyes, and not just her supernatural senses. Even her skin…

She looked down at her restored hand—smooth, youthful, unscarred, unmarred by calluses or rot. The hand of a noblewoman who’d probably never held anything heavier than a hairbrush.

Honestly, not the worst change.

Malenia might’ve even compared it to their Goddess, who had walked a path far crueler than any of them, and still looked like a flower just beginning to bloom. Or perhaps...

She shifted her gaze to the tall man with the blazing golden eyes, currently studying the cursed eye of Melina, who was frozen stiff, wearing a perfectly unreadable expression.

The eye, kindly gifted to her(1)—and to their brother—by the Goddess, to hold back the thing growing within them. A curse for the children, and a failsafe for the Erdtree.

“A mask that hides nothing,” the thought drifted through Malenia’s mind.

Who would’ve thought that one of the elder daughters of their Queen—forever grumpy, always avoiding everyone—would start showing such… blatant emotion?

Had this follower of an unknown Outer God affected all of them, then? Brainwashed them the same way her brother had?

But then again… if her mind really was under someone else’s control, would she even be thinking about it like this? Or was that exactly how a brainwashed person would think?

Still, the one who’d saved her didn’t seem to need anyone’s help. Miquella had been weak of body, and so he needed her. But Konstantin? He was something else entirely.

Malenia briefly considered purging his warm energy from her body—but then, after thinking on it a little longer, decided against it. Her life had never belonged to her anyway.

She’d lived in chains since birth, consumed by agony no one else could imagine. This freedom—false or not—was worth too much. So much, she’d never be able to repay it.

Konstantin didn’t take long with his ‘tinkering’. The cursed eye turned out to be less dangerous than he thought—more of a limiter than anything, and Melina was never particularly great at handling it.

Maybe if they were somewhere else, the eye would have reacted. But here, in a place where no Outer God’s influence could reach—not unless they were physically present—it was easier. At least, for someone who still carried a little Sun inside him. All the power he’d gathered during his farming spree was still with him.

“Looks way better,” Kosta said flatly, staring at the girl’s eye.

It now glowed with a soft golden light.

Melina blinked in surprise, touching it gently. She could feel that familiar warmth flowing inside it. She knew better than to keep the eye open, but seeing his expression, she decided to trust him—and blinked a few more times.

The embers within her eye didn’t react at all. That was... unusual. Normally, opening it weakened the limiter, which could lead to—

Well, she honestly wasn’t even sure what, exactly.

Still, she understood, more or less, what he’d done: somehow made the already powerful seal even stronger, giving her the freedom to actually use the eye without worrying about it. The ember inside still barely obeyed her, but reinforcing control over it like this made a lot of sense.

“This… feels strange,” she murmured, thinking aloud. “Thank you.”

Maybe she could’ve expressed her gratitude differently, but there were far too many... witnesses.

Konstantin simply nodded, turning his attention to Malenia. The once-rotting waifu’s gaze wasn’t exactly warm, but he could tell—without a doubt—there was no hostility there anymore.

“What is your name, warrior?”

Kosta blinked.

“Konstantin. Just Kosta is fine.”

“I never thought I’d meet a foe like you, Kosta,” the woman said sternly.

The man—who had asked, over and over, to simply be called “Kosta”—had not expected one of the most fearsome women in all of Soulslike history to address him like that.

Ignoring the Tarnished’s brief moment of awkwardness, the woman seemed deep in thought. She rose onto her prosthetic leg and bowed her head.

“My flesh, freed from rot by your will, craves battle anew, but… later. I’m sorry.”

And Konstantin could tell she truly was sorry. He understood Malenia well—he also wouldn’t have minded reliving that sweet ding-ding-ding again…

“I’ll wait until you’ve recovered,” he smiled.

The woman was silent for a few moments.

“One day, the scarlet flower will bloom again. The one who cursed me…”

“I’ll be looking forward to their return.”

Malenia lifted her gaze to the madman, thinking he was joking, but…

No. Konstantin was dead serious. He welcomed the thought that the Outer God of Rot still lived, that it might someday try again to pierce into the Lands Between.

Lunatic. A battle-obsessed lunatic. She had seen it—felt it—in the heat of their clash, but now she was certain.

Malenia lowered her head, then spoke:

“I am in your debt, warrior. My life is yours. Please… allow me to become your blade. The Blade of Kosta.”

The Blade of Kosta. It sounded so awkward to the Tarnished that it actually made him uncomfortable. Still, keeping his usual mask of stoicism in place, he calmly said:

“As you wish.”

Malenia bowed her head even lower, not noticing his tiny hesitation, then slowly rose to glance toward Melina and Millicent.

The first didn’t concern her much. She’d make sure to explain later that she had no intention of taking anything from anyone. Such feelings were foreign to Malenia. What she wanted… was to fight him again.

The second, however…

Malenia had almost approached the frozen Millicent, still staring at her now-uncorrupted hand, but the girl snapped out of it first.

The Blade of Miquella—no, the Blade of Kosta—stood frozen, wide-eyed, watching the girl who, however strangely, was born of her essence suddenly break down sobbing, all joy and raw emotion, practically leaping into the arms of a no less stunned Tarnished and kissing him with such overwhelming feeling that Malenia couldn’t even remember ever experiencing something like that herself.

She hadn’t expected it—from her, of all people.

A small smile crept onto her face.

At the very least, she understood why the reaction was so intense.

Though the smile didn’t last long.

“Miquella, our brother, he…”

“My chosen knows of his plans.”

Melina’s calm voice, watching Millicent’s heartfelt display, surprised Malenia. So it was all already planned, even without her involvement. In that case, she’d help in another way. There were still many followers in the Haligtree—loyal to her, and now, by extension, to the future Lord of the Lands Between. The rot’s source—herself—was gone. That would make it easier.

She had been about to ask a question, but decided to stay quiet and observe. It seemed she still needed to learn more about the man she had pledged herself to.

Still, she had made some observations:

“The Tarnished… is very weak to women, isn’t he?”

Breaking free from the hug of the now-bright-red, battle-hardened waifu, the man suddenly muttered:

“Be right back.”

And disappeared.

A few seconds later, he returned—with a girl in a blindfold, clearly disoriented and not fully understanding where she was.

Apparently, now was the time to heal Irina’s eyes.

Thankfully, he now had not only the power, but the skill to wield it.

“Konstantin?” Irina whispered, startled. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere beyond space and time, in Placidusax’s den,” he replied flatly.

Irina’s blindness wasn’t ordinary. It was better to conduct the healing somewhere absolutely no one could interfere if something went wrong.

She froze.

She had just wanted to go for a walk. But hey…

Taking a walk somewhere beyond space and time, in the hidden lair of a legendary dragon?

Not bad at all.

She smiled.

“I understand.”

Malenia’s gaze flicked back to the dragon’s corpse.

She wondered how the girl would react when she realized she was standing before that dragon from legend…

Then again, maybe it didn’t matter. Some things were more important.

“Hello… I-I’m sorry for acting so impulsively…”

The calm, soft voice of an embarrassed Millicent made Malenia freeze for a moment, then meet Melina’s gaze.

Millicent let out a squeak as she was suddenly pulled into a hug by the woman who could’ve been called her mother. Melina narrowed her eyes with knowing amusement.

The charm of the unbroken red-haired warrior. It wasn’t something they could resist.

A startled scream from Irina—who had just laid eyes on the corpse of a very large dragon—marked the official end of another quest.

This one, fully complete.

For better or worse, Kosta had to keep moving forward.

Maliketh, the Black Blade. Keeper of the Rune of Death. Once loyal to the one he served—the one he could call his sister—who had doomed him to an existence worse than death.

Faithful to his duty, and hating it.

He felt a hunger with every passing second. A gnawing, endless craving that could never be satisfied.

Why had Marika shattered the Ring? Why hadn’t she told him? Why didn’t she ask for help when grief overwhelmed her? Or… had it? Was it just another part of the plan—one doomed to fail from the start?

Maliketh hated the queen. And yet, despite everything, he continued to watch over the Lands Between through a spectral projection, hiding in Farum Azula.

Waiting for the next fool who would try to steal Death from him.

“Tarnished soul…”

Maliketh had expected a strange Tarnished. Even through projection, he could sense the presence of the Empyrean. Honestly, the way this one warped space and time with his dodgerolls was enough to raise some early red flags.

The so-called brother of the Goddess didn’t want to fight Konstantin. He had felt a brief relief, his hunger momentarily quieted. He sensed no greed or aggression from the one so eerily similar to the queen herself.

The Black Blade held a faint hope that the Tarnished wouldn’t come. Would give up the idea of claiming what was not his.

But…

It seemed he was wrong. Again.

“Can’t we just settle this without a fight?”

The question was so out of left field that the enormous wolf beneath the rags froze in place.

He had made it all the way here, through the temple of Farum Azula. There had to be bodies left in his wake. And now…

He was offering to talk it out?

What kind of nonsense was this?

“Why… why do you need the Rune of Death?”

Kosta shrugged.

“Gotta reforge the Ring somehow. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful when I take it out. I don’t need extra cutscenes of destruction.”

Restoring all the runes was impossible. There had once been many more fragments, but most were lost. Practice had shown that under certain conditions, new runes could be forged, but replacing the one that governed Death itself?

That was another matter entirely.

Konstantin’s casual reply filled Maliketh with fury. The fury of a beast dispatched by the Greater Will to guard the Golden Order.

This arrogant Tarnished—bearing the power of an alien Outer God, daring to call himself king—was already preparing to build his own Order, without caring what anyone else thought.

“Who do you think you are, insolent Tarnished?!” the wolf growled.

Kosta raised a skeptical brow. Yeah, it had been stupid to hope this would end peacefully.

At least he tried.

“Just another hobo who stumbled into power. That’s what Soulslikes are all about.”

Maliketh froze again, wide-eyed, staring at the unfazed, half-naked man before him.

And just like that, the conversation ended.

Or rather, it transitioned into a more constructive format.

Maliketh let out a thunderous roar and lunged at the Tarnished. The ground cracked beneath his feet as the weary beast slashed with his claws at the man—who effortlessly dodged—only to strike back with a fist wrapped in golden light.

After all, Rivers of Blood had been destroyed, and he didn’t have another weapon yet…

Not that he really needed one.

Nearly sent flying by Kosta’s blow, Maliketh saw countless stars flash before his eyes. He roared even louder, unleashing a barrage of savage, feral attacks at the man.

Even before Kosta casually clapped a wounded ancient dragon, he had enough strength to defeat the Goddess’s brother. But now, after absorbing the runes of what was once a lord…

A particularly brutal punch sent Maliketh crashing into a pillar, nearly toppling it. The wolf choked, pain ripping through his body.

The Tarnished was too strong. This wasn’t brute force you could fight back against.

Which meant—

“O Dea—”

The poor wolf had barely begun to transition into phase two, starting to release the Rune of Death, when he saw, for just a second, the calm figure appear before him—

—and then Kosta dropkicked him straight through the pillar.

He stood over the unconscious boss, not letting him even touch second phase.

“You are not the only one who can ignore column hitboxes(2),” the man snorted.

Melina appeared at his side, gazing with a bit of pity at the poor wolf. At least he was still alive—just like everyone else they’d encountered on the way.

Lately, Konstantin had stopped casually taking lives from every enemy in sight—with a few exceptions.

And the fake Finger Maiden couldn’t help but be glad. Not just because there wasn’t much life left in their world… but because the “farming” had just become too horrifying.

“What are you planning to do with him, Konstantin?”

Melina’s question made the man pause for a moment.

“Neither he nor Blaidd can disobey the commands burned into their minds… which is why they go insane,” Kosta murmured. “I wonder if it’s possible to remove them. Or at least stop from driving them mad…”

Melina smiled softly at his intent.

These were new mechanics to Kosta, so he’d have to be extra careful.

Still, that was why he had chosen Maliketh first—he was definitely sturdier than the poor half-wolf serving the lunar demigoddess.

Kosta blinked in surprise as he pulled from… wherever he pulls things… a tiny Ranni doll.

It trembled just slightly, catching his attention.

Apparently, that quest was also coming to an end.

Honestly, the peaceful atmosphere inside Stormveil Castle was too soothing to resist for long.

It was too calm. Too comfortable. Used to the oppressive gloom of grimdark fantasy, the demigod had, for the first time in ages, allowed himself to relax.

He ate delicious seafood. Wore proper clothes—impossibly well-tailored by a true master. Took a hot bath, graciously drawn by the heir of Limgrave. Talked to people who didn’t see him as a monster. And though the Omen King wasn’t exactly thrilled that no one saw him as a king…

He wasn’t the true ruler anymore.

And Morgott had come to terms with that. Mostly.

But it seemed the deranged Tarnished wasn’t planning to stop at emotional devastation.

Stormveil Castle fell into a stunned silence as, trailing behind a radiant Irina—her vivid green eyes shining brighter than ever—walked two red-haired women.

Both with prosthetics. Both strikingly similar.

One young, overflowing with emotion, childlike wonder lighting up her face as she took in what was probably one of the most alive places in the Lands Between.

The other…

With every step—marked by the metallic ring of her prosthetics—she brought with her an oppressive, cold, unflinching aura.

The sight of a nearly fully restored, solidly standing Malenia made something inside the demigod freeze. Their eyes met.

But the moment passed without words.

They were distracted by the next scene.

Stepping forward to greet his daughter, Edgar stared disbelievingly into her smiling eyes—eyes so much like his own.

Tears welled up.

“Irina! Praise the Sun…”

He rushed to embrace her, holding her as tightly as he could. So tightly, her smile turned a little strained.

Nepheli’s hearty laughter rang out.

Malenia lifted her gaze to the shining sun overhead. Something about this reminded her of a strange, vivid dream—one that could only be darkened by the knowledge that soon, she might again face the one she had pledged herself to, and served for so long.

Any conversations between demigods, it seemed…

Could wait a bit longer.

(1) This is just one of the theories I found reasonably convincing. Just like with Messmer, there’s something inside Melina that has the power to burn the Erdtree. Considering the Goddess personally replaced Messmer’s eye, it’s not hard to assume she might’ve done the same with her daughter.

(2) In Maliketh’s boss arena, there are pillars you can hide behind to avoid attacks. At least… until an attack randomly phases right through one of those pillars ಠ_ಠ.

[Elden Ring] Chapter 63

Of course, both Millicent and Melina wanted to help Konstantin in the fight. Even if neither of them said it out loud—sensing just how important this battle was to him—the desire never left. One wanted to cross blades with the one who had, however unwillingly, given birth to her.

The other… because she knew just how dangerous this woman was. Possibly more dangerous than any foe her chosen one had ever faced.

Melina, the forgotten daughter of a Goddess, had always been aloof—but at least she felt things. Her sister, however, had virtually no emotions at all. Obsessed with battle, the only way she truly knew how to express herself… was through combat. And what expression it was. No one else fought the way she did.

Her strength was her curse—a force of annihilation.

Melina exhaled softly.

It was obvious Konstantin didn’t care. What mattered to him was the challenge. All of it.

Radahn was a master of both blade and sorcery—but when it came to swordplay alone, Malenia was the undisputed, unchallenged pinnacle. No one Melina had ever seen matched her. And she’d seen plenty.

And maybe, if that was all this was—just another test of strength—she would’ve said nothing.

But…

“Let me solo her(1)...” Melina frowned. What did that even mean? Who was that?

It was the first time they’d heard such reverence in Konstantin’s voice. Perhaps it was the name of some great warrior long forgotten. A legend unknown to them.

…a half-naked warrior with a pot on his head…

Melina sighed again, piecing together what the word “cosplay” meant.

The second sword. It was completely unnecessary. Just a random blade that wouldn’t last more than a few hits!

All of this… was only for the sake of a convincing cosplay…

"I… I really do look like her…" Millicent murmured.

Melina blinked, pulled from her thoughts. She turned her head toward Millicent, who was staring with strange intensity at the figure that—willingly or not—had created her.

"Yes."

The false Finger Maiden didn’t know what else to say. Her and Konstantin had a lot more in come than it might’ve seemed at first glance. These days, the man’s eloquence could even surpass her own—and that said a lot.

The conversation ended before it began.

Malenia, now awake, seemed to struggle to believe what she was seeing. Konstantin’s appearance… it was strange. Not frightening. Not intimidating. Not even pathetic. Just…

Strange.

To the Blade of Miquella’s credit, such a thing didn’t shake her composure. Surprise her, yes. Throw her off for a heartbeat. Make her wonder what sort of lunatic dared raise blades against her. But nothing more.

No matter her condition, no matter her pain—she would remain composed.

…serene…

"I dreamt for so long…" Malenia murmured as she stood.

Only the Outer God who cursed her knew how much effort that took. But she rose, steady and sure, and moved toward her prosthetic.

Millicent reflexively gripped her own.

"My flesh was dull gold..." the woman said quietly, fastening the prosthetic into place.

The helmet came next.

"And my blood… rotted. Corpse after corpse, left in my wake... As I awaited...his return."

Those last words weighed heavier than the rest. Malenia gripped her long blade tightly and turned her gaze back to Kosta.

It was like she needed someone—anyone—to listen. Just a little. Just for a moment.

"...Heed my words.," came the Empyrean’s voice, icy and resolute. "I am Malenia. Blade of Miquella. And I have never known defeat."

With a single slash, leaves swirled into a dance around them.

Kosta gave a deep bow to Malenia.

She blinked—just slightly—at the gesture, then decided not to draw things out. With a flash, she surged forward to end it all.

Melina shouldn’t have let her Tarnished come here…

A flash of steel.

Roll.

Strike!

Malenia recoiled, surprised, touching the place the blade had grazed her. The metal shattered on impact—never even scratching the Empyrean.

Of course it didn’t. Konstantin had attacked with a normal hunk of iron, not a blood-enchanted blade. Unfortunately, the cosplay wasn’t perfect—he hadn’t found a frost-imbued sword strong enough to endure a proper duel with the Empyrean. Not that he really needed it.

Rivers of Blood would be enough. The cosplay… was just a gesture of respect.

A new sword appeared in his hand.

“A roll…”

Malenia frowned. She was certain she hadn’t missed. Everything should’ve ended with that first exchange—and yet, instead of… instead of wounding or even grazing her, he had… rebuked her.

Grace. Majesty. A terrifying beauty… How had he poured all that into a simple roll?

Now the Blade of Miquella looked at him differently. The Rot had long since eaten away her eyes, but she didn’t need them to see. Her perception extended far beyond anything nature had granted mortals.

This strange warrior stood taller than her. Even his body…

It was just as strange. A sculpture without flaw. No scars, no blemishes. An aberration. Something that shouldn’t exist.

Even his aura shimmered—veiled in a faint golden light, just barely noticeable.

Malenia glanced at Melina… then at the startled Millicent, her gaze lingering for a beat longer.

And then she attacked again.

This time, she no longer underestimated the lunatic.

Her blows—smooth, fluid, impossibly fast—rained down on the man. It was as if she felt no pain at all. Each movement refined through hundreds, thousands of battles. A deadly dance.

Where Radahn fought with fury—every strike fueled by a need to win, to crush, to dominate—Malenia…

Malenia danced. And pity those chosen as her partner.

But no matter how complex the dance, anyone who tried long enough could learn its rhythm. And once you learned it…

You could keep up.

As if he knew her style by heart, as if he anticipated every motion—Konstantin slipped past her strikes with ease. Mixing nonsensical rolls with basic dodges and hops.

He wasn’t fighting her.

It was like… he had invited her to dance.

Strike!

Malenia leapt back again, a twinge of pain flashing across her face. Another mundane blade shattered against her decaying skin.

The Tarnished tossed it aside without flinching, conjuring yet another weapon from nowhere.

The first time, he’d humbled her—forced her to take him seriously.

This time…

"Why?"

Malenia frowned. Another sword.

He had power—she could feel it. Enough to truly wound her. Maybe even kill.

But instead, the man had chosen an ordinary weapon again. As if mocking her. Mocking their dance.

Konstantin stood still. With the pot on his head, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking—but it was clear he was deep in thought.

And once more, Malenia felt surprise.

The strange man bowed again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like respect.

It felt like… an apology.

The second sword vanished from the Tarnished's hand. His stance shifted—he gripped the blade in both hands.

Neither Millicent, nor Melina, nor anyone else had ever seen him take that stance before. There was something unnerving about it.

Melina strained to make sense of what she was feeling.

Tension. No—fear. A creeping, buried kind of fear that welled up from the deepest corners of her soul. Barely perceptible… but real.

Malenia’s grip tightened on her sword until her prosthetic creaked. For just a moment, the Blade of Miquella hesitated—then raised her blade, and—

The fallen petals lifted into the air. Malenia followed them. Like a divine being descended from the heavens, she hovered—only to vanish and reappear beside the madman, inviting him into a most sacred rite:

The Waterfowl Dance.

In that moment, Melina finally understood what Konstantin meant when he spoke of true parries.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding…

The sound—soft as a bell’s whisper to some, louder than the roar of a fallen Fire Giant to others—rang out again and again.

The Waterfowl Dance was unstoppable. Dozens, if not hundreds, of slashes. Blades that seemed capable of slicing space itself. A perfect art form—unblockable. The only choice was to flee, knowing the blades would catch you.

Even Radahn, mighty as he was, knew to never let her get close. No one could survive the dance of the demigoddess.

And yet…

A madman had.

Not a single strike reached the half-naked man with a pot on his head. The body that should’ve been shredded into pieces remained untouched.

He hadn’t moved an inch.

Melina had expected him to dodge again. Roll. Hop. Shield up. Anything. She thought she understood what “true parries” meant.

But who could’ve guessed that rolls…

Rolls weren’t the only thing he had mastered beyond reason.

All this time, her chosen one hadn’t just been a jack-of-all-trades—he was a swordsman. Perhaps the most terrifying and powerful the Lands Between had ever seen.

And the fact that he had hidden it so thoroughly, only to unveil it now, to the Blade of Miquella of all people…

It made her want to grab her head, cry like a child, and just tell someone how unfair this all was.

So many awkward, ridiculous situations. All of it could’ve been avoided if he’d just shown this earlier. The respect! The fear! The legacy! They wouldn’t talk about some mad roller in future generations—they’d speak of a great swordsman who rained down destruction and sorcery alike!

But no. NO!

Instead, he rolled! Rolled and dodged, may all the Outer Gods damn him and may the Sun itself shake its head in dismay! Why?! When he could’ve just… parried everything?! WHY?!

Millicent, breath caught in her throat from the scene before her, turned wide-eyed toward Melina—who let out a strange, high-pitched, untranslatable sound.

Was she… was she tearing up?

"You’re amazed too?!" Millicent cried breathlessly.

Of course the steadfast, red-haired warrior understood! This was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life!

Melina, hearing the question, made the sound again—louder, more emotional.

And yet, the most truly stunned person wasn’t Millicent. Or Melina.

It was Malenia.

Frozen in place, staring at the madman with the pot on his head, she seemed momentarily disconnected from reality.

And Konstantin, unwilling to give her even a second to recover, slashed.

Malenia leapt back—too late. Blood trailed from a gash across her chest. Normally, her wounds healed in seconds.

This one… didn’t.

Konstantin stared at her without expression, allowing her a moment to gather herself.

Just as she had allowed countless suffering souls of the Soulslikes(2).

Of course a boss who escaped from Sekiro(3) was a waifu. Konstantin had different feelings toward each of his waifus—but Malenia… Malenia was the only one he wasn’t afraid to hurt.

On the contrary. If he dared pity her, it would be a disgrace. No tryhard worth their sweat would forgive him.

But that didn’t mean he wanted her dead.

There was no contradiction between being a waifu fan and a casual tryhard.

They were one and the same.

"Attack."

The woman’s unexpectedly commanding voice made the Tarnished freeze—only for a moment.

"Hesitation is defeat," he replied coldly, as if reminding himself.

In the next breath, he slashed—summoning a blast of wind that cut toward Malenia like a blade. He followed in an instant, closing the gap.

Like her, Konstantin danced. Fallen petals lifted and swirled—they wouldn’t be falling any time soon.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding…

Malenia never thought she’d meet a swordsman who could rival her teacher(4). She, the dancer of death, had long forgotten what it felt like to flow with another.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding…

Their blades rang out without pause. The sound became a single continuous chime. And then—aggression. Competition.

Malenia wasn’t about to yield the lead in this dance.

And neither was Konstantin.

The strikes grew heavier. The blistering tempo slowed slightly—still far beyond what any sane duelist could hope to contain.

And then—it escalated.

No longer content with blades alone, they began exchanging kicks, grapples, body blows—yet somehow, none of it broke the rhythm. It remained graceful, fluid, terrifying, and primal all at once.

Melina understood now. Why he held back all this time. Why he never showed this side of himself.

No one before Malenia had earned the right to see it.

Not a single warrior, no matter how powerful, had been worthy of witnessing what the Tarnished had kept sealed inside.

But now, everything had changed. He didn’t need to hide anymore.

‘The witches never got to see this,’ Melina thought smugly, squinting. ‘Serves them right.’

Let the mad Queen Rennala keep cuddling one of them, and the other…

Who cares?

The fight suddenly paused.

At the peak of another exchange, the man and woman broke apart—like they'd come to an agreement, wordlessly.

And it was impossible to ignore the contrast between them:

Konstantin stood still, calm and composed. His breath was steady, like he’d just taken a pleasant walk through a field.

Malenia…

Her breathing was ragged. She stood firm, but her prosthetic and blade trembled.

The most powerful swordswoman in the Lands Between… was exhausted.

And unfortunately, that wasn’t entirely Konstantin’s doing.

It was the Rot.

She’d been fighting not just him—but the curse that had tormented her for decades, perhaps centuries.

She had never been able to go all out, always dragged down by the disease gnawing at her from within.

And that…

That, more than anything, saddened the Tarnished.

Of course, Konstantin knew how to fully unlock Malenia’s potential. And something deep inside him wanted to. He wanted to see the “second phase.” Only by succumbing to the rot could the Blade of Miquella truly show what she was capable of.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—he had no intention of taking the easy route. He was a casual, after all. And his casualness didn’t contradict his waifu devotion.

One complemented the other, never conflicted.

Konstantin returned to his stance, blade leveled at the woman. She, understanding without words what her partner in the most beautiful dance of her life desired, pointed her blade back in kind.

In the next instant, the figures of the man and woman blurred. The sound of a sword rang out.

Neither Melina nor Millicent saw what happened—but they saw the result: Konstantin remained standing, completely unharmed.

Malenia, on the other hand, staggered—then dropped to one knee. She tried to rise but instead slumped forward into the water, her rotted blood seeping out and spreading.

Melina and Millicent appeared beside Konstantin.

"You—"

They didn’t get the chance to speak. The man immediately sheathed his blade and knelt beside the woman. Konstantin’s energy flared brighter than ever before, pouring into the fallen warrior in a golden torrent. A seal blazed beneath his feet.

Her wounds began to close at incredible speed. The black rot marks faded. Even her eyes, once devoured by rot, regenerated.

Still, no one said it would be that easy.

The rot—no longer restrained by the woman’s will—started to surge outward. Miasma filled the air, so thick it began to corrode reality itself, bleeding in higher-order energy.

Despite all the Tarnished’s efforts, Malenia began transforming into the Goddess of Rot.

"Scared?"

For the first time, there was genuine mockery in Konstantin’s voice.

And Melina and Millicent immediately understood why.

Ignoring the waifus' reactions, Konstantin grabbed them both. A stream of grace surged around them, hurling them across the continent—then suddenly yanked them beyond space and time itself.

A startled dragon’s roar echoed.

Melina, flinging open her cursed eye and reflexively pulling the equally panicked Millicent close, stared in disbelief at the dragon the Lands Between had long forgotten.

The one who should have died ages ago, hiding deeper in immateriality than anyone else.

Somehow, they hadn’t just arrived in Farum Azula—collapsed through space-time—but somewhere even deeper(5).

A place untouched by the Outer Gods.

Malenia’s transformation slowed drastically. She opened her mouth and choked on a painful gasp, fighting with everything she had. The Rot, sensing the danger it was in, only thrashed harder, desperate to break her will.

Kosta rose to his feet, turning his gaze to the newly awakened Placidusax.

Time was ticking.

"I’ll be right back. He’s kind of in the way."

The man vanished—reappearing instantly in front of the stunned Dragonlord.

But the real surprise was what happened next.

The Lord of Dragons, conjuring bolts of lightning capable of leveling entire cities, unleashed them upon the insolent gnat—still unaware of just how badly he had miscalculated.

You don’t cast lightning at Kosta when he’s unlocked the full potential of true parries.

Countless bolts of lightning, each one dozens—hundreds—of times larger than the man...

Were reflected.

The Tarnished soared into the sky, channeling all that power into one poor, undeserving sword, and spun into a Sakura Dance(6).

The dragon had only enough time to stare as the lightning, funneled through the blade and mingled with Konstantin’s own energy, shot right back into its sender. A wailing shriek rang out across the air—but it was brief.

Supercharged and more motivated than ever, Konstantin gave the stunned dragon not a second to recover. He vaulted onto its massive form and drove the blade straight into its eye, releasing all his stored power deep into the beast.

The Rivers of Blood in his hands cracked under the strain of his strength, shattering—but it did their job. The dragon staggered—and collapsed before it could even begin to fight back.

Hard to keep living when your organs are mush.

Ignoring the tidal wave of ancient runes pouring off the slain dragon, Konstantin returned to his waifus.

"K-Konstantin..."

The poor, unbroken warrior didn’t even finish her sentence before finding herself in his arms, feeling more energy than she ever had surge into her body, healing her before their very eyes.

"I’ll make you a ring later too," Konstantin muttered with a sigh, gently plunging his hand into Millicent’s chest.

She wasn’t in any state to react.

He found the needle easily and pulled it out, knowing full well the rot wouldn’t spread anymore.

His energy had completely purged the hostile force, severing its link to its source.

But that wasn’t all.

Walking over to the trembling Malenia, he—again with zero regard for her personal space—plunged the needle straight into her long-rotted chest.

The needle, originally designed to suppress the rot within her, immediately started helping the man suppress what had tormented the warrior her entire life. Something that had always been a part of her—but never truly hers.

Following some instinct, Konstantin infused the needle with his own power, commanding it to draw in every last trace of rot inside the woman.

Sure, she’d lose a portion of her power—too closely tied to the Outer God’s energy—but Malenia could recover. In time.

And when she did… Konstantin would challenge his waifu to an even more spectacular duel.

He pulled the now pitch-black needle from her restored chest, feeling it strain to escape, but—

The Tarnished broke the needle in half, igniting it in the flame of the Sun(7), watching as the remnants of rot were incinerated by his power.

One of the hardest and most important quests in the game—the one that probably pissed off waifu fans the most—was finally over.

Kosta exhaled slowly, turning toward his waifus.

Millicent, unconscious, was upright only thanks to Melina, who held her tightly. Malenia, still struggling to believe what just happened, raised a hand to her restored eyes and touched them.

Konstantin hadn’t been able to regrow her original limbs, but for everything else...

It was enough. For now.

Meeting her gaze through the pot on his head, the man turned to Melina—and removed his legendary headgear.

"Since we’re already here," Kosta said with a smile, "I’d like to see that cursed eye of yours. Will you let me?"

It had been bothering him for a while now.

Though… there was one last thing he needed to do first.

Konstantin turned to the dead dragon and raised his hands to the sun.

"Praise the Sun!!!"

The false Finger Maiden clutched the barely-conscious Millicent even tighter, involuntarily letting out another one of her weird little noises.

Thankfully… there wasn’t a single witch nearby.

Sellen had grown surprisingly used to Queen Rennala’s embrace—and even started to enjoy it a little.

Her current state could be summed up in one word: acceptance.

Maintaining a conversation with the mad queen wasn’t easy, but the cunning witch gave it her best shot, and sometimes even got something resembling coherent answers in return—even sharing some stories herself.

Two powerful sorceresses had plenty to talk about, even if they were once enemies. Especially since the more they talked, the more lively the queen became.

Clearly, she’d been starved for company.

"Where are you going, weirdo?" Sellen grumbled, watching as the miniature illusion of Konstantin began to flicker and fade.

It was thanks to him she’d stayed calm—knowing the mad queen wouldn’t do anything… well, not necessarily bad, just… deranged.

"You’re too harsh on my sweet one," the queen sang again.

Sellen winced.

She was mad at the weirdo! How could he just leave her to be devoured by the queen like that?! Sure, she knew she had poked the jealous weirdo one too many times, but still...

...but...

The witch sighed sadly.

Mini-Kosta only managed a shrug before the illusion said:

"I’ll come get you later. The signal on Placidusax’s arena is terri—"

The projection vanished before it could explain the absolute chaos she’d missed. Sellen looked up at the queen’s motherly smile and groaned internally.

"Have I told you about my sister, dear?"

It seemed that refusing to play nice with the jealous fruit was going to cost Sellen... dearly.

(TN) In the previous chapter I translated “Маления, Неземная” as “Malenia, Unworldly One”. But I just found out that it is supposed to be “Empyrean” instead.

(1) Let Me Solo Her — a legendary Elden Ring player known for helping others defeat Malenia. He would appear as a phantom, wearing nothing but a loincloth, a jar on his head, and dual-wielding katanas, obliterating her with pure skill and style. His status became so iconic that to this day, people make fan art, cosplay, write fanfics, and even create figurines of him. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg! Let Me Solo Her became the embodiment of the idealized, stylish, half-naked tryhard who somehow manifested into reality.

Note: https://youtu.be/1cE-2nFhKpo&t=1s

(2) Strangely enough, Malenia isn’t even that aggressive of a boss. After attacking, she often takes her sweet time just walking behind the player, ignoring them entirely even as they heal in her face. True menace.

(3) The Soulslike community often jokes(?) that Malenia escaped from Sekiro. The meme got so far out of hand that someone eventually brought it to life—and honestly? It turned out absolutely incredible. https://youtu.be/rgxjGCWYTUY

(4) Malenia was trained in swordsmanship by the Blind Swordsman, a master of the flowing blade—one of those mythical figures that folks in the Lands Between still whisper about. Or… someone like that. As always, there’s barely any solid lore, so we’re left with a million half-baked fan theories. Some say he once sealed the Lake of Rot. That’s pretty much all we’ve got.

(5) The player can access the boss arena via a dream-like sequence in a specific location within the crumbling Farum Azula. How, why, or what is actually going on—there’s no real explanation. So, just like with a thousand other things, the interpretation in this fic is just that—an interpretation. A lovingly chaotic one.

(6) Sakura Dance — a combat art from Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice, allowing the player to reflect lightning attacks without taking damage. It’s not available in the base game—you unlock it by beating Inner Genichiro in the Divine Heir’s Gauntlet of Strength, which only opens up post-game. (Yes, it’s as cracked as it sounds.)

(7) This mechanic does technically exist in-game, though presented slightly differently. Crumbling Farum Azula (or more specifically, Placidusax’s arena) is the only place in Elden Ring where you can avoid the Frenzied Flame ending by using Miquella’s Needle.

[Life is Good] Chapter 68

Daredevil “looked” at the Coke bottle in her hand, then at the strange figure who’d offered it. She cracked it open and took a cautious sip—buying herself a little time to figure out how the hell to act in a situation like this. Who—or what—was this thing in front of her? Victim of an experiment? A mutant who’d lost their human form? An alien?

There were no easy answers. On the outside, “Dimon” looked like a nightmare. But inside the store? She’d overheard enough of the exchange to know he’d talked to the owners politely, even warmly. Malati, who had a reputation for being a total hardass, had told him to come back anytime. And not in that “get lost and never come back” way, either. Genuinely.

He hadn’t killed or even hurt the robbers. Hell, technically, he hadn’t even touched them—just scared the crap out of them. And now the monster was just sitting there, munching on chips, sipping soda, looking up at her like, “What?”

“What are you?” The words just kind of slipped out as she watched him open his jaw way too wide and tip half the damn soda bottle into it. It was... a horrifying view.

Dimon choked, literally coughed on the Coke, and gave her a long, slow, deeply offended stare.

“Are you married?” he asked suddenly, and she blinked.

“Why are you asking me that?” she said, instantly on edge.

“Just answer the question.”

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, then sighed. “But fine—no. I’m not.”

“And you never will be,” he huffed, tail twitching irritably. “If you go around calling every guy you meet a what, then the only man in your life’s gonna be a dildo! What kind of manners is that, huh?! I shared my Coke with you! And you couldn’t even manage a hello!”

The tail curled tighter, the bone-blade tip flicking in irritation like a pissed-off cat. “Look, I get it—I don’t exactly scream average human. I’ve got style, alright? But that’s no excuse to be rude to a complete stranger who’s done nothing but be polite. Malati was right not to like you!”

“Uh…” she floundered, totally off balance. She’d come expecting a fight, not a scolding on basic decency from a monster with a soda in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s just… when you drank… it was a lot.”

“I don’t have lips!” Dimon practically spat, jabbing a claw toward the gaping maw of his skull-face. “Do you see lips?! I can’t drink normally! Verstehen?”

She took a deep breath, cheeks burning. He had, in fact, defended her in front of a very feisty Indian grandmother. This was turning into the second most embarrassing patrol of her week. Exhale…

“Yeah, okay. Sorry again. I was rude. Thanks for the drink… and hello.”

“Forgiven,” Dimon muttered, snorting as his tail finally stopped twitching.

Awkward silence settled between them. He reached for the chips again… then hesitated and pushed the bag a little further away from her, as if she didn’t deserve them anymore. Ouch. She really had offended him.

Still, she couldn’t help herself.

“So… where are you from? I’ve never seen anyone even remotely like you.”

“There.” He pointed down, clicking his teeth.

“…Hell?” she asked hesitantly, flicking her “gaze” toward the skull resting beside him.

“Sewer,” he said, followed by another click-snicker. “Went out for snacks. And before you ask—no, I didn’t steal the money. I earned it.”

“Earned it? How?” She knew it was nosy, but honestly, how did a… whatever-he-was even get a job?

“I’m a programmer,” Dimon replied with a sigh that could’ve melted steel, making her raise both eyebrows. “I can make you a portfolio site. No discounts.”

A sewer monster programmer. The world really has just… completely lost its damn mind, she thought.

“Hm. Well, I’ll be going then,” she said later, having escorted me all the way to a payphone. She was clearly still rattled—nothing tonight had gone as expected. And she hadn’t meant to insult me, not really, but her first words had definitely struck a nerve.

“Have a good night,” I offered, more calmly now. Despite the weirdness—and the very bumpy start—I kinda liked Murdock. As a person. As a character. Chalk it all up to shock and wild circumstances.

“You too,” she replied. “Sorry again, for the way I acted. But… try to understand—your appearance is pretty alarming. And there’s no intel on you. I mean, if I asked to see ID, you’d have nothing, right?”

I snorted, raising a claw and flicking his tail. “These are my documents.”

“Armed, too,” she muttered, eyeing the holstered Colt Anaconda.

“Hey! Valera is not just a weapon! Valera is a friend! We’ve been through things you can’t even imagine. And think about it: a lonely man, in a scary world—he needs to protect his virtue, y’know?”

She let out a tired sigh and left, only pausing to toss over her shoulder, “Try not to cause trouble.”

I watched her until she was out of range, then ducked into the booth. Time for the call.

Breathing deep, I let the anger build, wrapping himself in that raw fury. Sensory range expanded fivefold. I checked—Daredevil was still walking, didn’t seem to be eavesdropping.

Calming again, I took a breath and focused. Needed more practice. Nearly crushed the phone in hand.

Dialing Yuriko’s number.

“Hello? Sensei? Sorry for the late call.”

And yeah, it was surreal—but I would swear hIcould feel her raising an eyebrow on the other end. My deeply disturbed imagination even conjured her wearing a sheer black robe. The thought was… surprisingly arousing.

Teacher-student syndrome? Maybe.

“Anyway,” I muttered, “I’m guessing your expression right now is, ‘Where the hell have you been?’”

“Straight to the point,” came Yuriko’s calm voice through the receiver.

“I’m in Hell’s Kitchen. Could you come by when you’re able? Maybe bring my phone and some essentials? I’ll explain everything when you get here—can’t return just yet.”

“Meeting spot?” Her voice was as indifferent as ever, but something warm spread through my chest.

She didn’t argue. Didn’t lecture. No frantic fuss. My sensei trusted me. Didn’t treat me like some brainless thug. And even with all her cold composure, she respected my choices. Of course, if when we met face-to-face she decided my logic was full of shit, she’d definitely let me know—with that kind of savage politeness that only she could weaponize. But until she had the full picture, she gave me the benefit of the doubt. That meant more than I could say.

I gave her the address, warned her to keep her face covered—Daredevil might still be sniffing around—and told her to be careful with her words.

I’d seen how badly the world of supers handled secrets. “Loose lips sink ships” might as well be tattooed on half the hero forums. Still, I wasn’t sure linking the freaky alien horror with Salamander was a good idea. We’d see what “Kaltenbrunner,” a.k.a. Yuriko Oyama, had to say about that.

Before hanging up, I asked her to check in with the moms—let them know I was alive and mostly okay.

As I made my way to the meeting spot, I mulled it all over. The idea of keeping my alien-self and my hero-self as separate identities was… tempting. Two faces for different jobs. Smart, right?

Of course, all of that relied on whether I could get my original form back—or at least shift between the two. If I was stuck like this permanently? Then I’d have to build one hell of a reputation. The kind that made people say “hey, that scary guy’s alright.” Not exactly easy when just drinking soda in public was a red flag.

The truth was, I didn’t want to be evil for evil’s sake. Or even for comfort. Sure, being an unhinged bastard without morals or conscience gets results fast, but I wasn’t built for that. Honestly? I was terrified I’d lose myself. My new nature encouraged that path, and I had to fight it constantly.

I headed toward our meeting point. Gotta be early—don’t wanna keep Sensei waiting.

Also, note to self: cut back on the habit of sass-bombing every super you meet. This form made me feel powerful. Between the claws, the speed, and my old abilities… it was easy to get cocky. But I needed to remember that it was an illusion. There’s always a bigger stick out there.

“…Though,” I murmured to myself, “a little sass never hurt.”

A few soft click-laughs echoed through the dirty, graffiti-covered alley.

We talked in her car. I just slipped into the back seat when she pulled up.

For the first time since we met, I wasn’t watching her stony face for clues—I could feel her emotions. It was kind of beautiful.

Under the still surface, I felt impatience… then surprise… then something like relief. Even joy, if muted. Sure, she wasn’t the most expressive person emotionally, but there was something there. Positive. Unmistakably so.

When she saw what I looked like, she hit me with surprise, admiration… and something dangerously close to fondness. For a split second, I thought she was gonna scratch me under the chin like a pet cat.

She listened to my whole story in silence. When I got to the troll fight, I caught a tiny flicker of envy. She was jealous, the psycho. At the part about the mage, she gave a soft huff of disapproval. Pretty sure she didn’t like her.

When I mentioned the runaway soldier, her face didn’t change—but inside, I could feel her conscience grumbling like a bear waking up from hibernation.

My plan to stay away from the School? She approved, though there was hesitation.

“You sure,” she asked, glancing around, “that you won’t lose control out here?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But I can always duck into the sewers if I have to. I’m getting better at control, and honestly… I think being around people helps. Listening. Watching. Remembering.”

“Then why not go back to the School?”

“Because I’m scared,” I said. “And Sensei… I don’t think I can take the pity. Or the hovering. Or seeing their reactions when they look at me now.”

She didn’t say anything, just sent me a soft wave of understanding… and sympathy. Her face stayed frozen, but I felt it.

“As you wish,” she nodded. “I’ll call your parents in the morning. In the bag: clothes, clean phone number, cash. The case has your suit.”

“What’ll I do next? I dunno yet. Figure something out. Maybe even… do a little hero work.”

“You looking for trouble?” she asked, one brow arched just slightly, the smallest twinkle of mischief in her voice.

“…Maybe,” I grinned. Part of why I didn’t hole up in one of Magneto’s hideouts. I missed the action. Even just this low-stakes urban stealth—getting spotted, maybe chased—it scratched the itch a bit.

“And what about comfort?” Her lips twitched into the faintest smirk. God, she was hot when she was amused.

“Not forever. I spent a couple months sleeping on dirt, eating lizard-rats, drinking from puddles. I’ll find a quiet squat, lay low there for a while.”

“Good,” she nodded. I felt satisfaction from her—and a tiny thrill, like she was enjoying watching me grow. “We’ll call it a self-sufficiency test. If anyone asks—that’s your cover story. Try building a reputation for Dimon. Something good. It could help. But be careful not to make the link between you and him too obvious. Castle and the vamps know, so don’t push it. They won’t blab outright, but they might hint. And expect Deadpool. She’ll definitely show up if the rumors start flying.”

She went quiet for a few seconds, thinking.

Then she turned and looked at me—and her emotions were a swirl: pride, warmth, approval… and something I couldn’t quite place.

“Send me your measurements,” she said flatly. “And pics. In your underwear.”

I blinked. “What?”

“What you’re wearing now is a disgrace,” she said, deadpan.

As Sensei’s car pulled away, I stood there for a second, weirdly thrown off. Normal clothes? Since when was she so considerate?

I adjusted the hefty gym bag slung over my shoulder—full of goodies and “essentials”—then scaled a nearby rooftop. Still a bit of time before dawn. I needed a place to crash. Maybe even a semi-permanent hideout. Not going back to the sewers—my nose was way too good for that shit. But an attic, or some abandoned apartment? That would be chef’s kiss. Bonus points if there was a subway access nearby in case of sudden “oh shit” moments.

Early morning.

Caprice hated getting up this early. Ass-crack of dawn early. But grandma had been merciless: “You want more pocket money? Then help with the business.”

If only she’d known that “help” would look like this.

Her grandma? An actual monster. Makes supervillains look like amateurs.

“I really dropped out of school for this?” the groggy eighteen-year-old grumbled as she watched her grandmother inspect a building. “Why the hell are we even here in person…”

Yeah, she was whining—but she knew the drill. It had been explained to her more than once. If you wanted your business to stay profitable, you had to keep it on a tight leash. Not that she had to personally show up for every tiny deal, of course—but the underlings needed to know that the Manfredis were always watching. That’s why Grandma and her moms did these little field trips now and then. A pop-in to check on newly acquired property, show face at a business meet, or drop in for a surprise inspection. Nothing said “we own this place” like unexpected oversight.

“Caprice, coffee?” her bodyguard asked with a knowing smile, nodding toward the barista stand across the street.

The girl glanced toward the doorway where her grandma had vanished and decided, yeah, her help wouldn’t be needed for the next five minutes.

“Let’s go. I doubt there’s decent coffee in Hell’s Kitchen, but I’ll take any caffeine-flavored swamp water at this point.”

Everything was fine. The coffee even smelled okay. But then the black van pulled up.

“Angelica—” Caprice turned to her bodyguard, but saw she was already watching the van with a sharp eye. That gave her a brief flicker of reassurance… which evaporated the second the vehicle rolled to a stop, perfectly blocking the view of Grandma’s people across the street.

The van’s side door slid open.

And Caprice suddenly found herself in a vice-grip hold from Angelica.

Her own bodyguard. Her friend, since childhood.

A hand clamped over her mouth. The woman she’d trusted her entire life was dragging her toward the van—where inside, several women in masks and holding weapons were waiting.

Caprice thrashed like hell, biting down hard on the hand muffling her scream. She was rewarded with a sharp hiss of pain. “You traitorous bitch,” flashed through her head like lightning. She couldn’t believe it. The one person she’d never doubted had just spat in the face of everything her family had ever done for her.

They shoved her into the van. As the doors slammed shut, her panicked gaze caught a glimpse of something through a broken attic window in the neighboring building.

A face.

A horrible, terrifying monster’s face was staring right at her from the shadows.

“Of course,” she thought grimly, rolling her eyes internally as a gag was jammed in her mouth. “Out of all the people who could’ve seen my kidnapping—some big-name superheroine in spandex maybe—it had to be a damn freak-show.”

She did take some comfort in hearing her family’s people shouting on the other side of the street. Backup would be on the way.

Caprice exhaled hard through her nose and tried to get as comfortable as she could on the van floor. Not easy, since she was already chained up, wrists and ankles locked.

But she knew how to play this. Don’t fight. Don’t provoke. Don’t risk your life unless there’s no choice.

Grandma would come for her.

And some of these bitches? They were absolutely going to the bottom of the Hudson. And with concrete shoes, too—those don’t exactly help you float.

[Life is Good] Chapter 67

"Standing all alone agaaain... Standing again, mama, again! And outside, Sataaan... is eating sixth-grader Vova!"

Yeah. I sing like shit—especially in this body—but I’m bored.

Up top, it was still evening about an hour ago. No real urge to crawl out into the light yet; a xenomorph-tyranid hybrid roaming Hell’s Kitchen is bound to cause a bit of a scene. Not that I’m super worried—nobody’s gonna recognize me, and slipping back into the sewers is as easy as flipping off a pigeon. But still, working at night is so much more convenient.

First thing on the to-do list: I need to find out what kind of buzz is surrounding my name. Sensei said the whole base-op was supposed to stay under wraps, but you always gotta account for the ol’ “oh shit” scenario. I need to know if anything about my little meltdown at the military complex leaked online. If it did, I’m screwed. Good-boy Tobi’s gonna need to vanish into the underground and kiss his normal life goodbye.

If not—if everything’s quiet—then step two is grabbing a disguise. A hoodie, maybe a raincoat with a nice deep hood. I’ve got about two hundred bucks stashed in my belt pouches, along with Valera in his holster. I’ve already spotted a couple of 24/7 bodega-style shops in the Kitchen. You know the type—tiny, but they sell everything from bread to condoms. Raincoats? Guaranteed. Maybe even something to cover the ol’ demon-dong, which, even in this form, is feeling way too exposed.

Thought about doing things the easy way—steal what I need—but nope. Hard pass. I can’t afford to let myself slip right now. I’m still not mentally stable, and the temptation of easy sin could pull me off-track. The less I indulge the demon part, the easier it is to keep it leashed.

Plus, there’s a difference between “scary monster who robs people” and “scary monster who buys his shit like a responsible adult.” The latter’s still sus, but hey—maybe they won’t shoot me on sight.

Next step: reach out to Sensei. See if she can calm everyone down. Maybe even set up a meeting. Knowing her, she won’t piss me off—even in my current, twitchy-as-fuck mental state.

As for going back to the School? Yeah, no. Sure, Charline or Beast could probably help me, but what if I lost control? What if I hurt them? Or worse—hurt the kids? A demon walking around a school full of children is a terrible idea. If I snapped in there? Total bloodbath. And they’d have every right to put me down.

I wanna live. I don’t wanna hurt anyone I care about. So until I’ve got a leash on this shit, I’m staying the hell away. The sewers are perfect for that. I’ll blow off steam on rats and gators—if this place has any.

As for Ghost Rider? Nope. Not calling her either. She’s not a mutant, we’ve got no personal bond beyond distant infernal kinship, and to be honest, I’m scared of her. I’m not gonna risk showing up in this shape, all jittery and potentially explosive. Blaze made one thing very clear—looks are one thing, but actions matter more.

When I do see her, I’ll have to be honest. Tell her what happened at the base, straight-up. If she’s anything like in the comics, she’s not squeamish about exterminating evil bastards, so hopefully she won’t judge me too hard. But hiding it? Nah. That’s just opening the door for someone else to “accidentally” leak it with the worst possible spin.

Actually, thinking about all this has been another anchor to my humanity. This is Marvel. There are too many godlike beings here for me to get comfy as some Venom-style monster sociopath. Sooner or later, some hero’s gonna punt me into orbit. And out there? No air, no food, no water. Even with all my powers, I’d just die.

I’m not some energy entity. Sure, there are villains out there, but unlike the hero crowd, they’re not gonna risk saving some scary demon dude with poor impulse control.

“All right, what’s up there, anyway?” I mutter, scaling the ladder and nudging the manhole cover.

Yes. It’s dark now. Goodbye, sewer stank. Hello, fresh air. Nobody in sight. I slip out, close the cover, and melt into the deepest shadow nearby.

“Time to stealth the fuck out of this mission,” I whisper, stifling the urge to click-laugh. There's always a chance I’ll run into Daredevil or some other patrolling hero, but I’m confident in my hundred-and-first karate move.

I feel a little spark of motivation—my usual anger even has a playful edge to it. No sign of a rage spiral. Nice.

Moving in quick bursts, I slink through the alleys, sticking to the shadows. Using my power, I ping for signs of life and electronics. I need a way into the internet.

Yeah, I considered doing a good ol’ mug-and-surf—steal a phone, make a call, browse the net—but then decided to up the difficulty. Gotta keep the lawbreaking to light trespassing.

So I hunted for sleeping folks with a running computer or laptop. Preferably unlocked.

Third try was the charm. Nobody home, but the energy signature of a powered-up PC was there.

I climbed to the third floor, slipped in through a cracked window with a flick of my tail, popped the latch—easy. The place? Belonged to someone cut from the same cloth as me: no password, desktop wide open. And guess what was actively downloading from torrents?

Yeah. “Super-Hero and the Punishment of Villainesses.” Twelve episodes. Twelve.

Rule 34 in full swing, baby. The description had me wheezing:

“The Goddess forgives. He… He punishes… anally.”

Focus, focus. No time for hentai. I hit a few forums and news sites.

First, surprise—according to the date, it’s only been two days since the base incident. That threw me for a second. Then I remembered the Magik arc—she spent ten years in Limbo, and it passed in a blink here. Multiverse time, baby. Honestly? Great.

And it’s even better I bumped into a mage. Without her, I don’t even wanna guess how long I’d have been stuck waiting for someone to save my scaly ass.

Okay, superhero news… Nothing.

Sure, there were a few scraps about hero dustups and, of course, dozens of dumbass threads about me. But all pure bullshit. The kind of crap that spawns like fungus online.

My eye twitched reading about my alleged romance with Iron Lady. Then there was a thread about me and Rhino, with a forbidden love angle between a young hero and an older villainess…

Nope. All garbage.

Nothing real’s leaked. At least, nothing public.

I clear the browser history—clunky as hell with these claws, but whatever. Minor inconvenience. Wipe everything clean, close the window behind me, and that's that.

“Technically, the only crime I’ve committed is illegal entry. Max penalty—fine and some community service. You know, if we don’t count the armed assault on a military facility as part of a terrorist group.” I think with a healthy dose of irony, heading toward the nearest corner store. The streets are still busy, so I plan to wait till later tonight before I go shopping. Still not entirely sure how I’m gonna pull it off, but I’ll figure it out.

I “pause” up on the roof of a building next to the shop run by that elderly Indian lady—helped her out once during a robbery back on patrol. The maze of ventilation pipes makes for a decent hiding spot, and I curl up in a cozy ball, setting the troll’s skull beside me like a favorite pillow (I decided to call her Yorichiha). I start watching the foot traffic, eavesdropping on random conversations.

A few hours pass without me even noticing. I get into this weird meditative state, idly swaying my tail blade like a bored housecat lounging on a radiator. About thirty minutes ago, I got a fresh life lesson.

Down in the alley beneath me, two women had started beating the absolute shit out of each other. I missed the start of the scuffle, distracted by my own thoughts, but the telltale sounds of a brawl brought my attention back.

One chick was clearly more athletic and had the upper hand, absolutely pounding her thinner opponent. For a second, I thought about intervening—flashes of Flash and Parker dynamics floating up—but I held back. No weapons, one-on-one… I let it play out.

The beef ended with the sporty chick standing tall, and the loser slumped against a wall, clutching a bleeding nose.

“You don’t speak normal, do you?” the victor growled. “This is your last warning, Alex! No more weed for Johnny! If you bring drugs into our house again, I swear I’ll break your arms. I don’t care if we’re cousins!”

“B-but Beth, come on,” the defeated one whined. “It’s just weed, for fuck’s sake!”

“I don’t give a shit,” the gym rat snapped. “We want healthy kids, dumbass! You’ve already smoked away half your brain!”

Ah. Family drama. Now it makes sense. And honestly, I’m siding with Beth the Gym Rat. If you’re trying to get pregnant or raise a family, yeah, maybe don’t fill your system with garbage. Adults can destroy themselves all they want, but unborn kids? No choice in the matter. So in this trial, presided over by yours truly, violence is deemed justified. Beth: not guilty. Alex: legally bitch-slapped.

I let out a soft, amused click-chuckle, then returned to quietly watching the street.

Things stayed quiet until a duo rounded the corner near the shop. Damn. The old lady’s luck sucks. Two women in balaclavas. Tense body language. Hands in pockets like they’re packing heat.

Although… why am I annoyed? This is a perfect chance to earn more points with the shopkeeper.

I watch one of the would-be robbers flip the “Open” sign to “Closed,” but not lock the door before heading inside. Perfect.

One long leap from the rooftop and I land silently right by the entrance. I crack the door open, slip in, and make my way inside low to the floor, hugging the tiles. I remember the store’s layout, and under the soundtrack of “Give us the cash, bitch, or we’ll blow your brains out!” I slither forward toward the action.

Two figures, backs to me. Each with a revolver in their right hand. Old-school detective pieces—.38 Colt snubbies, if I’m not mistaken.

Lovely.

In one smooth motion, I rise behind them, snatch both guns so the hammers can't drop, twist wrists just enough to disarm them gently, and whisper:

“Good evening.”

A sudden flash of an old dark and dirty joke about a polite donkey-rapist nearly makes me chuckle. My tail, meanwhile, coils around both women’s waists and binds them together, neatly preventing any escape.

As they flail and try to process what the fuck just happened, I continue:

“Didn’t you know? The Silver-Haired Lady frowns on chaos in her neighborhood.”

I catch the shopkeeper reaching for something under the counter—then freezing. Her face relaxes just a little. She’s got someone with her tonight—a young girl, maybe her daughter or granddaughter. She’s staring at me with those eyes: full of wonder, spiked with fear. Honestly, par for the course in Marvel’s Hell’s Kitchen.

The robbers? They’re reacting… appropriately. Stunned. Terrified. Until the one on the right lets out a noise so gross, it instantly ruins the moment.

“Ugh, fuck me,” I grimace. “Stinkers. Piss off, and don’t let me catch you back here.”

One gentle shove and they’re stumbling out, practically tripping over themselves, leaving behind a trail of shame and body odor. I snort, annoyed, ease the hammers down on the guns, and set them on the closest shelf before turning back to the shopkeepers.

“Once again, good evening. Sorry for the scare,” I nod politely, burying the irritation. This is a big moment. First friendly contact between a xeno-tyranid hybrid and local humans.

The older woman, after a brief hesitation, bows low and murmurs something in Hindi. The girl follows suit a second later, mimicking her—mother or grandmother, probably.

"Excuse me? Could you speak English, please?"

“I honestly thought Asura himself was coming to my store,” the shopkeeper exhales with visible relief, even managing a faint smile. “Thank you…”

“Dimon,” I introduce myself with a little nod. “Happy to help. I was actually planning to do some shopping, and then—well, this mess happened.”

“I’m Malati,” she replies, smile gaining a bit of confidence.

“Shopping?” the younger one raises a skeptical brow.

“Shopping,” I confirm patiently, fishing a hundred-dollar bill out of my belt pouch and placing it on the counter. “I urgently need pants.”

Both women glance down… The younger one goes crimson, and the older one lets out an impressed little grunt and nods.

“Jaya, grab a pair of army pants from the back,” Malati says over her shoulder, then adds to me, a touch apologetically, “We’ve only got military-style stuff, but in different sizes.”

“That’s fine,” I shrug, watching Jaya head into the back. My ears—figuratively speaking—stay alert. Just in case she tries to call the cops.

“So you… work for the Silvermane?” Malati asks carefully.

“No,” I click-chuckle. That eyebrow raise from her is priceless. “But she does frown on chaos in her neighborhood, doesn’t she?”

“She does,” Malati smirks. “Technically, I pay the Hell Bitches—local girls from the Kitchen. But they work under her.”

“Uh-huh. This kind of thing happen often?”

“All the damn time,” she sighs. “Though it’s calmed down a bit. Used to be Kingpin’s turf. Her people loved to cause trouble. Those were dark days.”

“Wanna tell me about it?” Not that I was dying to hear her life story, but it beats idly playing with my tail while Jaya rummages around. And for what it’s worth—she’s actually rummaging, not secretly dialing 911.

“They’d waltz in whenever they wanted, grab whatever they liked, never paid a cent. The Bitches? Sure, they take a discount or run tabs—but at least they pay. They don’t smash up the place, and they more or less keep the neighborhood clean. They even chase off dealers with that real nasty shit. Even Daredevil—bless her blind ass—doesn’t really tangle with them much…”

“Oh come on, she made up for it!” Jaya suddenly bursts in, arms full of clothes.

“But the trauma remains,” Malati grumbles, and now it’s official—yep, she’s the grandma. “Even the kids—Spider-Girl, Salamander, and that new one—they were way more careful. But your Daredevil? She trashed half my damn store. Would’ve been better off if I had been robbed!” She throws her arms up dramatically, lips pursed. “I’m an old, sick woman! Took me all night to clean up the mess! Here, Dimon, try these on. Oh, underwear? Good girl,” she nods approvingly at her granddaughter.

So yeah. I got dressed. Well… sort of. Slipped on a pair of surprisingly decent boxer briefs, pulled the army pants up over my skinny ass, and added a shapeless, oversized T-shirt and a rain poncho.

They didn’t charge me for the clothes. We settled on a good ol’ barter deal—two revolvers from the robbery in exchange. “They’ll go in my collection,” Malati chuckled, shooting a side-eye at her granddaughter before stashing the guns under the counter.

The atmosphere was warm, honestly. I felt pretty damn good—semi-dressed, semi-respectable, and having aced a social interaction. Malati was content the situation was resolved without bloodshed, and even the residual fear had mostly faded. As she put it: “After everything I’ve seen in Hell’s Kitchen, a strange-looking but polite gentleman with a tail who didn’t hurt my family? Far from the weirdest thing in New York.”

I paid cash for the rest—snacks, two bottles of Coke, and a pack of salt. Just in case. The trauma of cooking without spices in that other dimension still haunted me.

I was checking out and wrapping up the warm fuzzies when I felt trouble approaching. A female presence, signature flaring hard, zeroed in on the shop’s front entrance.

I sighed. Should’ve knocked those two out.

“What’s going on here?” a tense, battle-ready voice asked. Daredevil.

I was just about to answer when Malati exploded with righteous fury:

“You again?! You’re back to wreck my store? You promised you wouldn’t show your face here again!”

The sheer volume of Malati’s rage was a meal you could chew. Jaya looked mortified. The hero? Clearly thrown off her game. I sensed her confusion, guilt, and a touch of what-the-fuck-is-going-on.

“But—”

“But what? What? Don’t you see? The gentleman’s shopping! ‘What’s going on here,’” Malati mimicked her with a theatrical sneer. “It’s called commerce! I take money, I give goods! Got a problem with that?!”

“But Ba—” Jaya tried to cut in, voice small.

“Don’t ‘Ba’ me,” Malati snapped, then rounded again on Daredevil. “Get out of my shop before I call the police!”

Hands on hips, she glared at the hero. I swear, we both stared at her in stunned silence, identical dumbfounded expressions. The freaky alien monster gets treated like a valued customer, and she’s the one being threatened with the cops?

Matt—because yeah, I know who she is—stood there a second longer, then turned and walked out without a word.

“Um… weren’t you being a little harsh?” I ask, actually kinda feeling bad. “She does help people, y’know?” I catch a flicker of approval from Jaya and a pulse of surprise from Matt.

“She’ll live,” Malati huffs. “Not made of glass. You handled it clean: no one got hurt, and those two won’t be back. Neither will those other punks. For that—thank you. But don’t be offended, Dimon, I just want my family safe. I pay the Hell Bitches for protection, not a goddamn war zone. If those junkie idiots had been found by them, they’d have made them apologize and repay what they owed. But a shootout, bullets flying over my head, over my granddaughter’s—I don’t thank people for that! That’s not heroics. That’s bullshit!”

“Fair enough…” And really, it was fair. Honestly kind of poetic—Malati spoke more fondly about a local gang than a costumed superhero, and served me, a literal demon-spawned nightmare beast, without batting an eye. Man… this world really is something else.

After saying my goodbyes—and getting a “come again” that honestly sounded pretty heartfelt—I head for the exit, lost in thought. Gotta find a payphone. Got some loose change, and I do remember Yuriko’s number…

I climb back up to the rooftop where I’d made my little nest (can’t forget Yorichiha’s skull), tail carrying the bag of snacks like a loyal grocery-caddy, and feel Daredevil’s energy signature approaching again. The woman launches up between two buildings like it’s nothing, landing lightly about five meters away from me.

Psssshhhhh, the Coke hisses as I twist the cap open. Wordlessly, I toss the second bottle her way—she catches it mid-air without missing a beat.

A few seconds of silence pass. I can feel her cocktail of emotions: confusion, curiosity, suspicion… and readiness to throw hands if needed. That last part’s exactly why I didn’t bolt—sure, she’s ready, but I don’t get that classic superhero urge to scream “purge the xenos!” and start punching.

“Hey. I’m Dimon. You know where I can find a working payphone around here?” I ask casually, ripping open a bag of chips and dropping onto a nearby pipe like it’s my goddamn throne. My tail gently sets the grocery bag on the rooftop and coils into a lazy curve against the surface.

“I gotta make a call.”

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 71

I was sitting proudly on Lord Minoruhi’s desk, ears perked, soaking in a very private conversation between my human—currently fanning himself like a bored noble—and an older man in a blindingly colorful kimono collection who’d shown up with Orochimaru. This old guy wasn’t just some random senior citizen with a fashion problem—he was the ruler of the Land of Rice Fields, the country just north of the Land of Fire. The valley river called “The End,” where Sasuke and Naruto famously had their dramatic anime deathmatch, just so happened to be the border.

“The Land of Rice Fields is prepared to become a province under the Fire Country,” the old man confirmed with a sly grin. “Honestly, not much changes for us—if anything, our rice export tax will go down. Plus, we’ve already got a standing garrison managed by Orochimaru-dono.”

“A mutually beneficial arrangement, no doubt,” said Minoruhi. “I take it you’d like to stay on as provincial governor? And I’d need to formally recognize… let’s say… the Oto garrison, which Konoha’s intel believes is, let’s be real, a newly forming hidden village.”

“I’ve no heirs to worry about,” the old guy creaked. Though to me, he didn’t feel that old. His chakra flow was strong—definitely not shinobi-tier, but robust enough to suggest he was spry beneath all the grandpa cosplay.

“It’s smarter to ally than to clash. The times are… turbulent,” Orochimaru added with his signature silk-and-snake charm.

Now, if Gaara and Shisui weren’t chilling up in the rafters and if my human wasn’t wearing enough defensive fuinjutsu to light up a bingo book, I might’ve mistaken this for a veiled threat. But as it stood? Just ominous suggestion. The political scene really was heating up lately. The Land of Hot Springs, for example, had recently disbanded their hidden village, turned themselves into a “neutral tourist hub,” and stopped trying to keep up military spending. Tiny nations just couldn’t afford real garrisons—and let’s face it, a couple squads of low-level ninja weren’t stopping any of the Big Five or rogue super-nukes.

But call it a “provincial garrison” under a major country? Boom. Legit. Plus, those garrisons could send their recruits to Konoha’s Academy for training upgrades from proper jonin-sensei.

…Man, when did I start getting good at politics?

“I’ll give provisional approval,” Minoruhi nodded. “But it’ll still need to pass through the jonin council. My staff will draft a formal treaty.”

The future governor of Konoha’s 12th province took his leave. Orochimaru slithered off with him. Minoruhi set aside his fan, sighed, and scratched me behind the ears.

“I hope that was the right call, Tora-chan…”

I gave a sage nod and hopped into his lap with a purr. Optimal petting position achieved.

“…This wing’s got a couple of baths, that’s the dining hall—and sometimes doubles as a meeting and training room—and those three rooms at the back are free,” Naruto explained, proudly giving the newcomers a tour of the Guardian Shinobi residence.

Shikamaru, Choji, and Neji had accepted Lord Minoruhi’s invitation. I personally ran back to Konoha to fetch them—had to stay in the loop, after all.

Kiba had been invited too, but his mom Tsume-chan put her foot down. Said they needed to stay with the pups. Both he and Akamaru promised they’d train night and day until the gang was back in the Leaf. Respect.

“I’m so glad you guys are here now!” Naruto beamed wide enough to split his face. “Seriously, it’s awesome. So many new jutsu to learn! Kushina-sensei said jonin from your clans will be invited here from time to time, so you’ll still get top-tier training. And we’re learning etiquette, diplomatic stuff, advanced strategies—it’s not like Iruka-sensei’s endless droning back in the Academy. Plus, we’ve already been sent on a few missions with Kuroumi and Akai.” (That’d be Sasuke and Gaara’s new code names, respectively. Naruto went by “Kin” now.)

“Guardian Shinobi training’s been around forever,” Neji noted. “An elder from my clan trained under the daimyo too—learned not just combat, but economics, politics, and leadership. But the tradition stopped generations ago… I don’t even know why.”

Almost two months had passed since I came back to the palace.

Kushina-san was now officially the mentor for Naruto, Gaara, and Karin—the girl from the Grass Country. Karin hadn’t joined the Guardian Shinobi, but she was studying under the palace’s medical-nin and learning fuinjutsu from Kushina. We’d become friends—she’s a good kid. Orphaned. Her mom died after a long illness, and Karin had been going on missions with adults since she was like, nine. She had some rare chakra-based healing technique that kicked in when she was in pain. The absolute psychos from her village used to bite her to suck out her chakra for healing. I saw her once in the bath—poor girl’s body was covered in old bite scars.

But apparently, once she learns to fully control her chakra, she might be able to heal all of it.

Kushina still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell Naruto she’s his mom. Ninja brain-melt. “Who am I now?” “How can I just drop that on him?” “Things are stable right now—I don’t want to ruin it.” I try to talk her into it daily. Sometimes I just whack her with a paw until she promises she’ll tell him soon.

At least she talks to me about everything.

Turns out they handed Uchiha Obito—the same one who used to help Minato—over to Orochimaru to win him over. But Kushina had sealed him up in some clever way to keep him from acting out.

The sannin might’ve gained a Sharingan and the ability to finally live out all his creepy science-fantasy dreams, but he was now firmly on our side—because the key to unsealing Obito was in Kushina’s hands. Classic hostage insurance. She said Orochimaru still had a grudge against Konoha, and as a former Hokage, she couldn’t let anything happen to the village.

And from a few things she let slip, I pieced together that old man Hiruzen… yeah. Pretty sure he ended up on Orochimaru’s dissection table. Creepy snake bastard probably got real hands-on.

Shisui was still working as a Guardian Shinobi, now going by “Sho.” Itachi, meanwhile, had way bigger fish to fry. He was infiltrating the Akatsuki. But when they captured Obito, he also learned something huge—on the night the Uchiha clan “died,” most of the women and kids weren’t killed. Obito had sealed them away somehow. He wiped their memories and later dropped them off on an isolated island way down south. So yeah, the Uchiha bloodline survived.

Maybe Obito had plans to rebuild the clan… who knows? But Shisui told me that soon, we might see a “Great Uchiha Migration.” Or maybe not. That’s their business. Maybe they’ll even strike a deal with Nekomata-sama—after all, Sharingan’s a valuable asset, and right now they’ve got zero protection. No one knows they exist—not even Kushina. That info? Straight from Shisui.

I’m that kind of cat who knows way too many secrets, yep. And yet I still nearly die of curiosity on the regular. That saying about curiosity killing the cat? Totally checks out. But let’s be honest—life’s a lot more fun and exciting this way.

“Kushina-sensei, you wanted to see me?” Naruto rubbed the back of his head, looking sheepish. “The crew from Konoha just showed up, so I was giving them a tour and, uh… then we kinda lost track of time chatting…”

“Oh! Tora-chan? You’re here too?”

I gave a dignified nod and stared straight at Kushina-san.

Do it already, oh mighty Bloody Habanero. Just tell him!

“Naruto…” Kushina wrung her hands and stepped up until she was nearly nose-to-nose with her son. “I’m… your mom.”

“…What?” Naruto blinked at her, completely stunned.

I slapped a paw to my face. Seriously? That’s how you drop the bomb? Like a straight-up military briefing?

And the best part? Both of them—both Uzumakis—turned and looked at me, like I was supposed to help them navigate this disaster. Typical. Can’t do anything around here without the cat.

“It’s true?” Naruto said quickly, then turned to her. “Come on, tell me properly!”

Kushina coughed awkwardly. “Shisui and I… didn’t tell you and Sasuke everything,” she began. “A year ago, when it all happened… I was the Nine-Tails’ jinchuriki. And I was also the Fifth Hokage. I hadn’t held the title long—just long enough to have the Third removed.”

“Shikamaru told us our intel was incomplete,” Naruto said, suddenly serious. “No one really knows why the Sarutobi clan made that move. If the Uchiha were being used, then maybe it wasn’t them running the village after all. We figured it might be the Senju pulling the strings—that their clan survived somehow. But… it was you. You, Uzumaki Kushina.”

“They used to call me ‘Red Hot Blooded Habanero,’” she muttered. “The Nine-Tails’ jinchuriki. They wanted to get rid of me and create a new jinchuriki—using my son. Normally, when you rip a Tailed Beast out of someone, they die. But I survived. Thanks to Tora-san… and Shisui. I couldn’t tell you earlier. Too much unrest. A jinchuriki has to learn to stabilize the Tailed Beast’s chakra. Besides… I wasn’t sure I’d survive. I didn’t want to give my son hope, only to hurt him again by dying a second time.”

“I—what?” Naruto’s voice broke as he threw his arms around her. “Don’t say that… Mom… You’re my mom. You’re alive. Really alive. I always looked at you with Gaara and Karin and thought… I was jealous, y’know? It felt like you were their mom. So kind and caring and… you really used to be called Bloody Habanero?” he added with a teary chuckle.

“Try cussing in front of her and you’ll find out why,” I muttered, my throat dry. For real though, what were they waiting for? Look at him now, waterworks in full swing—and Kushina too! Great. Now am I supposed to cry with them?

“Mama,” my little Chickpea finally pulled back. “Can you… can you adopt Gaara too? He’s a good guy. He’s like a brother to me. And maybe Karin too? She’s not that annoying. And she’s Uzumaki, right?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Kushina laughed softly, hugging him tight again. “You have such a big heart… just like your father.”

“…Who was he?” Naruto asked, quietly.

“Minato Namikaze. The Fourth Hokage. He died protecting the Land of Fire when you were still a baby.”

I padded a few slow circles on Gaara’s still-skinny chest before curling up. Just listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. No sand cocoon this time—just a bed. A real one. He still had nightmares sometimes. That’s why I usually slept with him.

And you know what? I finally get that weird little house-elf from those old cartoons(1) I used to watch before—the one who said “happiness is when everyone’s home.(2)”

It’s true.

The shinobi world isn’t exactly peaceful or safe or, y’know, not a hot mess—but it teaches you to appreciate the little moments. The quiet ones. The precious ones.

And if something bad does happen again… well, they’ve got me.

And I’m awesome.

— THE END —

(1) The proper translation would be: “Now I perfectly understand the brownie Kuzya(2) from the cartoons of my childhood, who said that happiness is when everyone’s home”.

(2) The quote is from "Domovenok Kuzya" (Brownie Kuzya). A four-part series of Soviet puppet animated films about a brownie (house-elf) named Kuzya, based on the fairy tales of Tatyana Aleksandrova and scripts by Marina Vishnevetskaya and Valentin Berestov

TN: That’s it—that’s the end of the story. Thank you all for reading! And special thanks again to Кицунэ Миято for the story and for the permission to translate it.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 70

“How are you holding up, Tora-chan?” Hinata scratched behind my ear and curled up beside me on the bed like a sleepy cinnamon roll wrapped around a depressed furball.

“Not great,” I sighed. It came out soft and pitiful. I was really falling apart.

Why couldn’t I have just stayed put in that damned forest? Things might’ve turned out so differently.

“Are you hungry?” Hinata asked. “I bought your favorite canned food.”

I shook my head. Lately, I didn’t even want to look at food. It had been four weeks since that thing in the Forest of Death. Four. Weeks. At first, I’d been hopeful—maybe even expected them to pop back up somehow—but the last three days? Full-blown despair.

I still couldn’t believe it actually happened. They smelled like themselves, sure, but that’s because they were wearing the same clothes. Clothes can be swapped.

And the snakes? Definitely summons from Orochimaru. But what threw me off was that the jounin had killed the snakes, cut them open, and retrieved the bodies.

 I’d seen giant snakes in the Forest before—maybe not that big, but definitely giant. And the way the bodies were quickly sealed away and disposed of? Super shady. Felt like someone didn’t want them examined.

And I always thought when a jinchuuriki died, the bijuu was released. But no—turns out if the host dies fast and unexpectedly, the tailed beast dies with them and only reappears years later like some kind of natural disaster respawn timer.

You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve overheard… My hidey-holes in the Hokage Residence came in real handy.

For two weeks, Konoha was in a complete panic. Everything was being managed by the two Elders—Gramps and Granny—trying to calm things down and keep the politics from exploding. Envoys from the Sand were darting around like caffeinated weasels.

But in the end, every investigation hit a wall. Official word was that it was “an unfortunate accident.”

Konoha gave the Sand some dusty old scroll as a formal apology for Gaara.

Apparently the Elders didn’t really care. They muttered that the Fourth Kazekage had wanted to get rid of the “village weapon” he couldn’t control and was probably relieved it happened.

But when it came to Naruto—the jinchuuriki of the Nine-Tails—and Sasuke—the Last Uchiha—you bet they were singing a different tune. There’d been plans for those two.

Kakashi’s official guess? The boys (plus Kazekage Jr., who no one knew why he was even in that room) got knocked out cold by debris when the wall collapsed from the snake attack. Swallowed unconscious. Never had a chance to fight or escape. Digestion did the rest.

The Third Hokage? Still missing. Not dead. Missing. No clues, no witnesses, no trail.

Because the exams had so many foreign guests, and someone might spill the news that the Hokage was MIA, they started the process of picking a new one fast.

They named Jiraiya the Fifth, but he declined and said he’d bring back someone “better.”

Honestly, I’d been praying that meant Kushina-san, but nope. Five days ago, Tsunade returned to Konoha. Yesterday, she had her inauguration.

I snuck in to say hi and had a chat with Tonton, but the pig didn’t have much intel. Just babbled about all their sketchy tavern-hopping lately and how Lady Senju kept gambling away their savings and ditching towns before the debts hit. He didn’t even know why they left Konoha in the first place.

The more time passed, the worse my panic got. What if my boys and Kushina-san really were…?

“Hinata! Tora-chan!”

A knock. Neji poked his head into the room, looking way more ruffled than usual.

“Nii-san? What’s going on?” Hinata sat up fast.

“Orders from the Fifth Hokage! I’ve been assigned to lead a mission.”

“To us?” Hinata blinked. I did too.

“Yes. Me, you, Shikamaru, Ino, Choji, Kiba. Our mission is to locate and escort Lady Shijimi’s cat, Tora-san, to the daimyo’s palace in Himachi.”

“…What?” Hinata and I said in unison.

But right in that second—my heart started to pound with hope again!

The mission got classified as C-rank, but we didn’t leave Konoha as just six genin, a dog, and a cat—oh no. We had a babysitter: one ANBU tailing us in secret. And I knew exactly who it was under that mask—Hatake Kakashi himself.

No one escapes my scent tracking.

It wasn’t a super far mission—Himachi’s just about 100 kilometers out, still within the Fire Country—but still. You don’t just send all the heirs to the major clans out on a stroll without backup.

Neji let it slip when we met up with Sakura: the escort job was just a cover.

Apparently, the daimyo wanted to “evaluate” potential clan heads. Rumor had it the Fire Lord was looking to expand his elite personal guard—the Twelve Guardian Ninja—and might offer some of us a contract.

Everyone exchanged glances but didn’t say much.

They looked just like me—scared to hope, but still hoping anyway.

Back when we gathered at Sasuke’s apartment, Shikamaru had tried comforting Ino and Hinata. He even said, “This whole thing smells way too convenient. They shut it down too fast, like they were afraid of starting a war or scandal.”

One of his strongest arguments? Me.

They believed in me a little too much. Maybe because I never gave up waiting.

Maybe they were just like me—clinging to any scrap of a chance.

Patience is the first lesson of a true shinobi.

So yeah, I waited. I waited three and a half weeks, holding on to that little flicker of “maybe.”

They took turns carrying me, though sometimes I jogged alongside Akamaru for a bit. By sunset, we reached the daimyo’s palace.

Neji flashed the mission scroll and showed them Yours Truly. A random court official met us at the gate and led us in.

“Tora-chan!!”

Lady Shijimi came flying into the hallway like a cruise missile of motherly affection.

“My owner!” I launched into her arms like a majestic, furry cannonball—almost knocked Kiba flat.

I almost cried. I definitely purred like a chainsaw. She scratched, she cuddled, she kissed my nose—pure bliss.

But most importantly?

She smelled like Naruto.

Like Sasuke.

Like Gaara.

And Kushina.

Alive.

Okay. Now I’m hungry.

“You’ve gotten so skinny!” she cooed, like she’d read my mind. “My poor baby, my precious tiger-kitty! Tora-chan! I’ve got chicken! Tofu! And smoked eel, just for you!”

Neji was mostly right about the Twelve Guardian Ninja thing.

After I stuffed myself like a Thanksgiving turkey, and everyone else got a solid meal too, we were brought before the daimyo himself.

I did my usual palace routine: climbed into his lap, made myself at home, and wiped my fur all over his royal robes while he chatted with Neji, Shikamaru, and the others.

Turns out they were recruiting three new guardians, ages matching our own.

It’s a real contract—service from three to ten years. He promised to send Hokage-sama a formal invitation letter.

“And in the meantime,” said Lord Minoruhi with a kind smile, “I thought you might enjoy meeting a few of the younger guardian shinobi already in service. See how it all works.”

Naturally, I followed them—straight to the palace’s old gazebo I remembered from when I was just a kitten. This was the same spot I once pounced onto Daishiki’s face… Ah, good times. Feels like a hundred years ago, not just a little over two.

“These are some of our youngest Guardian Shinobi,” the attending official introduced three masked figures who stepped into the gazebo. Their masks were similar to Kakashi’s, they wore Leaf headbands, standard uniforms, and white triangular hip sashes marked with the Fire Country symbol. “I’ll leave you to it—they’ll show you around and answer any questions.”

The official bowed out, leaving us alone.

Akamaru gave a bark at Kiba. Ino and Hinata squealed.

And then… Naruto, Sasuke, and Gaara pulled off their masks.

“Guys! Tora-chan!”

The girls launched themselves into hugs. The guys kept it cool, of course.

Me? I’m a cat. I get a pass for going full emotional meltdown mode.

I missed them so much. I’d been waiting! I hadn’t slept right in weeks, eavesdropping under doors, pacing, worrying, barely eating… You monsters!

“Sorry, Tora-chan!” Naruto scratched me behind the ears, peering into my eyes. “Everything just started happening so fast.”

“All right, spill it,” Kiba demanded.

Akamaru barked in agreement. I nodded, and Naruto quickly flashed through a string of hand signs. Green sealing marks crawled over the gazebo walls.

“It’s a soundproof barrier,” he explained, as the group let out a collective “whoa.”

Neji activated his Byakugan, gave the perimeter a once-over, and nodded.

“Not bad at all, Naruto.”

“It all started on the autumn equinox festival, back in September…” Sasuke began.

And then Sasuke laid it all out—the truth about his clan’s massacre and the mass genjutsu that both Akamaru and I had already confirmed.

“We—me, Naruto, Kiba, Shikamaru, and Choji—were best friends since our first year at the Academy. But everyone forgot.”

“Asuma-sensei was part of it?!” Shikamaru blurted out, stunned. “I mean… I remember the whole ‘Guardian Shinobi Rebellion’ thing in September, and it was weird my dad didn’t send a team to investigate. That was kind of off.”

“Asuma, like everyone else, forgot,” Sasuke said. “No one really knew. Everyone got caught in it. The Sarutobi used the Uchiha clan’s ambition, manipulated them… and then erased them. And the evidence. Right now, only three people know the truth. And none of them want to change anything. The world keeps spinning, and this kind of genjutsu? A simple ‘kai’ won’t break it.”

He caught Ino’s intense look and added, “From what I understand, trying to interfere using Yamanaka-style mental techniques could actually end very badly. So—what’s done is done. We’re focused on the now.”

“What happened in the Forest of Death, then?” Neji asked.

“We faked our deaths,” Sasuke said after a pause. “Left behind our clothes and personal items. It was our way of shedding the past and starting over.”

He glanced down. “There are still some things we can’t talk about…”

“What matters is that you’re alive,” Hinata whispered, her cheeks going pink. “We thought you were…”

“Yeah. We’re alive,” Naruto grinned, hugging me tight.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you give a cat a heart attack and then make it all better with cuddles.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 69

I was tearing through the Forest of Death like a bat outta hell, spooking the local wildlife left and right. Sorry, critters—urgent business! Gaara’s floating eyeball trailed after me, doing its best to keep up. Cool jutsu, sure—great for the desert, where you can see everything to the horizon, or inside tight spaces. But in a place like this? Not ideal. There’s a tree every two feet, giant spiders hiding in ambush, and every bush and beast is screaming on chakra sensors. You don’t just need eyes here—you need a nose, a tail, and divine luck.

I caught scent of a few chakra signatures coming in hot and bolted into the underbrush. A squad of ANBU zipped past, masks and all, moving like silent ghosts. Uh-huh. Good thing my scent markers are cat-grade permanent. I always know my way around. So me and the eyeball took a detour around what I guessed was a recon team.

I had this gnawing feeling it was all because of Sarutobi. The preliminary matches were supposed to start soon, and according to the anime, the Hokage himself was supposed to show up at the tower for a speech and to cheer on the genin. Big morale boost, right? Fighting with the Third Hokage watching? Talk about pressure.

But he hadn’t shown up.

And considering we’ve also got Kushina-san and Orochimaru sneaking around the Forest of Death doing who-knows-what, well, let’s just say my inner math nerd was sketching a very suspicious equation.

When I finally reached the area that reeked of Kushina’s chakra and had leftover chakra residue hanging in the air like fog, I found… a perfectly empty clearing. No signs of a fight. No scorched trees, no craters, not even trampled grass—though to be fair, the moss in the Forest of Death is weirdly “magical,” always healing itself and slowly absorbing chakra. A literal leech carpet. Ugh.

So I had to pull out my best bloodhound impression and put to use everything Kuramaru and Akamaru ever tried to teach me. The trick is to visualize each scent trail as the person or animal that left it. Kuramaru was a beast at this. He could tell what color boots someone wore based on how the leather smelled—treated differently depending on if it was tanned hide, canvas, or that weird ninja rubber. Once you’ve got your mental picture, you “rewind” the trail in your mind. Figure out where they stopped, what they did. If they marked territory or… well, took a nature break, that helps too.

The clearing was a mess of overlapping trails, but I relaxed, sniffed, and started piecing it together like the good little algebra cat I am. Gaara’s eyeball hovered next to me, also scanning the place.

I circled three times, trying to make sense of it all… and got nothing. The trails made no sense. ANBU going in circles, scattered formations. All of them freaked out.

From what I could tell, our wrinkly cherub of a Hokage had been just strolling through the woods. Laid-back pace. Ahead of him were guards sweeping the path, clearing critters and plants. Two escorts close by, and ANBU all over the trees like spooky fruit.

And then? Poof. He just… vanished. No scorch marks, no teleportation flash. Not even a broken twig. Like he got erased from reality.

They’d clearly searched this area from top to bottom and found squat. I wondered how it happened. Did he glow and fade out? Did he dissolve into sparkles? Was it a "pull-the-tablecloth" trick and nobody noticed Granny with the saw under the table? And now I’m picturing Kushina-san in a Vegas magician outfit—sparkly bikini, feather boa, sawing the Hokage in half… Okay, focus, Tora! You're spiraling.

Whatever it was, it felt like a high-level space-time jutsu. But there were no clues left—no telling who did it or where they went. The ANBU must’ve figured he could’ve been warped out against his will, maybe even not far, so they were combing the area like mad. I could still smell Kushina, but her trail came after the others. Like she showed up late to the party. Maybe she’s the one who lost track of him?

What if she and Orochimaru were lying in wait with some classic cartoon ambush—cut down a sapling, set it to spring, jump out yelling “Your wallet or your life!”—okay, wow. I really am losing it.

Focus, Tora.

Kushina did something here. Her chakra is all over the place.

Gaara’s eyeball floated over, giving me a hard look. I shook my head. If I had shoulders, I’d shrug. What’d we expect? That a couple of ninjas who could each be Kage-level would leave behind an obvious footprint? Please. Hiruzen might be a dried-up raisin, but he’s sharp. The kind of guy you try to bite and break your teeth on.

I just hope Kushina-san’s okay. In the anime, she wasn’t even around—but if this is the timeline where she’s back, then we really need her. Orochimaru? Man, that guy fought three Kage—including two zombies—and still lost both his arms. I used to kinda cheer when he got wrecked. Now he’s on our side? No thanks, let’s keep his limbs intact.

Suddenly, a low rumble echoed from the direction of the tower. Trees trembled, birds exploded into the air, and my fur puffed up like I’d licked an outlet.

Gaara’s sand eye crumbled into dust and scattered on the breeze.

Uh-oh.

Either he lost focus, chakra ran out, or something bad just happened.

I gotta get back to the tower. Now.

I… I’m gonna lose weight from the stress. I swear, I just dropped two pounds in sheer panic.

WHAT. THE. HELL. HAPPENED HERE?!

I leave for one hour and this place goes full disaster movie. The walls—how?! They’re thick enough to stop a bijuu blast! And now there’s… slime?? Everywhere?! Did we get invaded by aliens?!

And that massive hole—oh god. That hole’s exactly where I came out earlier.

“Naruto! Sasuke! Gaara!”

Nothing but rocks and slime. No scents. Their scents were gone.

Someone scooped me up and hugged me tight. That’s when I realized I was shaking. Ino.

“Shhh… Tora-chan,” she whispered, her voice cracking with sobs. I turned and saw Sakura too, all dusty and smeared with pale-gray grime, eyes puffy and red from crying.

“What happened?!” I tried to wriggle free. I had to find my boys.

“Tora-chan, they’re gone,” Ino whispered into my fur, breaking into tears again.

“Gone?!” The dust and gunk in the air made it impossible to smell anything. My heart dropped like a rock, but… I still hoped. Maybe this was all part of some plan…

“Some kind of huge snakes attacked the tower,” Sakura sniffled. “I overheard someone say it happened because the structure’s perimeter was breached. The worst hit was this room. One of the chunin said someone forced open the wall vent. They couldn’t find the boys under the wreckage. Most likely, they… they…”

“Got swallowed by the snake,” Ino finished for her.

“But they’re shinobi,” she added quickly. “Sasuke and Naruto are strong. They’ll survive… for a while. The exam proctors drove the snake off, and they’re rebuilding the barrier now. They’ll go after it.”

Right. Of course. Just part of the plan. Everything’s fine. In the anime, Naruto got swallowed by a snake too—Orochimaru’s snake. This is just a rerun with a twist.

Now I just need to cheer up the girls.

“I’m sorry, Ino. Sakura…”

I was staring blankly at what looked like a tiny, pale-blue Naruto being carried by Kakashi. Two more shinobi followed behind, carrying… bodies.

Sasuke and Gaara’s.

Dead bodies.

Naruto looked especially awful—blue-lipped, clothes soaked in slime, his jacket covered in my pawprint designs, all twisted and torn like he’d been chewed on and spit out.

“We got to the snake’s stomach too late,” a man in green muttered quietly. I recognized him—Might Guy, the Brow Sensei. He was holding Sasuke.

“The digestive acid was extremely toxic,” he added grimly.

Then Sand ninja came running over.

“Gaara!” Temari gasped.

Gaara looked especially creepy—his cracked, dried sand coating made him look like a broken doll.

“Oh god, what is that?!” one of the chunin shouted, as Gaara’s body began to crumble, sand shedding like ash.

“Here too!” Guy said, setting Sasuke gently down.

“What’s going on?” the man with the curtain-mask came over and reached for Gaara, only to recoil—his hand had sunk into soft, collapsing mush, and the stench of decay hit like a sledgehammer.

“It’s the snake’s stomach acid. It’s corrosive,” Kakashi said flatly, laying Naruto down. “Damn it. There won’t be much left to bury if this keeps up… We need containment. Tenzo!”

An ANBU stepped forward, forming seals, and wood sprang from his fingers—three small coffins made of dark, polished bark that gently wrapped around the deteriorating bodies. Even names appeared on top. I didn’t want to read them.

No one spoke.

The girls sobbed quietly. I was frozen, clinging to Ino with claws buried in her coat. Her salty tears kept dripping onto my nose.

“I’m taking Gaara,” the masked man said, pulling out a scroll. In silence, he sealed one of the wooden coffins.

“Due to these unforeseen circumstances,” coughed someone behind the crowd, “the Chuunin Exams are canceled. We’ll investigate the death of the genin thoroughly. Everyone is to return to Konoha under ANBU escort. Security measures will be enforced.”

Ino never let go of me. She cried the whole way back.

The guys walked beside us in silence, heads down. Choji sniffled now and then. Akamaru whimpered softly.

But… they don’t really believe it, right? That my boys are really…

This isn’t real, right?

This has to be part of the plan.

Right?

Right?!

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 68

“I remember the hate,” Naruto said, scratching behind my ear as he spoke, though Gaara—sitting right beside him—was clearly listening too. “It felt like it had always been there. Like it was part of me. The looks adults gave me. That cold, heavy silence. The way people whispered behind my back. How other kids weren’t allowed to talk to me or be my friend. I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong. Why everyone hated me. Who I even was. I didn’t know anything about my parents, or even what I was supposed to be doing with my life.”

He paused and smiled, giving me a few more scritches.

“About six months ago, I met Tora-chan. He became my first real friend.”

Damn right I did. That earned Naruto some happy purring and a dramatic flop into his lap.

“I think he didn’t like that I was alone,” Naruto went on, “so he helped me and Sasuke get closer. Technically, yeah, we already knew each other—same class at the Academy—but we never really knew each other. We were both stuck in our own stuff. Alone, but next to each other. Tora-chan fixed that. He gave us both something real. And now he wants to help you too. I see the same pain in your eyes that I used to see in the mirror.”

He took a breath.

“I found out two months ago that I’m a jinchuriki. That there’s a monster inside me. I was terrified my friends would leave if they ever found out. That they’d be scared of the thing inside me. That I’d end up all alone again. Worse, I was scared I’d lose control one day and hurt them. The person who told me about it said some really awful stuff. But I made a promise to myself. That no matter what happens, I’ll protect the people I care about—and I’ll never let the monster inside me hurt them. And you know what? My friends didn’t run away. They still see me as me. I can’t let them down.”

Gaara leaned back against the wall, and I climbed into his lap like an emotionally supportive, purring football.

“He wants you to talk now too,” Naruto smiled gently. “That’s how Tora shows love.”

I nodded, giving Gaara my patented Big Cat Eyes™. He reached up and touched the red kanji scar over his left eye.

“Love…” he echoed in a dry, rasping voice. “You said you didn’t know who you were. Or who your parents were. My family? They hated me. Every one of them. My father—he is the Fourth Kazekage—he wanted a perfect weapon. So they sealed a demon inside me the day I was born. My mother… they say I killed her just by being born. I was a mistake from day one. And my father made sure I never forgot it. I was raised alone. Spoiled, untouchable… and completely unwanted.”

His voice turned flat and empty.

“There was one person who took care of me. Yashamaru. He said he was my mother’s brother. Said she loved me. But when he tried to kill me, he told me the truth—that she hated me. That he hated me too. That he only tried to love me because it was his duty.”

Gaara choked a little and rubbed the mark on his forehead. I bumped my nose against him gently.

His wild, panicked eyes found mine, and he took a few shaky breaths.

“I was created using a special technique,” he continued. “It left my mind… unstable. People in the village figured out I was dangerous. Unpredictable. My father considered me a trump card, but he was terrified of me. When I turned six, he started sending assassins. Everyone did. The elders, other villages… I just kept killing them. One after another. And that’s when I decided—I was done asking why I existed. I live to kill. My name—Gaara—it means ‘Demon who loves only himself.’ That’s what my mother named me. And I believed it. That as long as I lived for myself and killed anyone who got in my way… that was the only time I felt alive.”

His hands went to his head, fingers clawing at his scalp. His eyes were glassy with tears.

“You really believe that crap?” Naruto snapped, grabbing Gaara’s shoulders and giving him a shake. “Because I don’t! That’s not who you are! That’s not the guy I’ve been talking to! That’s not who Tora-chan believes in! And I’m your friend too! I said you were my friend—and I never go back on my word! That’s my ninja way!

“And why do you even think you’re unstable?” he demanded.

Gaara swallowed hard.

“There’s a technique… a possession jutsu. ‘Tanuki Neiri no Jutsu.’ It summons Shukaku, the demon. But only when I fall asleep. If I sleep, he tries to take control.”

“Wait, wait—so you don’t sleep at all?” Naruto blinked. I yowled in outrage loud enough to make both of them jump.

“That’s the root of all your problems!” I declared with the authority of a fluffy therapist.

“Tora-chan’s clearly trying to say something,” Naruto said, eyeing me thoughtfully. “Let me guess… Gaara needs sleep?”

I nodded solemnly and let out a purr of approval. Good boy.

“So—get this,” Naruto rubbed the back of his head. “Sasuke had trouble sleeping too. Bad dreams. He was all twitchy and messed up. Can’t blame him—his whole clan got wiped out in one night. He couldn’t sleep for ages. Said sometimes he’d hear things, see things that weren’t real. And that’s without having a tailed beast sealed in him. So… wait. Don’t you need, like, hand seals to use that summoning jutsu? Can you even cast ninjutsu without seals?”

Gaara’s mouth opened, then slowly closed. He stared at me. Then back at Naruto.

“Seals?” he echoed, almost whispering. “Yeah… it takes seals. Eight, I think…”

“So, you need the seals and to fall asleep for the demon to come out?” Naruto asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Well… yeah…” Gaara mumbled. “And Tora-chan and I… we’ve been sleeping together…”

He immediately froze, clearly realizing how that sounded.

“You didn’t feel possessed afterward, right? No crazy dreams? No voices in your head?” Naruto asked, sounding suspiciously like a doctor diagnosing sleep deprivation.

“…No,” Gaara admitted, blinking hard.

“I knew it!” Naruto pointed at me triumphantly. “Tora-chan told you the same thing, didn’t he?”

I nodded again, puffing my chest out proudly. Honestly, poor kid got gaslit into thinking his REM cycles summon Satan.

“And besides,” Naruto added, “you were a baby when they put Shukaku in you, right? You slept before that, obviously. You didn’t know anything. If that thing only shows up after the seals, then sleep isn’t the problem—it’s the damn jutsu. You just didn’t know better. They scared you into thinking you’d go full monster mode if you nodded off. But I’m a jinchuriki too—and I sleep great. So that theory’s busted.”

Gaara lifted his head, eyes distant.

“The first time he ever appeared,” he murmured, “was when someone tried to kill me. I couldn’t fight back. I was in pain. Scared. Furious. The hate… it made the monster stronger.”

Yeah. No kidding.

“Oh… I’m sorry. Really,” Naruto said, biting his lip. “I wish you could stay in Konoha. With me, and Sasuke, and Tora-chan… and our friends.”

Suddenly, there was noise—like a crowd rushing somewhere—and my ears perked up like satellite dishes.

“What was that?” both boys tensed.

The door slammed open and Sasuke darted in, sharp-eyed and serious. He scanned us, sitting there like we were just having tea and cookies.

“There’s an alert,” he said curtly. “The exam proctors are all on edge. Told all genin to stay in their rooms. No one’s saying what it is.”

My tail twitched. Yeah, I knew that kind of tension. Whatever it was, it had “Kushina-san and Orochimaru” written all over it.

The windows were tiny slits way up near the ceiling—more like glorified vents than anything else. But hey, I’m a cat. That’s practically an invitation.

“Okay, team, we need a meeting,” I announced as I trotted a circle around the room to grab their attention.

Three pairs of eyes turned to me. Time for some Grade-A kitty charades.

I hopped over to the massive wall, looked up at the itty-bitty window vent thingy, and started jumping and pawing at the wall dramatically. Honestly, I looked like a hamster in a jar. We used to have one like that back home—he’d just belly-smear the glass in protest.

“…I think Tora-chan wants out,” Sasuke said slowly, watching my aerial performance.

Yes. YES. Thank you, Captain Obvious!

“Yeah, I bet he wants to go peek at what’s going on,” Naruto added with a snort. “But you know, if it’s dangerous out there—”

I interrupted him by springing onto Gaara and smushing a paw over his eye. Then I hopped down, scooped a bit of sand off the floor with my paw, jumped back on Gaara’s chest, and dramatically covered his eye again.

Third time’s the charm.

“…You mean this?” Gaara touched his temple and concentrated. Sand shifted, and a small floating eyeball formed right in front of his face.

“Whoa, what the—?!” Naruto flinched as the eyeball hovered and stared at him like an overenthusiastic drone.

“Third Eye Jutsu,” Gaara said. “It links directly to my optic nerve. I can see whatever it sees. And… don’t poke it.”

“Dude. That’s so cool!” Naruto said, sticking his hands behind his back before he could poke it anyway. “Alright! I’ll handle the window!”

He made a hand sign and poof—eight clones popped into existence. Three of them dropped into crouches and turned into a human step-ladder while the rest climbed up. The top one—probably the original—started picking at the vent with a kunai, prying the glass and frame loose.

“Sasuke!” he called down.

“I got him,” Sasuke said, scooping me up like the precious loaf I am.

He backed up a few steps, sprinted, and leapt onto the clone tower. The top clone popped as he jumped off, the rest collapsing like dominoes—except Naruto caught the falling kunai with a smooth ninja flourish because of course he did.

Sasuke stuck to the wall mid-jump like a gecko, and boom—I was face to face with the hole.

With the elegance of a feline missile, I slithered through, scraped the wall with my claws, and skidded out onto the roof.

Right behind me, Gaara’s sandy eyeball zipped through like a magical GoPro.

TARARARATATATA! Charge, my fellow feline cavalry!

[Castling] Chapter 68

The rest of the school year flew by in a blur of busyness and fun. We were knee-deep in exam prep, but still managed trips to Hogsmeade, visits to Hagrid, the odd bit of flying, and even spent time with the visiting students.

Hermione introduced us to Krum, who ended up hanging round with us now and then. For all his gruff, brooding looks, Viktor turned out to be a decent enough bloke—talkative even—though at first he kept sneaking glances at me and Harry, clearly sizing us up as competition for Hermione. It was hilarious to watch, really. Hermione clearly enjoyed the attention from someone older and famous, even if she pretended not to notice.

Once the weather warmed up properly, we—like most of the students—often asked the house-elves to pack us a picnic and took our books out to the lake. The idea was to study, though it usually turned into chatting more than anything else.

Krum, unsurprisingly, followed Hermione around like a lovesick Kneazle. If she was in the library, he’d loiter nearby. If we were out on the lawn, he’d show up too—stretching, doing tricks on his broom, trying to show off his fit physique. Eventually, we just invited him to sit with us, which he did, despite Hermione looking like she’d rather sink into the ground.

Of course, all that made studying nearly impossible, which drove Hermione up the wall. And I don’t think even she knew what she wanted half the time. Every time we spread out the picnic blanket under the oak and Krum joined us, more people would drift over. Before long, there’d be a proper crowd, all asking for autographs, and then Krum and Harry would end up showing off on their brooms while everyone screamed like it was the World Cup.

Harry had got into the habit of showing off too—not that I blamed him. After those three awkward dates with Cho in Hogsmeade, he’d started acting more self-conscious. She was older, stunning, and had lads queueing up for her—taller, buffer lads at that. Harry, bless him, was all elbows and skinny limbs, and I think he felt it. Still, watching the two of them faff about with all their drama and posturing was funny as hell. Once I’d passed everything along to Snape, I let the rest go and just enjoyed being a student again, hoping everything would sort itself without me.

We often saw Diggory and Fleur strolling by the lake, looking like a couple straight off some romance. Their companionship was the hot topic of the year—everyone was gossiping about it. Personally, I found Diggory a bit too polished, but there was no denying he and Fleur made a striking pair. Sometimes they’d stop by and say hello, though that was clearly more for Krum’s benefit than ours.

Eventually, the exam crunch hit, and that was that for our lakeside lounging.

When we finally finished our last paper—History of Magic—we all headed down to the Quidditch pitch straight after dinner.

It looked completely different now. The whole area had been turned into a towering maze of hedges, twenty feet high. In the fading light, the green had turned to a gloomy grey, making the whole thing look more like a fortress than a garden. They’d put the stands off to one side, far from the hedge, but right near a small open space where the Triwizard Cup stood glowing faintly on a pedestal. You could just make it out in the dusk.

I figured we wouldn’t be able to see much of what happened inside the maze, but they’d set up magical viewing panels around the platform so everyone could at least see who reached the Cup first. Wouldn’t be shocked if that was Snape’s doing—after everything I’d told him.

Time dragged on, but Bagman kept up a steady stream of commentary:

“Oh Merlin—what a shot! Mr Krum’s dealt with the Tailspike... Brilliant! The Beauxbatons Champion solved the Sphinx’s riddle in thirty seconds flat… Mr Diggory’s handled the Acromantula like a pro!”

He must’ve had some sort of magical feed, ‘cause we couldn’t see a thing—but every shout from Bagman had the crowd gasping and cheering.

Good thing I hadn’t placed a bet. I figured with Harry out of the running, anything could happen—and turns out I was bang on.

All the champions made it to the Cup platform at nearly the same time. The screens didn’t carry sound, but the buzz in the air was electric.

Diggory and Krum lunged for the Cup—until Fleur whipped her wand on both of them. The three of them stood frozen, wands trained on one another, like some Western standoff, until Krum made the first move and raised his wand.

“Oy! Look there—Durmstrang’s Champion is demanding a proper duel! Well, that’s not against the rules… Who’s going to go first?”

While Fleur waited her turn, the lads circled each other and started slinging spells like seasoned pros. The blasts of colour lit up the clearing, no need for the screens at that point—it was brilliant to watch.

Krum was throwing advanced curses like it was nothing, living up to Durmstrang’s reputation. Diggory, to his credit, held his own—dodging with unbelievable agility and firing back with complex spells of his own, though nothing Dark. The crowd was going wild, cheering and hollering from the stands. Diggory was clearly injured, dragging his leg and covered in blood from cuts, but still going. Just when it looked like he was done for, he managed to catch Krum off guard with a side-blast of a Stunner.

The crowd erupted. It was chaos—like the World Cup all over again.

Diggory limped over to Fleur and raised his wand, inviting her to duel. He looked like he was about to collapse at her feet. The French section of the stands went mad, already celebrating. But Fleur did something no one expected—she lowered her wand, conceding the fight.

The French crowd groaned in disappointment.

Diggory paused, said something to her, and then he lowered his wand too. Together, they walked up to the Cup, each taking a handle, and raised it at the same time. Then they hobbled off the platform side by side.

It took a few moments before the crowd snapped out of the shock—but when they did, they roared. Applause exploded from every side of the pitch as the Champions reappeared, side by side, bathed in the Cup’s glow.

“I’d never have beaten Mr Krum if I’d drawn him first,” Fleur said later in an interview with the Prophet. “And Cedric was badly injured — to win against him would’ve felt like cheating. I couldn’t go through with it.”

In the end, after reviewing all the iffy bits, the champions shared first place, and split the prize money between them. Dumbledore, in his usual fashion, congratulated the champions and declared that friendship had won. Though really, a different word might’ve been more fitting. The Durmstrang lot looked pretty put out, visibly annoyed. Our lot were mostly impressed — swept away by the romance and nobility of the whole thing. The French, however, were properly livid — even their headmistress got into it with Hagrid, and he ended up sitting at the celebratory feast in the Great Hall looking miserable, his face all puffy from drink.

Cedric’s dad, for his part, wasn’t thrilled either — he gave Fleur the side-eye and openly criticised Cedric’s “daft” decision to throw away victory for the sake of some lofty ideal and a girl. But no one expected what happened next.

The day before the visiting schools were set to leave, Fleur and Cedric vanished. Later, they turned up in Gretna Green — that goblin-smith village where underage witches and wizards run off to get magically married without parental consent.

What followed was an absolute scandal — not just at Hogwarts, but across magical Britain. The runaways were brought back. They hadn’t managed to get married, but Fleur had been compromised by spending the night alone with Cedric while they travelled — dodging pursuit and heading toward their destination. They hadn’t used magic, so they couldn’t be tracked — just brooms.

The Tournament organisers and staff from both schools were suddenly facing a potential international incident. The outcry practically eclipsed the Triwizard Tournament itself — even the World Cup seemed tame by comparison. British wizards can be awfully stiff when it comes to morality and proper behaviour — especially where old families and school-aged kids are involved, even if they’re technically of age. We left school still not knowing how it would all pan out.

By the time we were on the train home, the story had sprouted wings. Parvati claimed Cedric had begged his dad to let them marry, but he’d refused Fleur outright after learning she was part Veela — apparently, that was a dealbreaker for a proper old-blood English family. The Delacours, on the other hand, were all for it. They even hinted that Cedric would be welcome in France, with Fleur’s dad offering to sort him a cushy job at the French Ministry. There was even talk of Cedric finishing his final year at Beauxbatons — to stay close to his bride-to-be.

In early July, the Prophet published a notice of Fleur Delacour and Cedric Diggory’s engagement. The wedding was set, as it should be, for the following autumn. As Ginny said, eyes all dreamy, “true love conquers all.” Mum agreed, dabbing her eyes like she was at a wedding already. She’s always been the sentimental sort — loves a happy ending, especially the romantic kind.

As for me — I couldn’t stop thinking how such a small change, like Harry not entering the Tournament, had completely twisted the fates of so many people. He’d asked Cho to the Yule Ball before Cedric got the chance. Cedric asked Fleur. Bill didn’t turn up to support Harry, so he never met Fleur… and everything turned out completely different.

Honestly, these were the dullest, most miserable hols of my life — turned my comfy little world upside down. To top it off, Bill was staying at the Burrow. Thank Merlin Charlie came along later, even if it was only for a week.

For starters, Dad wouldn’t let me go with the Lovegoods. So Luna and her dad went to Africa without me. Her farewell look was all cheerful, but a bit too forced — made it sting worse, if I’m honest. She’d really enjoyed our time together last year, and so had I. Saying I was angry with my dad doesn’t even begin to cover it. We had another proper row, and I nearly legged it. But then Snape asked me to stay — face-to-face, that is. Said he was worried we’d miss the Horcrux. So I stayed.

Dad, all serious, told me something terrible had happened and that Dumbledore had called the Order back together. Arthur was in the first wave. Said they needed every trusted person they had. I hadn’t joined the Order — not that I was planning to — but I already hated the whole idea.

Unlike me, my brothers were absolutely thrilled to “help out.” They dropped their voices like they were about to be handed some top-secret mission — had no clue they’d end up scrubbing mould and chasing doxy infestations out of the curtains. I didn’t say a word. Wanted to see their faces when reality hit.

Meanwhile, Harry was stuck at the Dursleys’ — Dumbledore’s orders. He was so bored he kept scribbling endless notes to me and Hermione. Then Snape got in touch using enchanted parchment, and we met by the ruins of that old castle near our village.

“Dumbledore’s reviving the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape said, scowling like the idea personally offended him. “ Says the old members need warning, and we’ve got to start recruiting new blood in the Ministry. Your job, Weasley, is to find the locket. But we’ll destroy the Horcrux together — you promised, remember?”

“What about the other Horcruxes?” I asked.

“I’m dealing with them,” he said, giving me a weary look. In the daylight, he looked younger — but worse for wear. Like someone chronically ill. Way too pale and thin for a sunny summer day. “I’ve got a plan. But I’ll need your explicit consent,” he added, with a sarcastic twist of his mouth, clearly mocking the formality of it all. “So — do I have your permission, Weasley, to act at my own discretion?”

“You do, sir,” I said seriously. “But only if it’s in my family’s best interest. No one else gets hurt. One Percy was enough.”

“I give you my word,” Snape sneered, twisting his lips into something that might’ve been called a smile. “Rest assured — not a single one of your relatives will be anywhere near it. Care to hear the details?”

“No need. Glad to know, sir, I can finally leave the problem-solving to a professional,” I said, laying it on a bit thick with a cheerful grin. “Can I help?”

“No,” he replied flatly, flicking a quick glance my way, like even the idea of me being helpful irritated him. “Just stay out of the way. That’ll be more than enough. Remember — the locket’s your responsibility. Don’t lose track of it — I won’t be getting to the Order’s HQ anytime soon.” And with that, he vanished in a swirl of Apparition.

On the 20th of July, Dad called me and the twins into the sitting room.

“We’re about to head off to a secure location,” he said seriously, before launching into a little lecture about the wrongly convicted Black and his new place of residence. “Your job will be to get the place ready for Order meetings. Toss anything that’s falling apart or dangerous.”

“So it’s just cleaning?” Fred groaned.

“What’d you expect, a raid on Knockturn Alley?” George snorted.

“Boys, this is serious business — important and potentially dangerous,” Dad said, frowning. “It’s the home of dark wizards. You’ll need to work without magic at first, so you don’t accidentally trigger anything nasty.”

“Ooh, brilliant,” the twins said, exchanging gleeful looks — clearly already thinking of ways to benefit. But Dad noticed. And what really got me was the chill in his voice. I couldn’t ever remember him sounding like that — not even when he was furious.

“I’m warning you,” he added evenly, but with clear menace. “Especially you two, Fred and George. Don’t take a single thing from that house. Not so much as a scrap of cloth. Do you understand me?”

“But why not? If it’s getting binned anyway—” George tried to protest.

“I said what I said,” Dad snapped, and his voice was like ice. It was properly unsettling, coming from someone usually so kind. “I’ll disown anyone who nicks even a pin. You’ll have to decide what matters more — your experiments or your family.”

“All right, Dad. We get it,” the twins replied, subdued but clearly annoyed. “But we can still collect potion ingredients, yeah? If the place is old, there’s bound to be loads of useful stuff. It’s expensive to buy anything magical that comes from creatures.”

“That’s fine,” Dad said, softening a little. “Just don’t let your mum catch you. Right, let’s go.”

We got to Grimmauld Place… via Floo.

“Er… Dad? Isn’t it risky, using the Floo Network?” I asked as we stepped into the dark, empty drawing room. “Can’t it be tracked?”

“Not yet,” he replied in a low voice. “There are enough enchantments on the place for now — only our family can access it. But once the Order starts meeting here, the house will be hidden under a Fidelius Charm. Too many people coming and going otherwise. For now — keep quiet, follow me, and don’t touch anything.”

We followed behind him, noses wrinkling — the place stank of damp, mildew, and something sweet and rotting. We emerged into the hallway, just as a man began descending from the upper floor.

Black had changed a lot since we’d last seen him. He wasn’t twitchy anymore, and his gaze had steadied. He’d put on some weight and cleaned up a bit, though the aura around him still reeked of prison — or no, not prison. Punishment. Hard time. He looked like a man worn down to the bone, hollowed out and strung tight. There was aggression simmering under the surface, and something in his eyes that reminded me of a half-wild dog — abused and mistrustful, ready to bite before it got kicked again.

“Arthur,” he drawled, slurring slightly as he swaggered down another step or two, the twins gawking at him with open awe. “Right on time.”

The men shook hands in a way that was more casual than warm, and Black’s unfocused eyes flicked over our faces.

“You’ve no idea how glad I am to have your help,” he said, voice thick with drink. “I’ve got no desire whatsoever to rummage through this ancient rubbish. Maybe if we chuck out the whole bloody lot, we’ll actually be able to breathe in here. You wouldn’t believe the way these walls press in on you. Anyway— sorry, I’ll leave you to it. Not really in the mood to play happy families.” He gave a shrill little laugh and stumbled off upstairs, not even looking at us, like we weren’t there at all.

But then a voice, sharp and cutting, floated down the hall:

“And that useless, disgraceful scoundrel is back — the shame of our house,” sneered a woman from a portrait on the wall. In the dim light of the gas lamps, you could’ve missed her until she spoke. She might’ve been beautiful once, but now her face was twisted with disgust, like something vile had crawled under her nose. Her eyes spat lightning.

“Shut your gob, you old bat!” Sirius shouted, spinning round and lurching toward the portrait. He started hammering at the frame with his fists. “Your time’s up! You’re dead, and now it’s my house! I’ll do whatever I damn well like, and sod your opinion, you nasty old cow!”

“Of course,” she said sweetly, venom dripping from her words. “Let in blood-traitors to defile this house — generations of purebloods disgraced by your filth.”

“I’ll destroy everything you ever cared about, you witch,” Sirius growled. “And then I’ll find a way to get rid of you too.”

He whipped out his wand, and the curtains snapped shut over her portrait with a puff of dust. Shoulders slumped, he turned and trudged back upstairs, muttering curses under his breath, fingers tearing through his hair. Didn’t even glance our way.

“Right, don’t dawdle,” Arthur said briskly, snapping us back to attention and leading us on.

We ended up in the kitchen — massive place, with a fireplace big enough to fit two of me, copper pots, blackened cauldrons, and a long wooden table.

“We need to get the kitchen in order and scrub everything clean,” Dad said, gesturing around at the mess. “We’ve already cleared out the dangerous stuff, so it’s safe to use magic in here now. In a week, Harry’s moving in, and the meetings will start. More people’ll be around, and your mum’ll need the space for cooking.”

“We’re moving in here too, then?” George muttered, clearly unimpressed, as he pulled out his wand and aimed it at a skillet black with soot. No one was thrilled at the thought of living in this dreadful old place.

“We’ll see,” Dad replied vaguely, already elbow-deep in soot as he started scrubbing out the hearth and chimney. “Oh, and if you see the house-elf — ignore him. He’s not quite all there.”

And sure enough, he turned up near the end of our clean-up. Muttered a few insults under his breath, snatched up the polished copper cauldron, dragged it off to his cupboard, and vanished.

“All right, home time. Get cleaned up,” Dad declared cheerfully three hours later, casting cleansing charms over all of us. “You lot head back to the Burrow. I’ve still got to speak with Black.”

He walked us to the stairs, then headed up while the others filed back to the fireplace in the drawing room. The twins vanished in a swirl of Floo powder, but I hung back. Thought I’d try to catch a glimpse of Kreacher — just to see how unhinged he actually was — and wandered back into the kitchen.

Should’ve left.

I poked about a bit, didn’t find him, and was about to head back when I heard voices in the hallway and froze. The staircase blocked me from view, especially in the dim light. I wasn’t exactly trying to eavesdrop… but one voice belonged to Walburga. The other — to my dad. Only, I’d never heard him speak like that before. Except maybe earlier that morning.

“Say what you came to say and get out of my house, you filthy traitor,” the old witch spat, every word laced with venom. I could picture the sneer on her painted face perfectly.

Dad, by contrast, was maddeningly calm — too calm. His tone was slow and deliberate, like he was enjoying this. And now I couldn’t just step out and interrupt them — it felt… wrong. So I stayed hidden.

“Oh, come now, dear aunt,” Arthur drawled, each word dripping sarcasm. He sounded painfully polite in a way that was clearly meant as an insult. “As your loyal nephew, I thought I’d come entertain you. You’ve been dead for quite some time now, and the magical world’s moved on. Who better to fill you in than family?”

“Spare me your nonsense,” she snapped, though there was a flicker of unease in her voice.

“Oh, but I must,” Dad said, and his smile was pure ice. I felt a chill race down my spine — it didn’t sound like him at all. That voice could’ve belonged to Malfoy, not my kind-hearted father.

“I’ve got news about your precious family. A string of tragedies, really. Your dear Pollux passed in ‘90 — couldn’t cope with your loss, I suppose. Tragic, isn’t it? Then Cygnus and Cassiopeia in ‘92. Druella followed not long after.”

“No… that can’t be true! Stop it!” she gasped, her voice cracking.

“Oh, but it is,” Arthur said with a twisted little laugh. “Sorry, Auntie.”

“You’re lying, you bastard,” she hissed. “Their portraits are empty!”

“Well now, that’s just rude,” Arthur replied smoothly. “You know full well I was born properly. As for the portraits… let’s just say someone made sure those scum didn’t leave a trace of memory behind.”

“You… it was you,” she choked.

“It was,” he said, calm as you like. “And that’s not all. A few months ago, I got to the Malfoys. Abraxas — what a loss,” he said mockingly, then chuckled. “Dragon pox at his age… and wasn’t it just last year that old Bulstrode died the same way? And the Flints lost Etienne? Funny how life works. The old ones always go first…”

“You—!” Walburga tried to scream, but the words caught — he must’ve silenced her.

“Shall I tell you how I did it?” he offered brightly. “You, more than anyone, would appreciate the brilliance of it. Patience, that’s the trick. Everyone has a weakness — a hunting injury, a goldenrod allergy… jealousy... Getting to Malfoy took time, but I found a way. A little tweak to the goblin gold in the vault, a bit of powder, and poof — worm food. I waited years, Auntie. And I would’ve loved to wring your neck myself — it was your idea, after all, to wipe out my family.”

His voice dropped, deadly and low. “But you died before I could get my hands on you. Lucky for me, fate stepped in. Your son — the last of the Blacks — will finish what I started. He’ll scrub every trace of you from this house. He’ll trample your precious legacy into the dirt. And, if I know him, I’ll live to see him marry a Muggle-born — watch your ‘pure blood’ disappear for good.”

He paused, then murmured something in a language I didn’t recognise — probably a charm to keep her from ever repeating a word of it — and then whistled cheerily as he walked off toward the drawing room.

I slid down the wall and hit the floor, legs gone to jelly.

I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. It was like something dark had taken hold of him — that wasn’t my dad speaking. That was someone else. Someone terrifying.

I didn’t know what to do, where to go, how to even look him in the eye after that. My head was spinning, the world felt off-kilter, and I was still staring blankly into the dark when I heard his voice above me.

“Ron? What are you doing down here?” he asked gently, like always, with a warm smile.

I jumped up, yanked out my wand, and pointed it straight at him.

“I thought you’d gone home,” he said calmly.

“Back off,” I rasped. Right then, I was sure — absolutely sure — this wasn’t him. Not really. He could’ve put the same spell on me as he did on her. Or wiped my memory clean. I didn’t trust him anymore.

“Ah,” he said softly, sighing. “So you heard.”

He looked at me, eyes full of something I couldn’t name. Regret, maybe.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” he said simply. “I didn’t want you to hear that.”

“Just let me through, Dad,” I said firmly, hand shaking with tension. I was strung tight as a bowstring, ready to fire at the slightest twitch. Didn’t even matter what spell — even if it was the Killing Curse. And Arthur knew it. He stepped aside, raising his hands in a silent surrender.

“Go on, Ron. I won’t stop you,” he said calmly. “We’ll talk at home — there’s a lot we need to discuss, son. But later. When you’ve cooled off.”

I bolted past him, not even watching where I was going. Knocked over a troll’s leg used for umbrellas, sent a couple of old walking sticks clattering, and brushed a shrivelled black skull clean off the bannister. Nearly missed the right room altogether. I grabbed a fistful of Floo powder and stepped into the emerald flames just as I was — back to the hearth, wand clenched in my sweaty hand.

[Castling] Chapter 75

The morning was a disaster right from the off—loud, chaotic, and all over the place. Hermione had just discovered the twins’ notice on the bulletin board about offering odd jobs to anyone interested, and she laid into them like a Howler in full swing.

“Ron, tell them,” she demanded, breathless from accusing them of moral depravity. While she was busy arguing with the twins, I took a proper look at the notice. Honestly, there wasn’t anything that outrageous in it—plenty of students offered small jobs, and even more were eager to earn a few Sickles. But what got me was the note at the bottom that said all health risks were the responsibility of the workers themselves. It gave me flashbacks to that bloody dodgy fizzy drink incident.

“I’m with Hermione. You’re not testing stuff on students, even if they say it’s fine,” I said flatly, catching a glimpse of Harry coming down the stairs and freezing awkwardly at the sight of the argument.

“Oi, would you look at that—our little Ronnie’s grown up and turned into Percy,” Fred drawled, full of mockery. “Give him a Prefect badge and he turns into a right bore.”

“But Ron’s right,” Hermione jumped back in. “And as a Prefect, I won’t let you carry on doing Merlin-knows-what with no responsibility!”

“We test everything on ourselves first,” Fred tried to reason, holding up his hands. “Hermione, we’re planning to open a joke shop someday—we’ve got to test the market and set up supply lines while we’re still at school.”

“Not my problem,” Hermione shot back firmly, tossing me a look that all but screamed back me up here.

“I completely agree with Hermione, Fred. Say what you like, but you’ll be testing your potions on yourselves, same as always. Otherwise, I’ll—”

“Otherwise what?” George cut in with a mocking edge.

“Otherwise I’ll write to Mum,” I said flatly.

“Oh, will you now?” George narrowed his eyes and stepped toward me, fists clenched.

“I haven’t forgotten Mungo’s, George,” I said coldly, stepping forward myself. “And if writing to Mum and getting you both chucked out of Hogwarts is what it takes to stop you, I will. No hesitation.”

We stared each other down for a long, tense minute, neither of us blinking. Then Fred, avoiding my gaze, quietly dragged his furious brother out of the common room. Harry joined us soon after.

“Thanks, Ron,” Hermione said, collapsing into a chair with a tired smile. “Honestly… I didn’t expect you to stand up to your brothers like that. What was that about Mungo’s?”

“Old news, Hermione. Don’t worry about it. Better call the first-years or we’ll be late for breakfast.”

Later, just after lunch on the way to Potions, Cho Chang rounded the corner. We had to slow down.

“Hi, Harry,” she said sweetly, flashing a smile. “Weasley… Granger.”

Harry turned scarlet and mumbled something, sneaking embarrassed glances at us. Yep—clearly intruding.

“Oh, you support the Tornados?” I asked, nodding at her badge to break the awkward silence. “Congrats. They topped the league last season.”

“You follow them too, Weasley?” she asked, perking up.

“Afraid not. I’m not really a fan, but I keep an eye on the standings. Heard about them from Harry,” I said with a grin. “Anyway, do excuse us—Hermione and I have Prefect business.”

I took Hermione’s arm and guided her off down the corridor.

“What?” I asked once we’d turned the corner. She hadn’t pulled away or said anything—just kept watching me with this odd, thoughtful look.

“I’m just surprised, Ron,” she said slowly, finally stepping back. “I thought I’d have to drag you off before you said something daft and embarrassed Harry. That was… very tactful.”

“I’m nearly sixteen, Hermione,” I snorted. “You’re not the only one growing up and reading clever books. Still, nice to know you have such faith in me,” I added cheekily, and she blushed in annoyance. Just then, Harry caught up, looking pretty pleased with himself, and the Potions classroom door creaked open ominously.

“Settle down,” came the bone-chilling voice of the dungeon’s resident bat, and all our minor school drama vanished like smoke.

We got a full-on threat-laced lecture about the importance of OWLs, plenty of nerve-wracking warnings, and the usual share of sarcasm. Business as usual. Then we brewed Calming Draught. Mine, according to the textbook, was worth a solid four out of five—but knowing Snape, I’d be lucky to get a three. Still, I wasn’t planning on taking Advanced Potions next year, even if I did have a soft spot for the bloke. The thought that soon I’d be free of half these pointless subjects did lift my spirits.

“Harry,” I remembered, as we headed to Defence Against the Dark Arts. “No matter what rot Umbridge spouts, don’t argue with her. You too, Hermione.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Harry said, a bit baffled. Hermione, on the other hand, looked like she was analysing my words, waiting for me to explain myself.

“Umbridge is the Minister’s undersecretary. Think about it—why’s she here? She’s clearly not here just to teach. Until we know more, we’ve got to keep our heads down.”

“The Ministry wants to interfere with how Hogwarts is run,” Hermione said suddenly, snapping to attention. “You both heard her welcome speech—‘progress for progress’ sake,’ and all that. I’m not sure what her real aim is yet, though.”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “We lay low for now. Otherwise, we could end up making things worse for Dumbledore. The Prophet’s already dropping hints that he’s losing it. I reckon they’re getting ready to boot him from one of his posts and laying the groundwork for it.”

“What?” I snapped at Hermione, who was giving me yet another one of her unreadable stares. “Yeah, Hermione, I’ve got more than just a bit of tact—I’ve also got a brain. Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Rude,” Hermione snapped, then stormed past me and Harry, charging straight toward the classroom.

“Yeah, doll, and also a hooligan and a brawler,” I called after her with a snort of laughter.

When we stepped into Defence class, taking in the surroundings with curiosity, Umbridge was already perched behind the teacher’s desk, beaming sweetly and nodding at every student who entered.

Everyone filed in quietly, taking their seats and throwing expectant looks toward the front. Judging by the glances Lavender and her friend were exchanging, they were silently critiquing the professor’s outfit—she was wearing the exact same fluffy pink cardigan as yesterday, like she’d just slept in it.

What followed was a speech on classroom etiquette and how she expected us to behave. All delivered in a sickly sweet, syrupy voice with annoying little giggles here and there, like she found the whole thing utterly charming. Her tone was grating, sure, but more irritating than anything.

Then came the big announcement: we were to open our textbooks and quietly read. The only difference from the version in the book was that, though Hermione looked confused and kept glancing at us, she never once raised her hand or asked a question. That honour went to Dean.

Clearly bored of reading, he asked to speak and stood up:

“Excuse me, Professor. Dean Thomas… Am I right in thinking we’re not going to have any practical lessons at all?”

Every head swivelled toward him and Umbridge. Safe to say we were all curious about the answer.

“You are quite right, Mr. Thomas,” she said with a little chuckle. “Yes, Mister…?”

“Finnegan, ma’am. Are you saying we’re not going to use any magic at all? Isn’t the point of Defence Against the Dark Arts to actually use defensive spells?”

“The new curriculum was created by witches and wizards whose qualifications are beyond question,” she replied, that syrupy tone still intact. “You’ll learn about defensive spells in a safe, structured way… under the supervision of a qualified instructor. I wouldn’t wish to criticise the previous teaching methods, but it’s clear that former Defence teachers lacked the proper credentials. Let alone those dangerous half-bloods who have no business being in a school environment. And, as I understand it, my predecessor was demonstrating spells banned by the Ministry. The Ministry believes a strong theoretical foundation is more than sufficient for any of you to pass your exams. Your name, dear?”

“Parvati Patil. So… there won’t be anything practical on the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam? Just theory?”

“With a solid grasp of theory, you’ll have no trouble demonstrating it practically,” Umbridge said in her most condescendingly cheerful voice, clearly closing the discussion. Everyone traded uneasy glances and buried their noses in their books. Thankfully, no detentions were handed out—but the look in Hermione’s eyes was anything but reassuring.

“How could Dumbledore allow this?” she fumed once we were back in the common room. “How could he approve someone like her as our teacher in a year we’ve got OWLs? She’s not teaching us anything! How are we meant to pass the exam?”

“Like that’s ever stopped you,” I snorted, pulling out my essay on moonstone properties. “Ten spells, tops—you could teach those to a flobberworm. Worst case, you cast a Patronus—bit of fancy magic, guaranteed extra marks. Let’s just get on with our homework. We’ve got first-year assignments to mark.”

Classes dragged. It was like the teachers had all made a pact to drown us in work. And big thanks to Hermione, who kept digging up extra reading so we didn’t have to fight each other for space in the library.

The lads joined in with our study group again. We split the subjects between us—whoever was best at what took the lead—and helped each other out. Then we each rewrote the group notes in our own words. Hermione grumbled that it was basically cheating, but we were learning, weren’t we? And it gave us a bit of breathing room. No shame in picking up a few used essays either.

Using my Prefect privileges, I commandeered an unused classroom and set it up as a training room—well, calling it a “room” was generous, but it had a window at least. To my surprise, the lads actually joined in… for a couple of weeks. Then they all buggered off, claiming they had better things to do—except Neville. He stuck with it, puffing and sweating, pedalling away and lifting weights. There was a bit of grit in him, I’ll give him that. I even showed him a few basic moves as a bonus. We weren’t killing ourselves with it—just doing what I remembered from our old footie coach back in the day.

Malfoy was insufferable. Nearly drove Harry into a fit in Care of Magical Creatures with one of his digs at Hagrid. Made Hermione cry once, and was docking points from Gryffindors left and right—mostly picking on the younger ones. Didn’t think twice about using threats, either. Spotted me heading back from training with my broom and decided to have a go.

“What’s this, Weasley? Training hard to make the team?” he sneered. “Really? You’re as slow as a troll and thick as one too. But I suppose that’s in the family. Saw in the Prophet your dad’s department cocked up again—had to call in the Obliviators. My father says it’s high time someone questioned whether certain Ministry employees are up to the job.”

“Oh yeah?” I smirked. “Your dad still wandering the Ministry like some nosy old auntie, gossiping in every corridor? Can’t stand staying home, poor bloke?”

“Don’t you talk about my father like that,” he bristled, right on cue.

“You’re the one who keeps bringing up daddies, Malfoy,” I grinned. “What’s next, comparing todgers? Bet mine’s bigger—even if it is freckled.”

“Piss off,” he snapped, just as expected, and stormed off. I had a laugh and carried on. But yeah… everyone was way more on edge this year. I tried to take the Prefect stuff in stride, but Hermione? She was one frayed nerve away from snapping.

I made up with the twins, by the way. Caught them alone one evening and said:

“Alright. I know someone who could lend you the cash for your shop, so you won’t have to mess with the goblins. It’ll be a fair deal, percentage of the profits. But I’ve got two conditions.”

“And what are the conditions?” the twins asked, exchanging intrigued glances.

“First—don’t tell Mum and Dad who helped you.”

“Deal,” Fred promised quickly.

“And don’t cause any more trouble at school. I’ve heard you’ve been testing your pranks on third-years behind everyone’s back. Hermione’s losing her mind trying to keep up with you two.”

“We’re not touching the first-years, though,” my brother jumped in, trying to defend himself.

“Don’t care,” I shot back. “Test your new stuff on the fourth-years if you want, but only if you’ve got a bezoar kit and antidote on hand.”

“You’re off your rocker, Ron,” George grumbled. “That costs ten galleons, and two more for each bezoar.”

“Well, you lot claim your products are safe,” I countered.

“Fine,” they muttered, clearly not happy.

“I’ll be expecting the budget plan,” I said, wrapping it up and leaving the room. Honestly, I never doubted they’d agree.

On Friday, Angelina—who’d been made team captain—held tryouts. I wasn’t particularly stressed: if I made it, brilliant. If not, I’d try again next year. But I got in. There were definitely a couple of flyers better than me, but I didn’t let a single ball past me. So now I’m Keeper.

Felt great having the gang—Luna, Hermione, and Harry—show up to cheer me on. I took the congratulations, then instead of joining the party the twins were throwing in the common room, I legged it to find Percy and sent off a letter with his owl—I needed a proper Keeper’s kit. And, to be honest, for the first time, I didn’t care how Dad would afford it if he’d lost his bonus. Guess I’m turning into a bit of an egoist. But if a family’s meant to be one whole, then it’s only fair I get something new and nice for once too.

Training went great, even though Malfoy showed up with his little gang and kept trying to wind us up. First he pestered Harry, then me, and Parkinson had a go at the girls. But we ignored them, and eventually he slunk off. When I caught every single ball and gave him a big friendly smile, he practically legged it. Best part? Magic actually helped me block the shots. Every time the players launched the ball, I saw this sort of magical trail showing me exactly where it was going—like its flight path.

Flitwick was surprised when he found out, after a few initial tests, that I could see the Path. Said that in the magical world, seeing magic wasn’t unheard of, but usually it took years of training. It’s how curse-breakers see enchantments, how potion masters spot magical residue in ingredients, or how enchanters see links in artefacts. Everyone sees their own thing.

My version? Not much use here, really—doesn’t make me a good brewer or artefact expert. But when I told him I wanted to be a dragonologist, he looked pleased. Said I’d be better suited to working as a tracker. My ability was geared toward finding things—and apparently, among professionals, that kind of skill’s rare. Most wizards aren’t exactly outdoorsy. They’d rather stay somewhere warm and let the money come to them, instead of trekking through woods for a few Sickles. Honestly? That path sounds way more fun.

On Monday evening, our owl showed up with a letter. I opened it and, to my surprise, a second envelope slipped out—for Potter.

“Ah, sorry, Ron—I meant to tell you,” said Harry sheepishly. “Sirius and I agreed to write through your mum. They probably won’t check letters coming from your house. Poor bloke’s bored out of his mind. He even suggested sneaking into Hogsmeade on weekends—disguised as a dog, of course. When I said no, he got all stroppy and said maybe I wasn’t as much like James as he’d thought.”

“No worries. Write all you want,” I shrugged, getting back to my homework.

“Oi, check this out,” Harry said, waving us over and lowering his voice. “He says we should be careful around Umbridge and not draw attention. Apparently she’s reporting straight to the Minister and doing her best to make sure we don’t learn anything useful we could use against the Ministry. Absolute rubbish. Fudge has properly lost the plot.”

“Mad or not, Black’s got a point,” Hermione chimed in. “We shouldn’t provoke her—but no one said we couldn’t work around her. Be right back, I’m off to the library to check the school charter.”

And with that, she dashed off. Looks like the D.A.’s officially happening.

[Castling] Chapter 74

The morning of our departure was cold and gloomy, but at least it wasn’t raining—small mercies. Not that it mattered much; I was in an excellent mood. I was already looking forward to the year ahead—classes with Flitwick, trying out for the team, training sessions I’d planned out down to the last rep. I’d even packed a couple of basic enchanted weights and portable exercise gear—shrunk down and tucked neatly into my sports bag.

Percy Flooed me to the station about an hour before the train, then dashed off to Hogwarts himself. I nabbed a compartment and went out to meet the Lovegoods. They showed up about ten minutes later—Xeno was clearly in a rush too. Luna and I had time for a proper chat and a cup of tea, and then, spotting Moody arriving through the window with the luggage, I left her with her magazine and went to meet the others—running late, as usual.

Turned out they’d walked to the station from Grimmauld Place—about twenty minutes at a leisurely pace.

Mum smothered me with kisses, Ginny wrapped me up in a hug, the twins and Harry gave me a round of friendly bruises, and even Hermione looked a bit flustered but relieved to see me—nice to have someone to share nerves and duties with.

Harry had a full-on entourage this time, even Lupin and Tonks had turned up—Tonks disguised as an old woman, for some reason. Honestly, he looked a bit of a sad sight surrounded by all these people—not a relative in the lot, just ex-teachers and Order members. They kept clapping him on the back and handing out advice like he was heading off to war.

Moody was lurking nearby, giving everyone the once-over with his magical eye while he and Mum took turns cursing out some bloke named Sturgis who hadn’t shown up. A big black dog was bouncing around our group, wagging his tail and trying to lick everyone’s hands, and for a moment I had to suppress a shudder—couldn’t help but remember him devouring a rat with the same enthusiasm. The owls, cats, and whatnot milling about didn’t help.

I said my goodbyes and helped Ginny lug her things into her mates’ compartment, just as the train whistle blew and the crowd began to scatter.

“Right, we’re off to find Lee,” the twins announced, then vanished into the next carriage.

“Ooh, I should probably go too—Amanda’s waiting for me,” Ginny chirped, tossing Harry a quick, cheeky smile as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Come on, I’ve got us a compartment,” I said, hoisting the cat carrier and leading the way.

“Ron, you do remember we’ve got to report to the prefects’ carriage?” came Hermione’s businesslike voice behind me.

“I know,” I called back without looking. “We’ll sort Harry out and drop your bags, then we’ll go.”

Neville caught up with us puffing, dragging his trunk in one hand and a mesh bag in the other—with poor Trevor in a jar, looking miserable. He also had a scraggly cactus in a pot, missing most of its spines like it’d been through the wars.

Luna glanced up from her magazine with a soft smile, pushing her glasses up as she greeted the boys with a little nod. I’d introduced them all the previous winter when we were practising dancing. They might’ve found her a bit odd, but they kept it to themselves—if we ever talked about Hogwarts girls, it was mostly about looks anyway, and older girls at that. Hermione, though, pursed her lips at the sight of Luna in a way that reminded me far too much of Harry’s aunt.

“Luna, you already know the lads, and this is Hermione Granger—my friend and Gryffindor prefect,” I said, leaving out anything else. “Neville, stow Trevor and that Mimbletonia of yours on the luggage rack—and don’t poke it,” I added before he could start rambling. “Harry, stuff the cat carrier under the seat, and you lot get those owl cages up top. Right. Don’t get into trouble—we’ll be back soon.”

We were gone for nearly an hour. This year’s new prefects were Eddie Attwood from Ravenclaw and Millie Lehman from Hufflepuff. I didn’t know them well—they seemed alright, and hey, not being Slytherins was a plus.

After getting our rundown of duties and doing a patrol of the first years’ carriage, we finally made it back. Harry was chatting with Cho Chang by the window outside our compartment. He looked flustered when he spotted us, and Cho gave us a polite smile before clearly making her exit.

“Fancy some tea with us, Chang?” I offered, mostly for Harry’s sake. I still thought she was a cow—albeit a fit one—but he was my mate, and I figured it was time to play nice. She gave me a look like she appreciated the gesture, but with a quick glance toward Luna, she declined.

“Thanks, Weasley, maybe another time. Just popped by to say hello. See you at school, Harry.”

Harry watched her walk away with a wistful look and followed me back into the compartment, where Hermione was mid-rant about the Slytherin prefect picks.

“…And that horrible cow Pansy Parkinson,” she snapped, shredding a cupcake onto her napkin. “How is she a prefect? She’s fat and slow like a troll that’s been walloped in the head!”

“Maybe prefects need other qualities,” I said, raising an eyebrow in my best Snape impression. I remembered Parkinson being a bit thick around the edges, sure—but she had curves, and those big brown eyes weren’t half bad. “You’re not expecting us to go running after rule-breakers, are you? And let’s be honest, Slytherins’ll always find a reason to dock points from Gryffindor without needing to break a sweat. Tea, anyone? Luna? Neville?”

Hermione gave me a sour look, but Harry finally snapped out of his daze and joined the conversation, while Neville helpfully changed the subject.

“Good thing you lot can legally put the squeeze on Crabbe and Goyle now,” he said cheerfully, biting into a bun. Poor bloke had taken his fair share of grief from those two, though thankfully it had never come to blows.

"You shouldn’t abuse your position as a prefect, Ron!" Hermione jumped in before I could even open my mouth. "Malfoy’s obviously going to abuse his, but that doesn’t mean we have to stoop to his level."

"Hermione, I’ve read the rulebook and listened to the briefing same as you," I said with a tight smile, pouring her some tea before turning to Neville.

Merlin, she was getting on my nerves today with all her preaching. But I didn’t want to start an argument on the first day back. I figured it was just nerves—her fear of messing something up. With how obsessed she is about doing everything right, she must be stressing to keep it all perfect.

Meanwhile, Harry had spotted something interesting in the magazine next to him and asked Luna if he could have a look. She nodded without a word, still nibbling on a biscuit, and passed it over.

As Harry read, his expression morphed from surprised to downright gobsmacked, and by the end he was clearly holding back laughter as he carefully set the magazine back down. Luna had just taken a sip of tea and we shared a knowing glance. We weren’t about to let on about The Quibbler's secrets. Maybe I’d explain it to Harry later, quietly.

“Something good in there?” Neville asked, mid-sip, but before anyone could answer, Hermione cut in:

“Of course not,” she said with a huff, slamming her cup onto the saucer. “Everyone knows that magazine’s absolute rubbish.”

“I beg your pardon,” Luna said before I could, her dreamy springtime eyes turning frosty like a frozen pond. “My father publishes that magazine.”

“I… er…” Hermione stammered, clearly flustered. “I mean, there’s… some interesting bits… for entertainment, I suppose…”

Luna set her cup down, ignored Hermione’s attempt to backpedal, and calmly disappeared behind her magazine. The cosy vibe in the compartment vanished in a puff of awkward silence. Everyone looked uncomfortable, and I had to fight the urge to shake Hermione by the shoulders and tell her to snap out of it.

Luckily—or unluckily—Malfoy showed up.

“What do you want?” Harry barked at him the moment he appeared in the doorway, not even letting him speak.

“Mind your manners, Potter, or I’ll dock points,” Malfoy drawled, his sneer sweeping over the compartment. “See, unlike you, I am a prefect, which means I have every right to discipline people. So, tell me, Potter—what’s it like, being second to Weasley?”

“Shut it, Malfoy!” Hermione snapped, shooting to her feet before Harry could even react. I could see he was ready to lunge, and Malfoy’s goons were getting twitchy too.

“You tell us, Malfoy,” I said lazily, with a smirk. “You’re used to coming second. Potter’s always beat you at Quidditch, and Granger wipes the floor with you in class. Got any tips on how to keep a stiff upper lip while choking on your own mediocrity? Poor sod—bet the only thing you can write to Daddy about is how hard your life is.”

Well. That was probably the first time in Hogwarts history two prefects got into a brawl before even reaching the castle.

Good thing I managed to shove Malfoy out into the corridor—no one was around to see it happen. We got pulled apart pretty quickly, and none of the other prefects got wind of it. Outwardly, we walked away with just a couple of matching shiners, and a bloody scratch down my cheek from his ridiculous ring. I aimed for his stomach, trying not to leave a mark. His goons didn’t even help him—in fact, they helped Harry and Hermione break us up.

Still, it helped clear the air. Later, Luna quietly and meticulously dabbed some potion on my black eye and the cut, while the boys excitedly rehashed the details of the fight, and Hermione lectured me so hard I swear my ears were ringing. Made for a lively ride to the castle. By the time we arrived, the bruises had mostly faded.

By twilight, we spilled onto the platform—first-years long gone. We chucked our bags and pets into the carriages, which started rolling off. Hermione, who’d fallen behind, barely made it onto the step.

“Where’ve you been?” Harry asked grumpily, pinned beneath two owl cages and someone’s oversized trunk.

“Malfoy just treated a second-year like absolute rubbish,” she huffed, looking completely frazzled, and we weren’t even at school yet. “I’m definitely bringing it up at the first prefect meeting. Where’s my cat?”

“Under the seat,” I replied, nudging Trevor’s jar further from Luna so it didn’t tip and smack her on the next bump.

“Guys, looks like Hagrid’s not at the castle,” Ginny chimed in, appearing out of nowhere. “Professor Grubbly-Plank took the first-years. Maybe he’s quit?”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely,” Luna said dreamily. “We in Ravenclaw think he’s a good soul, but a rubbish teacher.”

“He is not rubbish!” Hermione, Neville, and Ginny cried at once. Harry, meanwhile, had wriggled past the owl cages and was peering out the window.

“Yeah… no lights in the hut,” he murmured. But we were already pulling up to the castle, and getting out of the carriages with all our gear was just as much of a struggle as getting in.

The Great Hall was nearly full. We barely found three seats next to Lavender and Parvati. Opposite us were Kellah and Seamus with Dean. Neville had vanished somewhere—probably off to stash his dodgy cactus in the dorm.

“Hi,” the girls giggled when they saw us, exchanging glances.

I gave them a smile and said hello, while Hermione muttered a greeting without even looking at them, scanning the room like a hawk for rule violations. Harry, of course, was still scanning for Hagrid and barely noticed anything else. Ginny had been right, though—sitting at the staff table was an older witch in his place. So maybe he had been sent to the giants after all? But why now? Voldemort hadn’t come back yet… or had he? I caught myself glancing toward Snape—he looked as permanently irritated as ever.

“How was your summer, Ron?” Lavender giggled, casting a flirty glance over at me with Kellah and Parvati snickering beside her. “Trying out for the team this year?”

And I noticed that over the summer, Lavender had filled out rather nicely in all the right places—or maybe she’d just learned how to show it off better. Either way, I threw caution (and secrets) to the wind and didn’t miss my chance for a bit of harmless flirting.

“Looks like our new Defence teacher hasn’t got the slightest clue about style,” Lavender said with a mock pout, nodding toward the staff table. That’s when we finally noticed the middle-aged woman in pink with a frilly bow stuck in her curls, sitting next to the Headmaster. Blimey—Umbridge.

“I know her. That’s Dolores Umbridge—Fudge’s undersecretary. I saw her once when I visited Dad at work. Word of advice, girls—never work for the Ministry,” I said playfully, trying to steer their attention elsewhere. “Clearly no one there will appreciate your excellent fashion sense.”

Everyone laughed softly, and thankfully, the girls shifted their focus to discussing Umbridge and her ridiculous outfit. Gave me a moment to think. In the book, Umbridge was sent after Diggory died. But Snape had warned me the Headmaster and Fudge weren’t exactly on good terms right now. So the Minister probably jumped at the chance to plant someone here—keep Dumbledore in check, stop us from raising an army under his nose. Pity… looks like we’re stuck with rubbish Defence lessons after all. I’d need to talk Hermione out of the DA idea—no point in drawing the Ministry’s attention.

After the Sorting—nothing new from the Hat this year—Dumbledore stood to speak. Turned out Hagrid hadn’t been sacked, just on leave, and would be back by October. He then introduced our new teacher. I couldn’t remember her exact speech from the book, but it was just as dull, and the woman herself came off like a sugary, simpering type who looked like she’d pinch your cheek, pat your bum, and giggle like she was sixteen. No one really listened to her speech—everyone was more focused on her pink cardigan and that daft bow. Only Hermione, of course, picked up on some grand conspiracy in Umbridge’s words and muttered away under her breath, looking terribly concerned.

Finally, the food arrived. I did proper justice to the cutlets and potato bake—and I didn’t skip the apple pie, either.

By the time dinner ended, everyone was full and slouching at the tables. Only Hermione kept her serious look, sitting there until Harry nudged her.

“Hermione, wake up,” I teased. “We’ve still got to show the first-years where they’re sleeping.”

“Oh—right,” she gasped, jolting upright and giving me a look like it was my fault. “First-years!” she called in her best authoritative voice. “Over here!”

We led the tiny lot up to the tower. Didn’t bother pointing out landmarks—they were all half asleep and terrified anyway. Hermione launched into a long-winded welcome speech, during which the rest of us nearly nodded off, and I wrapped things up by saying if they ever needed help, just ask. The familiar words seemed to cheer them a bit, and Hermione, looking mildly annoyed, split them off into their dorms.

Back in ours, we found a five-litre keg of ale waiting, along with a pile of snacks and some dodgy holiday souvenirs. Dean and Seamus had spent the summer with Seamus’s mum on the Spanish coast and brought back a bunch of weird little charm stones they hung on the walls next to the new posters.

By about one in the morning, tipsy and content, we finally passed out. I lay back with my drink, thinking how good it felt that no one was calling Harry mad this year. Just imagine—if he hadn’t been protected during the tournament, would we be sitting here now, laughing, drinking, talking about girls like normal lads? Maybe I wasn’t as close to Dean and Seamus as I was to Harry, but we got on. And none of that would’ve lasted if someone hadn’t stepped in to stop that bloody Cup mess. So yeah—I'm properly glad things turned out this way.

To hell with canon if it wrecks people’s lives.

[Castling] Chapter 73

My nervous laughter cut off as sharply as it had started. Despite the exhaustion, a wave of euphoria crashed over me—bloody hell, we’d actually survived and destroyed that damn Horcrux! My throat tightened with emotion, my chest felt like it might burst, and I stood there grinning like a loon, trying to share that joy with Snape. But all I managed were choked giggles and the occasional incoherent whoop.

“Pull yourself together, Weasley, and stop that hysterics,” Snape snapped irritably. He flicked his wand at me, and immediately I felt calmer. “Get a grip. I understand it’s the aftermath of prolonged mental strain, but I’m barely standing myself—I’ve no strength left to babysit you. Now, tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Need a piss and something to eat,” I admitted bluntly, tuning in to my body at last. “Not sure which more. Legs are numb, head’s spinning… bloody hell!” I flinched as a wave of diagnostic magic passed over me. At least the urge to pee vanished.

“I haven’t got time to mollycoddle you,” he muttered, handing me three vials one after the other. “Two sips from the first, one from the second, and no more than five from the last—you’ll know when to stop.”

I drank as instructed. By the end of the third, I was feeling loads better. My head still felt a bit like it wasn’t mine, but the fog had lifted, and strength was returning to my limbs.

“You able to stand?” he asked in a brisker tone, taking a swig from the same vials himself and tucking them away in his robes.

“Think so,” I said, giving my legs a tentative flex, then rising to my feet.

“Then let’s go.”

“What about the ring?” I asked, suddenly remembering, eyes darting about the room.

“I’ve got it. You’ll get it later—once we’ve left this place.”

Despite his steady voice and no-nonsense air, the man was clearly swaying. But the moment we stepped outside, he raised his wand again.

“Oh, come on,” I groaned, imagining another few hours of waiting.

“Stop whining. I’m knackered too, if you hadn’t noticed,” he muttered, then sent a pale blue pulse from his wand. It vanished into the hut, and the silence that followed was thick and final. Snape shut the shack’s door carefully and turned back to me. “That clears any magical trace of my spellwork,” he explained, although I was beyond caring—I just wanted to get the hell out of there. “A wizard’s personal magic fades quickly, but powerful spells always leave a signature behind—it lingers. And if someone catches that trace in time, they can identify who cast it.”

“Sir, can we please leave now?” I whined, knowing full well I was pushing my luck. “I’ll even listen to another of your lectures, but preferably sitting down. With a cup of tea. And I have to be home by seven or Percy’ll give me a proper grilling. And trust me, sir—when he gets going, he’s worse than you.”

“Let’s go, Weasley,” he grumbled, not looking back as he set off down the trail. I followed, dragging my feet, and a worrying thought struck me—how were we supposed to Apparate if he was barely on his feet? One wrong move and we’d both end up splinched.

By the time we dragged ourselves out of the woods, I couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Sir, no offence, but are you sure you're up for a joint Apparition? Maybe we should freshen up a bit and just call the Knight Bus instead? You’re liable to pass out mid-jump…”

“You think I didn’t account for that possibility, Weasley?” he shot me a withering look, pulling a length of rope from his pocket. “Grab on.”

The Portkey dumped us straight outside his house.

“Sir, I’ve just realised—why go through all that danger and hassle with the wards?” I asked, suddenly animated. “You could’ve just burned the whole hut down with Fiendfyre. Much faster. Toss the locket in with it too. Job done…”

After Snape had doused us both in a dozen disgusting brews and I’d demolished a whole plate of sandwiches, I felt so energised I could barely sit still. Definitely a side effect. I’d been buzzing about the living room for the last half hour, sipping tea and bombarding Snape with questions like I’d been hit with a Babbling Hex.

Snape, on the other hand, looked rough—even cleaned up. A healer would probably call his condition “stable but critical.” But he was replying, slow and tired as he was, like only my yammering was keeping him from passing out. At least he wasn’t snapping, so I guessed he knew about the potions’ side effects.

“Doing what’s easier isn’t always the same as doing what’s right, Weasley,” he muttered, cradling his teacup. “Ever wonder why Fiendfyre’s a forbidden curse?”

“Nope,” I said cheerfully. “But mental potions are banned too, sir, and that didn’t stop you.”

“Fiendfyre, just so you’re aware,” he said, giving me a sharp look, “feeds on magic. First from the one who conjures it, then from anything it touches. That’s why it’s only used on known magical objects—otherwise it runs wild, devouring every magical trace in sight until it burns itself out.”

“Blimey. Didn’t know that.”

“You saw how many wards and traps were on that house,” he went on. “Not to mention the ruins nearby—the Gaunt place. There’s still a flicker of power left there, and who knows what charms still linger? I wouldn’t have been able to control the fire. No one could. And if the Dark Lord ever found out the shack had gone up in magical flames, he’d put two and two together fast. He’d start checking on his other hidey-holes. Merlin knows how many more Horcruxes he’s stashed away. And Dumbledore’d get curious too—I can’t lie to him if he asks outright.”

“Then yeah, you were right,” I admitted. “Definitely worth the effort. You were incredible, sir. I couldn’t take my eyes off your spellwork. It was like watching a dance with death! Like fighting a hydra! You’re a proper master…”

“Speaking of which, Mr Weasley,” he said suddenly, setting down his cup, “since we’re on the topic—I’ve fulfilled our agreement to the letter. And you yourself just praised my contribution. I do recall that all trophies from this operation technically belong to you, per our contract—but I’d like to ask for the stone. As a token of appreciation. Or I’m willing to buy it—just name your price.”

His casual posture and almost indifferent tone didn’t quite match the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were clenched tight around the armrests, or the look in his eyes—quiet hope mingled with something like sorrow, staring straight through me. He wanted that stone—badly—but didn’t want to let me see it.

For a moment, I felt a surge of anger. But it fizzled out almost instantly, the second I remembered the way he’d smiled—truly, openly smiled—back in that shack. Snape really had done more than anyone else to bring the Dark Lord down. And he still had to deal with Nagini. I couldn’t stay mad at him. Not now, when it was all behind us and we were both alive. I just made a mental note, once again—he’s still a bastard. But a useful bastard. He got us through. And let’s face it, I’d never outplay him—he’s got age and skill on his side. I’m no match.

“You used me again, Professor,” I said with mock reproach, sighing dramatically. “You risked your life—and mine—for that bloody stone. And not just us—you risked His return. But you know what? I’ll give it to you.”

I saw the flicker of hope in his eyes, just before it faded into something like frustration.

“Yeah. You’ll get the stone—after the Dark Lord’s truly finished.”

Even disappointed, Snape visibly relaxed after hearing my promise. He slumped back into the chair a little, just slightly more at ease.

“Thank you, Weasley. I won’t forget that,” he said curtly.

“Nor will I, Professor,” I chuckled, letting out a theatrical sigh and reaching for my tea again. “Though fat lot of good that’ll do me. Life’s taught me nothing when it comes to you…”

Half an hour later, we stood. He handed over the stone—reluctantly, I might add—and I tucked it into my bag under his watchful gaze. The ring itself had shattered when the Horcrux was destroyed, and he’d already burned the remains with a spell.

He’d recovered enough to take me back to the ruins, and disappeared almost at once with a muttered, “Farewell, Weasley.”

“See you later, sir!” I called cheerfully after him, but he was already gone. On the way home, I dropped the stone in its usual hiding spot.

Thankfully, Percy wasn’t back yet. So I reheated dinner and sat down to wait, going over everything Snape had said. Each time we met, he was a little more open. Like I’d earned his trust—or he was trying to earn mine to get that stone. Still, we’d saved each other’s skins more than once by now, which earns a certain level of… understanding.

Anyway, now it was just the cup, the snake, and Voldemort himself. And none of that was my problem anymore. Time to start thinking about my own future—focus on school. Flitwick had approved my application for the Advanced Charms elective. First step sorted.

For now, I wrote Charlie a normal-looking letter with a couple of hidden phrases—he’d know what to do, and he’d loop in Bill. They’d keep me posted.

Dinner dragged out, but Percy was too busy banging on about work to notice me nodding off. The potions had worn off, and that weird artificial energy was gone, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion. I’d never appreciated my bed and the silence of my room more.

The next morning, after breakfast, time stretched. Luna had gone out with her dad to Diagon Alley for school shopping. I’d thought about asking to go along but chickened out. Loads of time till two o’clock, though, so I went out to practice blocking shots. I enchanted some apples—just slapped a few runes on about ten of them—and set them flying at me every minute or so at random speeds. It didn’t last long—took more time to set up than to enjoy. The apples exploded on contact with my broom anyway. So I headed back inside and ran through the charms I’d been studying.

After not seeing her for so long, Luna looked older to me. More grown-up. Only her bright-eyed, childlike gaze and a bit of teenage awkwardness still reminded me of the girl I used to know. She hugged me with that usual gentle joy—no hesitation at all—while I stood there stiffly, unsure what to do with myself.

We had tea, then sprawled on the carpet in the games room among the cushions, talking for ages. She was thrilled I'd become a prefect and told me about Africa—about the animals, the magic, the local wizards. Their spells were powerful but closed off to outsiders. Not even the blood rituals with black cockerels and snakes, or the summoned and bound djinns, fazed her. To Luna, all magic was just energy—something to understand and respect. She showed me sketches of the creatures they'd seen and little trophies: leaves, fangs, teeth.

Listening to her, nodding, smiling gently, I felt oddly sentimental. I found myself watching her for longer than I should, wondering how time flew so quickly—how she’d grown up so fast. It wouldn’t be easy, bringing up the subject that might wreck our friendship. Or at the very least, change it forever. Good or bad, I didn’t know. But I couldn’t keep putting it off. If I did, she’d always see me as just a friend. And I had no intention of turning into another Snape—letting happiness slip through my fingers.

Later, I got sidetracked telling her about Grimmauld Place, and then we read the latest issue of The Quibbler—fresh off the press. I couldn’t stop laughing at the article about Black.

“You reckon anyone’s going to believe this nonsense?” I asked between gasps, wiping away tears of laughter.

“I don’t think so,” Luna said seriously, knitting her pale brows. But then she smiled again, lifting her clear, bright eyes. “But those who care about mysteries will know the truth—that Black’s innocent, and it’s the little one, Peter Pettigrew, who’s guilty. Bordman is his mother’s maiden name. And Mrs Perkins—nee Hoggart—had a fling with Pettigrew back in their Hogwarts days.”

“How d’you know that?” I blinked.

“Perkins was in Ravenclaw when my parents were at school,” Luna shrugged. “You didn’t really think my dad would go against the Ministry just to clear Black’s name, did you? But the magical world deserves the truth, even if not everyone can see it. The Quibbler’s mainly printed for Ravenclaw alumni—only they can sort fact from fiction in it. Dad was part of the ‘Scholars’ Society’ at Hogwarts and still wears his club ring. They published the ‘school sheet,’ and everything in it was written in riddles and puzzles—just like Rowena would’ve wanted. ‘A clever mind is worth more than gold.’ There’s no other way for Ravenclaws,” she added, shaking her head.

“So that article about Fudge and the goblins—that’s true as well?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, mostly,” Luna replied, unfazed. “Fudge supports those in the Wizengamot who believe financial power shouldn’t lie with a hostile non-human race like the goblins. It makes wizards vulnerable and dependent. And everyone knows about his blatantly intolerant views on non-human beings and magical creatures. The bit about torture, though, that’s made-up. Anyway, tell me more about Black,” she prompted. “Did you lot really spend the whole summer just cleaning?”

“Pretty much,” I said, lounging back into the pillows as Luna flopped down beside me, swinging her legs.

“…so just picture it—he takes this beautiful ornament and—bang—smashes it right into the wall…”

“Oh! We’ve got some like that,” Luna perked up. “With the Gamp and Lovegood family crests. Everyone who could afford it used to order them from Master Andruz. He only made three a year. Let’s go have a look, Ron,” she suggested, springing up and dashing to the cupboard. “Dad and I haven’t decorated the tree properly in years.”

“Dad always conjures our tree—comes fully decorated,” I said, helping her reach the top shelf.

“Mine too,” Luna admitted, sitting cross-legged on the floor as she opened a box. “But… we always used to decorate it together—me and Mum… and after she died, I didn’t want to do it on my own anymore. Look! A Slytherin carriage!” she added, switching topics and pulling out a green glass ornament.

We spent ages looking through the enchanted decorations. She gently dusted them off one by one, chatting dreamily about childhood memories, and I placed each one carefully into a second box.

“Wait, there’s another set of baubles on the shelf,” she remembered as I was putting the box away. I handed her a smaller one.

Inside were black, silver-swirled globes with zodiac signs painted on the sides.

“This is the ‘Zodiac’ set,” Luna said, a bit wistfully as she took one from its little holder. “They’re usually gifted to boys when they turn fifteen—see how they’re black? They glow in the dark and get hung around the bed canopy. These were Dad’s. Mum always said they were too dull for the tree, though,” she added with a shrug, handing one to me.

As she chatted about constellations, the bauble in my hand shimmered with silver mist—and the constellation of Aquarius morphed into… a witch on a broomstick.

She was flying low, clinging to the broom handle as wind whipped her robes about—more than a bit, really. A strong gust blew off her tilted witch’s hat, and she reached for it in a flurry, her corset just barely covering anything as the breeze lifted her robes even further. Lace frills weren’t hiding much, and the little minx giggled, clearly embarrassed, trying to shield herself—not that she was doing a very good job.

“And this one’s Gemini,” Luna went on, handing me another bauble. The one in her hands had gone back to just showing stars, but mine now showed two witches playing strip poker. They were clearly flirting—licking their lips, winking, undressing each other far too slowly to be innocent. One leaned in, undoing the other's corset with deliberate care, and I panicked, shoving the bauble back at Luna.

“Ron? Are you alright?” she asked gently, touching my shoulder with concern. Meanwhile, I was overheating at the thought of her seeing what I just had.

“Erm… Luna. These baubles… how do I put this…” I muttered, struggling for the right words. “They don’t just show constellations. There’s witches. Not, like, completely naked… but let’s just say, it’s not the sort of thing you’d look at with a girl.”

“Oh, that explains why Mum never liked them,” she said calmly, returning them to the box and tucking it back in the cupboard.

“Luna,” I said, taking her hands as I helped her put everything away. “There’s something I want to tell you… I like you.”

“I like you too, Ron,” she smiled softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re my friend.”

“I like you a lot more than just a friend,” I said, finally taking the plunge. “I’d like us to start dating… you know, holding hands, going on proper dates… kissing,” I added, trying to remember what people our age were supposed to do in a relationship.

“Right now?” she asked without any trace of embarrassment, brow furrowed in thought.

“No,” I said quickly, pulling her close and stroking her hair. “Whenever you want to. I’m in no rush—I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

“That’s good, Ron,” she said, her voice quiet but full of relief as she looked up with a soft smile. “I’m not quite ready for dates just yet. But I don’t mind holding hands. And I will tell you when I feel ready to kiss.”

We’d just shut the cupboard when a dusty bit of cardboard fell and landed squarely on my head.

“Oh! It’s the shadow theatre box!” Luna clapped her hands, bright-eyed. Hard to believe this same girl had just had a talk about relationships. “I thought we lost it!”

I eyed the overly flat box, which looked more like it held a photo frame than a game.

“Never heard of one,” I admitted.

“Then let’s watch it together,” she offered, fixing the frame onto the wall and tugging me back down onto the cushions.

One flick of her wand and the curtains drew closed. In the dark, the frame lit up—and a raspy, old storyteller’s voice drifted out, as though from another century.

It was a bit like one of those Muggle film strips, but done with silhouettes—like a proper shadow theatre. The figures moved in a way that felt like real animation. We watched a few tales—or maybe legends—and at some point, I must’ve nodded off, lulled by the steady, droning narration.

Waking up, I felt someone watching me. In the dim light, I made out Xenophilius Lovegood, just… staring at me. Silently. I shifted, meaning to sit up and say hello—only to realise Luna was curled right into me, fast asleep, her head resting on my shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. The wall still flickered with moving silhouettes and the old storyteller’s voice was still droning on. I swallowed, a bit too loudly.

Xeno watched me closely as I gently wriggled free. I tucked the blanket over Luna, careful not to wake her, and stood. He waited until I was up, then turned and walked ahead without a word.

“Er… sir, please don’t get the wrong idea,” I blurted the second we stepped out onto the landing. “We were just watching stories and nodded off. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Your brother’s waiting in the front hall,” he said instead, not slowing his step as he started down the stairs. I hesitated, then called after him.

“Wait—sir! I just want you to know… I’m serious about your daughter. One day, I’m going to ask her to marry me, and I’ll be the happiest man alive if she says yes. I told her how I feel today, and I’ll wait as long as she needs.”

The man stopped. Slowly, he turned and gave me a look—one that felt like it saw straight through skin and bone.

“I won’t stand in her way,” he said at last. “You’re no better or worse than anyone else. But my girl needs someone like you. The world inside my dreams is far too lovely to ever want to come back, but you… you can keep her grounded in the real one. If she chooses you, I’ll welcome you as a son. But don’t doubt for a second—if you ever hurt her, I will kill you.”

“I’d never hurt her,” I said steadily, meeting his gaze without flinching. Whatever he saw in my eyes seemed to satisfy him, because he gave a slight nod, turned, and continued downstairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, I was met by a thoroughly unimpressed Percy. He immediately launched into a long-winded lecture about decorum and what was and wasn’t appropriate under someone else’s roof while setting the table for tea.

I nodded along vaguely.

But truth be told, my mind was somewhere else entirely.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 97

"Two entrances, big room here, marked the cameras with red circles. There are two Arasaka turrets here and here. Standard civilian models."

"V, you ever think of taking up drawing?" Panam asked while looking at my layout sketch, drawn from Brigitte’s memories.

"Nope. Never crossed my mind. Why, you about to crack a joke? Something like, 'don’t bother'?"

"Nah. It’s a goddamn masterpiece of abstract art. Just one glance at it and my brain starts short-circuiting," she smirked, spinning on the chair in my apartment above the club. "Most trendy art-wankers have to pop pills to get inspired, and you did this almost sober. Talent."

Right then, a message came through from Lucy:

"Shop’s prepped. No cops, but one of the Voodoo Boys dropped by. We stuffed him in the fridge with the others."

"Got it," I replied. "Final stage of the op starts soon."

We had to hit the Voodoo Boys’ mobile base that same night. And still make time to clean up loose ends at the butcher shop. I planned a little local fire and kaboom to make sure Brigitte’s brains hit the pathologist’s table looking like beef stroganoff. As for Placide’s corpse—wanted to leave that mostly intact. Gotta hand over at least one recognizable face from the Voodoo Boy leadership to the NCPD.

This wasn’t just about wiping out the enemy. It had to be done clean, tight. Leave Michiko with as few questions as possible. I wasn’t gonna get away with blaming this one on a weird fetish. The Konpeki shit had to land squarely on the Voodoo Boys.

If someone asked the question—“What’s your proof?”—I had a neat little list:

The data center trails Michiko pointed me to led right to T-Bug’s apartment. She was kidnapped, used, and murdered by the Voodoo Boys. Their own systems back it up. There’s even an encrypted file with part of her interrogation. I know where to pull it from in Brigitte’s virtual stash.

A shitload of materials the Voodoo Boys gathered on Konpeki. Hotel schematics, personnel data, the works. Solid evidence.

I’ll drop some half-finished subroutines into their servers—the ones used to unleash the rogue AI on Konpeki. A direct connection.

I’ll try to grab a few low-tier Voodoo Boys alive. Ones who knew about the heist planning but weren’t in deep enough to lawyer up with cyber bullshit.

Yeah. In the spy game, nobody takes your word for shit. You need receipts. But it wouldn’t hurt to have even more angles.

One more idea hit me.

What if Michiko got proof the Voodoo Boys were behind the Konpeki hit… from someone other than me? That’d be gold. If, say, NetWatch broke into Rezo Agwe’s systems, Michiko could get the same info—either through corp-to-corp intel sharing, or embedded agents. Shit like that does happen sometimes.

Seemed like I found the perfect place to slot NetWatch into the game I was about to play. I even had a way to reach Bryce Mosley, the agent currently digging into the Voodoo Boys. I pinged Angie. No answer at first—probably not alone. Finally, on the third try, she picked up:

"Hey. This important?"

"Yeah. I need to talk to the NetWatch agent you’ve got under wraps at the old mall. I think I’ve got something he’ll want real bad."

"Oh, really now," she sounded intrigued. "I’ll reach out. What’s in it for me?"

From the tone of her voice, Angie was already thinking about what kind of favor she could squeeze out of NetWatch as a middleman. I didn’t care. I’d already scored my payday—once we took out their base, I’d start raiding Brigitte’s stashes and the gang’s reserves. Mosley’s cash didn’t matter. What mattered was getting NetWatch’s people inside the Voodoo Boys’ networks—finding exactly what I needed them to find.

We got on a call with the agent about seven minutes later. The conversation went smoothly—aside from Mosley fishing hard for details I wasn’t ready to give up.

"You don’t need to risk yourself," he said. "Just hand over what you’ve got, we’ll handle the rest professionally."

"I do need to risk myself," I replied, just as polite but with steel in my voice. "I’ve got a whole fucking organization behind me too. I’m happy to sell you whatever scraps we don’t need. But let me finish the main job first. If—by some goddamn miracle—they beat us, I’ll send you the data with my dying breath. But don’t worry. No miracles tonight."

Eventually, the agent agreed to wait. We shook on forty-five grand. Not much, but hey—I'll take it.

Alright. Prep was finished. Time to raid the nest.

The Voodoo Boys left in Brigitte’s inner circle were holed up in old metro tunnels—east of the chapel, not under it. Supposedly around twenty of them inside, including a few netrunners. Sounds like a lot, but their gear and prep were second-rate. Voodoo Boys always preferred stealth and shadowplay over meatspace shootouts.

"So the plan’s pretty simple," I told the crew when we regrouped. "Me and Becca go in through the shack. Falco and Panam cut off their escape route by the drainage exit. That zone’s wide open, so a sniper rifle, LMG, and something heavy-duty should convince them to stay put. Lucy covers both groups through the Net. We wrap this up before dawn."

"Flamethrower?" Becca asked, all hopeful and shit.

"Sure," I nodded. "But just for the first phase. These rooms here are concrete and steel, nothing much to burn. Let it rip. After that, we’ll be near sensitive equipment—and we’ve got hostages. Don’t wanna smoke ’em out with carbon monoxide. So play it smart."

"Let’s ride," said Panam.

And off we went—to finish the black magic mafia. If we wiped out Brigitte’s inner circle tonight and NetWatch took Rezo Agwe, it could be the end of the Voodoo Boys outside Dogtown entirely. Very real possibility. Over in Hansen’s turf, after the Slider’s death, a new headliner had emerged—some chick named Ayo Zarin. Makes sense. They’ve got bases, regular clients, and local government support. But outside of Dogtown? These guys were vulnerable. Smash the network and the gang would splinter. The best and brightest would flee to Barghest turf or go solo. That worked just fine for me.

Only downside? NetWatch would have a lot more breathing room. I’d have to tread way more carefully in the Net—but worst case, I had my Arasaka creds.

As for me, I geared up like it was Brazil all over again. Took Apparition, an AX-7 Keeper smart SMG, two monokatanas, and a pair of throwing stilettos. Plus, of course—grenades.

Becca, bless her maniac heart, was dragging along some beastly two-handed flamethrower from a brand I didn’t even recognize. Thing sprayed thermite mix under insane pressure—hot enough to roast a full-grown booster in their own chrome. Accuracy and range were shit, but we’d be fighting in tight corridors. Perfect environment to let hell loose and make the fuckers panic.

Becca’s secondary weapon was a sawed-off Constitutional Arms M2038 “Tactician.” Simple thing, but reliable as a Swiss watch—maybe even more. She also had a pistol and three standard grenades. No EMPs this time. Didn’t expect any heavily chromed solos from the Voodoo Boys. Placide was already toast.

Me and Becca were zipped up in protective suits, faces covered with chem-masks. Not just to keep our bodies intact, but also to minimize DNA traces.

The van—formerly property of the Voodoo Boys—delivered us on autopilot to a nondescript shack near a greasy spoon.

"We’re here. Block the back entrance," I told Panam and Falco.

Early morning. Pre-dawn haze. Streets were nearly empty. Even the ever-present hobos and gangoons were out cold wherever they’d dropped.

"Your keys worked," came Lucy’s voice over comms. "I’m in their system with admin access, no problem."

Of course they worked. I’d pulled those keys, passwords, and ID tags straight from the head queen witch of this cyber-magical mess.

I stepped out of the van, feeling the weight of my gear, eyes sweeping the surroundings. Coast clear. We entered the shack fast, greeted immediately by the first adepts of black magic. Two lookouts who didn’t even get the chance to raise the alarm.

One got a dose of amnesia and a monoknife to the ribs. The other got the same script and a bullet to the head—courtesy of Lucy and Becca. Two fresh corpses in under five seconds. Beautiful.

Inside the shack was a mess. Plastic barrels, rusted-out crap, empty bottles. Could spend hours digging through the garbage, but I knew where to go. Walked over to a wall, moved aside a busted radio, lifted a poster of some black actor, and pressed a barely-visible button. A hidden hatch opened in the rusted floor a second later.

"Four in the main room below," Lucy fed me a visual of the chamber.

Concrete walls, high ceiling, a couple of pillars, dim lighting. Voodoo Boy graffiti glowed in fluorescent paint. On a couch sat a bald netrunner chick—kind of gave off T-Bug vibes. Probably the skin tone and shaved head. She was watching something on a tablet while two scrawny guards leaned against the wall, jabbering in Haitian. The fourth was fiddling with a breaker box. Rhythmic music was playing.

Funny thing, I recognized all four. If I really tried, I could even remember their names. Brigitte had been very selective with who she trusted post-Slider rebellion. These were loyalists. Less about talent now, more about obedience and low ambition.

That bald chick? She’d do fine as live evidence for NetWatch. She was loosely in the loop about the Arasaka heist, but didn’t know the details. They’d kept her out of the Parker and DeShawn stuff.

"Go in quiet," I whispered to Becca. "No noise, no bullshit. I’ll handle the netrunner. Knock her out. You handle the rest."

"Roger that, boss. Three Voodoo Boys, extra crispy. Bellissimo, muah!"

"Cool it. Fire after praise. Let’s move."

We crept down the steps. A camera blinked above, but Lucy already had it under control. Love hitting a target with good prep.

We slipped into the shadows of the half-finished underground complex. The music masked our steps. Even when we were four feet from the netrunner, she didn’t look up. I dropped amnesia and reboot optics on her.

"YAAA! BURN!" Becca’s scream overlapped with the roar of the flamethrower.

Fuel mixed with oxygen, igniting into a high-temp death cocktail. Fire sliced through the gloom, sweeping the two guards. The room lit up instantly. Flames licked the walls. Two human torches bolted in opposite directions. I leapt at the netrunner, jabbing a neurotoxin injector into her neck, then dove behind a pillar. One more guard was taking aim at me—but never fired. His eyes glitched from Lucy’s script and a heartbeat later, fire swallowed him whole.

"That was... SO COOL! I want more!"

"Four inbound. Left side. Narrow corri—"

Lucy didn’t finish. Becca had already jammed the flamethrower nozzle around the corner and cranked it up. In tight corridors, that thing was hell on earth. Screams echoed, then an explosion—probably one of the Voodoo Boys dropped a grenade at their own feet.

"One tried to run. Turret got him," Lucy reported.

Becca was about to charge ahead, but I stopped her.

"Leave it for now."

"Aw, come on, choom. Just one more? Please?"

"Not now. We’ve got hostages. Take the shotgun. Shotguns are cool too."

"Two more down," Lucy continued the virtual genocide.

"Great. Try to stun a couple. No need to kill 'em all." I paused. "That wasn’t for you, Becca. You can wreck 'em however you want."

We moved forward. Burned corpses littered the corridor. One of them twitched—probably implants frying from the heat.

"Up ahead..."

Two shotgun blasts.

"...nevermind," Lucy finished.

Gunfire echoed ahead. The turrets Lucy hijacked were doing their thing.

"Two tried to surface," Panam reported. "Didn’t make it."

No more coordinated resistance. One chromed-up Voodoo Boy with a Sandevistan tried to make a show. Even dodged two of Becca’s shots. But we flipped on our speed boosters too. I veered right, dropped a burst, then hit him with an implant glitch. Lucy had already softened him up. Half-blind, the bastard tried to hide behind a folding couch—plastic crap that didn’t stop Apparition’s bullets. I let my SMG hang on its strap and fired using smart targeting.

One-two—head blown open. Three-four—sent to hell.

We cleaned house fast, clean, and loud. Nineteen dead. Three unconscious. Not a scratch on us worth mentioning. Becca caught a few slugs, but her armor ate them. The base was ours.

Time to free the hostages—and “free” Evelyn Parker.

They didn’t have proper holding cells here. Just tossed prisoners in closets and storage rooms. First one we opened—Jackie. Man, he looked fucked. Beaten to hell. Covered in bruises. Jacket torn, crusted with blood. Rope marks on his neck.

"He even alive?" Becca asked, staring at the merc face-down, hands tied behind his back.

"Yeah. Should be. Hit him with a stim."

"On it..."

She dug through the medkit. After the shot, Mr. Wells started twitching. Groaned. Tried to roll over.

"Easy, choom," Becca murmured. "Let’s get those hands free. There. Don’t sit up too fast. Damn, they messed you up good. You’ll be alright. Wanna piece of gum?"

"Nah..." Jackie mumbled through busted lips. "My teeth... cagada. You’re... you’re that little psycho that runs with V."

"I’m here too. Can you walk? We’re short on muscle for a proper evac, but we’ll carry you out if we have to."

"I can... just... I’m dying of thirst and about to piss myself."

"That’s my every morning," Becca grinned. "There was a john around here—if I didn’t blow it up. Come on, I’ll help you."

"There was someone else with me..."

"I know. I’ll go get her now," I said.

The second cell was near Jackie’s. Using the Kiroshi, I saw a female silhouette through the stone wall—standing still just to the right of the door. In her hands, she held a chunk of brick, raised above her head, ready to smash the first poor bastard who walked in. Yeah... probably best not to barge in unannounced.

I knocked and said, as calmly as I could:

"Morning. Valerie, I presume?"

"Yeah," came the voice from behind the door. "And who the fuck are you?"

"Lumberjack. Specialist in harvesting wood." (1)

"The fuck? Is that a handle or something?"

Right. Guess she’s not a transmigrant. Or at least not from my past world or culture.

"It’s a joke. One of those laugh-at-yourself types. I’m here to kill Voodoo Boys and break you and Jackie out. The Voodoo Boys are already dead."

"Now that’s a better joke," she replied, exhausted, dropping the piece of brick to the floor. "I’d invite you in, but the door’s locked from the outside."

"I’ll handle it."

Time to meet my alternate version—and the other failed candidate for Johnny Silverhand’s little joyride. As I started cracking the door open, one thought crossed my mind:

"Crazy thing is... everything’s actually going according to plan."

(1) No clue what this joke supposed to mean. It might be related to illegal wood harvesting, but I don’t know

[Demons of NC] Chapter 96

The abandoned movie theater near Pacifica wasn’t all that abandoned. An old mulatto guy with a creaky prosthetic arm opened the door for me—for Evelyn—and gestured for me to come in.

The dim, flickering mercury lights gave off real horror movie vibes. I walked down a short staircase into a half-lit hall full of ragged old seats. With the dulled sensations, the whole thing felt almost like a video game. But what really threw me was the near-total lack of smell. In a place like this, you’d expect the stench of decay and mold. The absence triggered a memory—one morning, years ago, when I couldn’t smell shit anymore. Not even rubbing alcohol or pine oil. A few weeks later, they hauled me off to the hospital.

On-screen, muted trailers were rolling for upcoming flicks—Bushido, Dark Passion, Deep Psychosis. The pop culture of 2077 wasn't just braindance and chrome. After all, most folks didn’t want to actually feel what those movies were selling. Being a spectator had its perks. Like not dying.

I—Evelyn—could’ve used a bit more of that safety right about now. Barely three minutes in, I heard heavy boots thudding above. I turned, plastering a charming little smile across Evelyn’s face.

It wasn’t Brigitte.

It was Placide—Brigitte’s pet bulldog. Or by the size of him, more like her personal ox.

The black tank stared me down with pure hatred. Hopefully, they didn’t plan to zero Evelyn right away. At the very least, they’d want to interrogate her. Maybe even torture her for fun.

“Come,” he grunted, his lip curling like he’d just stepped in something.

“Where’s Brigitte? I’ve got a proposal for her.”

“Come,” he growled again, even more sour.

“Alright, alright,” I smirked. “Lead the way, big guy.”

Placide marched me through the theater and out into a rear lot tucked behind some crumbling industrial fencing. Waiting there was a nondescript van. No tags, no markings. The kind of ride people enter with the Voodoo Boys and only leave when it’s time for someone like Masuka to ID the body.

I climbed in without a fuss. The goal was to reach Brigitte.

Inside, I—Evelyn—settled into a seat in the back. On either side sat Haitian gangsters, skin black as oil. I felt like the chick from that meme—woman on a couch, surrounded by dudes. Good thing this body wasn’t mine.

There was a signal jammer in the van. Standard issue. Would’ve worked too, if we hadn’t prepped Evelyn’s hardware to shrug off that kind of cheap trick. Baks definitely earned his forty thousand.

The van pulled out. I stayed quiet, cycling through scripts—cloaking, fast hacking, close-quarters combat. I’d tested the CQC scripts on a dummy earlier. Weird experience. Felt a lot like a game: press attack, and the body executes pre-set combos on its own. Muscle memory—synthetic edition.

“You scared?” one of the gangsters suddenly asked.

“Should I be?”

Kept my tone even. No fear, but no attitude either. Last thing I needed was to trigger their predator instinct and have the party start early.

“You should be, bitch,” Placide muttered.

“I’m not here to talk to you, big guy. I’m here for your momma.”

Placide stared at Evelyn’s face like he was imagining it covered in blood.

“She won’t have much to say. But me and you? We’ll have plenty of time to chat.”

Keep dreaming, asshole. Evelyn fucked around and found out. The Voodoo Boys were next in line.

I wasn’t using voice comms with Lucy, but encrypted telemetry was still flowing. The Boys couldn’t jam that. A thin thread connected me to my crew. We were ready to strike.

There were no windows in the van, aside from the front windshield. Through that, I caught glimpses of dead amusement parks and half-finished megaresorts. Pacifica. A wasteland of stillborn ambition.

Eventually the van slowed and stopped near the coast.

“Out,” Placide barked.

I stepped out before he got handsy. We stood in front of a squat building hidden in the cluttered sprawl near the water. The faded sign over the back entrance read Roland’s Butcher Shop.

Fucking poetic.

A doll, butchered in a butcher shop. Could win awards on the indie film circuit.

The door opened. Inside, cold air and slabs of All Foods hydroponic meat dangled from the ceiling—artery-threaded synthetic flesh that never belonged to real animals.

“I always knew you were stupid,” came a familiar voice with that creole lilt. “But I didn’t think you were this fucking dumb, Evelyn. We thought you were off-world by now. Or dead.”

Maman Brigitte herself stepped into view.

Pleasure to meet you. I don’t think it'll be a long meeting—but it’ll sure be memorable.

I had a neat little plan forming, but first, had to check something.

“Give me a sec,” I said. “Need to scan local signals. You’re on the Watchdogs’ radar—wouldn’t want our little chat to get recorded.”

I activated the scanners in Evelyn’s implants, syncing with my own abilities through the proxy link.

“Scan?” Brigitte sneered. “Shut up, whore. You’re here to answer questions and pray, though I doubt you believe in anything.”

Her bitching got in the way, but I tuned her out. I needed to be sure the local net was clean. Looked isolated enough for now. Later I’d do a full sweep for bugs.

“What if I talk too much?” I asked, plastering a fake-cute smile on Evelyn’s lips. “You gonna have your boy here lop off my head like poor Bug?”

Brigitte's expression shifted. The anger slipped, replaced by suspicion—and a flicker of curiosity.

“What are you talking about?”

“That I’m not as limited in shells as you are.” I triggered the eye-glow, puppet chip style. “Is that clearer?”

“Who are you?”

“Good question. Who am I? A soldier. One of the legions tied to her. The one you tried to contact.”

She stared for a few long seconds.

Then just said: “Come.”

Looks like the fish bit the hook.

“Brigitte—” Placide started.

“Guard the door,” she snapped.

The brute didn’t argue.

She led me into a back office. Closed the blinds herself.

How sweet.

Always nice when the target helps set the stage for their own execution.

Guess this is what vampires feel like when they lure some poor girl into the woods—she spreads out the blanket, thinking it’s for a picnic, not realizing it’s the fucking tablecloth.

“No one’s listening,” Brigitte assured. “So it was you at Konpeki?”

“Exactly.”

Could Lucy help me right now, netrunner to netrunner? No. Our connection was still live, but weak as hell thanks to the isolation layers. Which meant I had to kick things off myself. Time to stall the voodoo momma while prepping the strike.

“Where’s the real biochip with Silverhand?” Brigitte asked.

“It doesn’t exist anymore,” I told the truth—then bent it just a little. “Silverhand’s in cyberspace. If you want to reach Alt, I’m your only shot.”

“She sent you here for Johnny?” Brigitte looked mildly surprised. “Didn’t think she still had such… human traits.”

“Johnny’s just step one,” I replied, scanning her ICE while firing off a message to my crew:

“Move to my coordinates. At least six targets here. I’ll handle one.”

“You’ll need help on this side,” Brigitte said. “And I’m ready to give it. I know the Blackwall will fall one day, and I want to be on the winning side.”

Interesting. Where’d she get that kind of confidence? Some cyber-apocalypse prophet shit, or did she know something the rest of us didn’t? I didn’t ask. I’d find out once I ate Brigitte. But for now, I had to be careful. Her ICE was tough—couldn’t brute-force through it. Needed finesse. Or…

“Wanna meet her?” I asked. “I can make that happen.”

I sent the handshake request. If she accepted, I’d get a backdoor into her system and bypass her defenses. But Brigitte played it smart.

“Not here. We’ll go to Rezo Agwe. From there, we can safely dive deeper.”

I didn’t argue. No point spooking her. Could I take her down physically? Maybe—strike her temple, try to knock her out cold. But the risk was high. Her skull might be reinforced.

“How’d you find us?” she asked.

“Through Parker, of course. Traced her back from Yorinobu. I was pulling the thread from the other side. Thought if I took Evelyn out, I could ruin your op and grab the prize myself.”

“When we pulled a dummy from the mercs instead of the real chip, I thought they were trying to play us. Sell it off. But no amount of interrogation helped. They kept saying the same thing.”

“The two from Konpeki?” I asked.

“Yes. Time to trash that fatra. We need to move. The Watchdogs have been everywhere since Konpeki. We have to be more cautious.”

Huh. That might be why she dodged the trap. The Konpeki shitstorm probably made her more paranoid.

“Move?” I muttered. “Almost done with you.”

I launched amnesia at her.

Cracking her ICE with that script cost me a chunk of my own memory. But I only needed seconds…

When Brigitte came to, she realized we were linked through direct ports.

“What are you doing?!” she snapped.

“Fatra means trash, right? I’m taking out the trash.”

She tried to scream or send an alert, but it was too late. The direct link let me hammer her system directly. Her implants shut down. No more access to her deck. She reached for her gun and tried to break the link, but I had Evelyn’s body lock her arms behind her. Combat scripts executed perfectly. We lost the port link in the scuffle, but by then I’d already chewed through most of her defenses.

“Wait, hold on,” she gasped, giving up the struggle. “I can help you. I want to join you.”

“Then our goals align,” I said with a smirk. “Part of you will join me—your knowledge, your experience, your memories. The rest? Trash. You’ve been evaluated and deemed worthless. Today, you’re ranyon. A filthy rag no one gives a shit about.”

I kept the attack going. Time to consume the voodoo queen.

Re-linked physically, I began tampering with her implants. I didn’t have a virus shard or tranquilizer on hand, but I didn’t want her body wrecked in the process. Luckily, she had excellent netrunner-grade mods—including a full suite for bodily regulation under extreme conditions.

Good. Because shit was about to get extreme.

I used the implants to induce a coma-like state. No twitching, no foaming at the mouth, no pissing herself in that fancy runner suit. Neat and tidy.

I locked the door.

And I feasted.

Another gourmet course. A fuckton of valuable info—runner tactics, Voodoo Boy operations, names, contacts. It would take ages to sift through all the memories, picking out gem after gem.

One stuck out: Brigitte standing over a beaten man, hands tied behind his back.

“I’ll ask one last time,” she said coldly. “Where’s the real biochip? Who did you give it to?”

“For the hundredth time… estimada señora…” the man wheezed. “We didn’t open the container…”

Jackie.

Now I knew. After Konpeki, the Voodoo Boys lured Jackie and his partner into a trap—using fake messages from T-Bug. Brigitte herself impersonated her. Then they nabbed the mercs. The chip turned out to be fake. So they didn’t flatline them right away—kept them for info. Looks like we’ve got a real hostage rescue on our hands, not just a PR stunt with “saving” Evelyn.

But first—the queen’s court.

I walked over to Brigitte’s limp body and grabbed her pistol. No grenades. Shame. I love grenades. They really help reveal a person’s inner world—unless you’ve armored it up.

No alarms yet. Good. Time to start this on my terms.

“The queen’s down. How many out front?” I pinged Lucy.

“Three. Maybe three and a half if you count the size of one of the goons. We’re ready. Say the word and we’ll paint the walls.”

Placide was outside, just like Brigitte ordered. Good little lapdog. Two more inside.

“On my mark,” I replied, placing the pistol in Brigitte’s dead hand.

Got an idea. Time to test it.

I hijacked her implants again. Puppeted her corpse to its feet. Guess that makes her a proper voodoo doll now, huh?

Switched Evelyn to puppet mode. She stayed upright, waiting for commands.

“Does my body… look like a corpse?” I asked through Evelyn.

“There’s a bruise here. Let me fix that…”

She gently wiped Brigitte’s face with a damp cloth she found on the desk.

“Let’s go,” I said. “And hey—command directive six FZ, five-minute range, countdown from seven.”

That would wipe five minutes of memory from Evelyn’s chip before and after the command. Didn’t need her telling my crew I was pulling cyber-necromancer shit.

Brigitte the meat puppet opened the door.

We stepped back into the cold room where two black gangers were waiting.

“We ready to roll, Maman?” one of them asked.

Didn’t answer.

My voice would sound off to them.

Instead, I dropped an optic reboot script on both and opened fire the second it triggered.

At the same time, I pinged the squad to take out the trio outside.

My aim was a little off—no tactile feedback in a puppet hand. Recoil threw me. Brigitte’s arms weren’t exactly benching chrome. But at point blank I still tagged one of them three times in the chest.

Then Evelyn moved.

Maybe Judy’s scripts didn’t make her a supersoldier, but she had just enough grace to slip a monowire loop over the blinded Voodoo Boy’s neck. He fired a few rounds in a panic before she shredded his throat.

Fake meat got a splash of the real blood.

I calmly finished off my “client” and, as a passenger, returned to Parker’s body. Brigitte collapsed to the floor. Gunfire echoed from outside. Seemed like it was over—until the cold room doors slammed open again.

It was Placide.

His face was covered in blood. Part of his head looked caved in from a high-caliber round. Jesus, what kind of skull does this guy have to tank that? Kinda makes me wanna look into what the hell he’s got in there—might install it myself.

“Slut!” the half-dead brute growled, raising his shotgun.

The shot boomed, but Evelyn dodged to the side. Puppet chip and combat scripts kicked in—Kereznikov lit up. I was already throwing everything I had at him: optic reboot, implant malfunction, synapse meltdown. Just a matter of whether he’d take her out before the scripts kicked in.

Instead of running, the doll charged straight into melee.

Another blast.

The monowire flashed. Like something out of a movie, Evelyn managed to wrap the weapon’s barrel with the filament and yank it off-target at the last second. Slick—but holy fuck, risky as hell. No doubt Judy pulled that move from some cheesy action flick.

Placide yanked the shotgun back, winding up to cave in her head with the stock—but my scripts started firing one by one. Just to be sure, I layered on an overload.

One second later, the half-dead bastard dropped, twitching and blowing blood bubbles.

“Finish him,” I ordered Evelyn.

She raised one leg high—came down with a brutal stomp straight from above, snapped the big man’s neck, and shattered her own heel in the process. Pulled a ligament in her right leg too, even with all the recent tuning. Fuckin’ movie kung fu… dumb as shit, but damn, does it look good.

Alright. Time to hop back into my own body and head out for the Voodoo Boys’ main den. Thanks to Brigitte’s memories, I now knew exactly where they were holed up.

Daily Updates

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Daily Update (28/03/25) + (29/03/25)

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Daily Updates (27/03/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 88

• Tier 2: Chapter 93

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 60

• Tier 2: Chapter 64

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 55

• Tier 2: Chapter 60

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 60

The Forge of the Giants. A massive bowl, its bottom still glowing with embers—embers that continued to hold the flame of the giants, a fire even Queen Marika the Eternal herself had failed to extinguish. A flame once belonging to a fallen Outer God, defeated by the Erdtree… and yet still clinging to a shred of its might, enough to drag its natural enemy down with it.

Or whatever it was that now stood in place of the Erdtree…

Both enemies and allies of Queen and Goddess Marika knew just how ruthless and meticulous she could be when it came to revenge. Unable to snuff out the flame, she had instead ordered it guarded—and sealed off—by the very one meant to spread it: a giant who had lost the war.

Towering dozens of meters tall, the being stood as a living monument to grandeur and might.

Unfortunately, any self-respecting Soulsliker knew that wasn’t quite true: the bigger the hitbox, the easier the fight—and the clunkier the opponent.

Granted, the Fire Giant was a bit of an exception. His random roll-attacks earned him a touch more respect (and a lot more hatred, since players had to chase him across half the map), but the core truth remained: the smaller the enemy, the more dangerous they probably were.

Even though Kosta had long since grown taller than a normal human, next to the giant, he was still basically a toothpick.

No further clarification was needed.

And as if that wasn’t enough, he wasn’t alone. And no, we’re not talking about his waifu or any summoned spirits.

“Ho-ho! Who would’ve thought? It’s an honor to witness your combat prowess again, Konstantin!”

The Tarnished gave a stoic nod, aiming the Rivers of Blood at the towering figure of the Fire Giant, who was already reaching for his enormous cauldron the moment he spotted the two uninvited guests.

“This time, we’ll fight together,” the man said gravely. “Since the script triggered again(1), I couldn’t not invite you to the fight.”

To Kosta’s surprise, Alexander understood exactly what he meant. It was hard to put into words how grateful the warrior-jar was to his friend.

He knew he’d probably just be underfoot. They both knew. And still…

“It must be fate! You’re too kind to me, my friend!”

Normally, it would've taken him months to reach this place, but some dragon had—completely by accident—picked him up mid-journey, flown him across the continent, and eventually dropped him here after losing interest.

If that wasn’t fate… or scripted event… well, what was?

Alexander laughed, delighted.

Neither Millicent, nor Melina, nor Latenna had expected the man to run into his friend—the living jar Alexander—in a place like this. A spontaneous encounter at the very edge of the continent seemed like it had no rhyme or reason… and yet—

Somehow, it had happened. And the man wasn’t even surprised. After a few brushes with the phenomenon of fate (game script), he had begun to accept certain “random” events as natural, grateful either to the world itself or to the Sun for allowing him to influence the code, drawing ever closer to his ending.

That didn’t mean he planned to lean on the scripted events entirely. It just meant he could keep on tryharding and casualing his way through, doing everything that needed to be done.

And when the time came, he’d figure out the necessary mechanics and—if need be—how many phases fate might actually have.

“Please… don’t interfere,” Melina whispered with uncharacteristic seriousness. “This is not your fight.”

Millicent nodded dumbly.

The unbroken red-haired warrior hadn’t met Melina before crossing paths with Konstantin, but for some reason, she felt a strange sense of kinship. In some abstract way, she saw the Finger Maiden as something like…

An aunt, maybe?..

At the very least, the outwardly-young maiden felt older. Not quite motherly, but aunt-like? Possibly?..

Millicent wasn’t sure, lacking real-life associations for familial ties, only knowing them through stories from her adoptive father.

Still, Melina gave her a sense of quiet comfort. The false Finger Maiden, even if she didn’t seem to like her very much for some reason, still treated her with patience and, in some distant way, even friendliness. That was more than enough. No—

That was already too much for Millicent.

“I… I understand, of course…”

Melina, long used to the sharp-tongued remarks of a certain witch… or perhaps not just one, narrowed her eyes in quiet satisfaction at the girl’s gentle, surprisingly sincere answer.

There was no need to worry that her words would be twisted, ignored, or misunderstood. If Millicent said she understood—she meant it.

Wasn’t she just the sweetest?..

The charm of the unbroken red-haired waifu was simply too strong.

While one side seemed almost too relaxed—treating the fight against one of the Golden Order’s most terrifying foes as little more than a warm-up—that very foe was feeling very different emotions.

The Fire Giant needed only one glance at one of the approaching “gnats” to experience—for the first time in centuries—a surge of raging madness and, along with it, humiliating fear. Fear of something many times smaller(2) than him… but also, so much greater.

The small Tarnished radiated the presence of someone massive—taller than the tallest among the now-extinct race of giants. As tall and terrible as the monster who had once chained him here.

And yet—just as disgustingly small. He would not allow that humiliation to repeat. Not again. Not ever.

Kosta blinked in disbelief at the giant, who had suddenly howled like a mad beast, dropped to his knees… and grabbed his own leg—just to tear it off and offer it up as a sacrifice to a long-dead Outer God. A flicker of power that, though all but extinguished, could still flare to life for one last burst of fury.

‘Second phase already?’

Apparently, the giants’ inferiority complex ran way deeper than Kosta had anticipated.

A blazing eye opened on the giant’s chest. Flames ignited—flames so hateful, so venomous to everything around them, that even space caught fire, warping and distorting in protest.

Kosta felt that familiar pressure crash down on him again, though this time… it was noticeably weaker. He’d been through far worse.

It even seemed like the blade in his hand—blessed by the curse of the Formless Mother—scoffed, as if mocking the very idea that anyone would call on a fallen Outer God expecting to get something useful in return.

Without exchanging a glance (assuming a warrior-jar even could exchange glances), Konstantin and Alexander surged forward at the same time, charging straight into the incoming wave of flame.

Kosta’s casual aura might shield him—but his friend? His friend welcomed the divinely-tainted fire.

After all, it was perfect for tempering his body and spirit.

“This is just the right temperature!!!” bellowed the living jar with a hearty laugh, swinging a mighty blow at the creature’s leg(3).

The maddened monstrosity, seeing that the flames of its dead God couldn’t so much as singe its foes, screamed even louder, throwing up both hands—now blazing with a fire more furious and hateful than ever before.

It would annihilate these gnats, sweep them away like freshly fallen snow!

Its sweeping arms—each wide enough to flatten hills and stir up storms—came crashing down. Melina, watching from afar, quickly grabbed Millicent’s hand and pulled her into immateriality.

Millicent let out a surprised yelp, blinking as the world around her turned vague and shimmery, her body phasing out into something less… solid.

“I could’ve handled it myself… but t-thank you…”

Seeing how flustered the unbroken warrior looked, Melina suddenly felt the urge to pull her into a hug and gently pat her on the head.

She still couldn’t believe something like this had emerged from Malenia’s lineage.

Who would’ve thought that terrifying woman could give life to something so soft and gentle… Melina bit her lip.

Millicent, noticing the odd look on Melina’s usually-calm face, turned even redder. Melina groaned mentally.

She had her limits too! This was too much!

Meanwhile, the battle raged on without pause. The Fire Giant was in a frenzy like never before, tearing through everything in his path. The snow-covered mountain was melting, revealing blackened, scorched earth. Craters formed one after another—scars that would remain for centuries, reminding the world of what had happened here.

…And even then, few would believe the enormous creature had been rolling around the battlefield, trying to squash his enemies with his own body…

…Or that he’d tried to scoop them up with his giant bowl, hoping to bury them under tons of dirt.

Unfortunately, Konstantin couldn’t bring himself to care about the fight anymore. He just lazily pulled aggro from Alexander to keep him safe and experimented with the new blade in his hand, testing its durability.

More and more bloody gashes began to cover the giant’s body—small, but agonizing, signaling the inevitable end of his centuries-long imprisonment.

Such was the burden of one of the strongest—and most casual-friendly—playstyles in the Lands Between: bleed.

Soon enough, the giant fell, his colossal body crashing to the earth with a roar that shook the living and the dead across miles. Another boss defeated, another step toward Konstantin’s inevitable conclusion.

“At first I was happy,” Alexander muttered, settling his jar-body down near the edge of the Forge. “But now I just feel bitter, my friend…”

Kosta sat silently beside him, calm as ever. Far behind them lay the giant’s corpse—fallen after centuries at the hands of just two warriors.

“Bitter?” the Tarnished asked, brows raised.

Alexander’s words worried him. The final step of the jar’s sad questline was drawing near, and Konstantin had hoped his actions would change that outcome. At the start of the fight, Alexander had seemed full of spirit—not weighed down by that old gloom.

Kosta still remembered how, in the original tale, Alexander had lamented that the Tarnished had done everything while he had done nothing. But this time… this time Kosta had taken the role of the supporting phantom, drawing aggro and letting Alexander do the heavy lifting.

Was that… not enough?

The warrior-jar, not expecting fear in the voice of a being as otherworldly as Konstantin, let out a quiet laugh.

He hadn’t defeated the giant. Not really. There hadn’t been much of a battle to begin with. The giant—who had once seemed like a god to Alexander—had been no threat at all to his friend.

A fight without challenge. A dull beatdown, with a predetermined outcome. He had been allowed to pummel the giant’s legs until it fell. Allowed to run circles around a crazed, flame-drunk titan, chained here long ago by Marika herself.

In one word—suffocating.

Alexander had landed the final blow, claiming the victory runes. Konstantin hadn’t even tried to steal the kill, even though he clearly needed more levels.

And yet… Alexander felt no joy. Maybe now he could grow bigger, push beyond the limits nature had imposed. But—

After the victory, he realized that wasn’t what he truly wanted.

“I’m not worthy of this strength… It would corrupt me, Konstantin… And I wouldn’t even use it half as well as you could…”

He was right. His power grew by absorbing the remains of fallen warriors. Only Tarnished, learning the process slowly through the Finger Maidens, could properly use runes to grow stronger. And even among them, Konstantin was… an anomaly.

Alexander reached out with the full torrent of runes earned from the giant’s death and pushed them into a startled Konstantin.

For a moment, the world shimmered with a golden storm of light—an explosion of endless runes.

“You…”

“Gods, please, spare me the words, Konstantin. I can see how little time you have left—I won’t be the one to hold you back. You must finish your quests your way! Don’t you see how important that is?! I already received the one thing I truly wanted—to be forged.”

Alexander slapped his massive hand against his jar-body. The surface, now subtly blackened by the flames of a fallen Outer God, held firm—and, in fact, had grown stronger. Artificial physiology, flavored with a few laws not native to this world, had its own unique view on the concept of tempering living jars.

"So don’t wor—"

Konstantin's eyes lit with the light of the Sun.

"I have something I need to show you. Come."

Without warning, he stood and touched the jar, pulling him into the Flow of Grace.

Alexander had no time to respond. He froze, jarred—figuratively and literally—nearly tipping over from shock.

They stood in the Scarlet Wastes, before an ancient, long-forgotten coliseum. The Coliseum of the Star Wastes, beside which sat a jar the size of the coliseum itself, arms crossed like any self-respecting warrior-jar, towering over them just as the Fire Giant had only recently done.

"W-what…"

"I’ve wanted to show you this for a long time," said Kosta. "I just couldn’t find the right moment. You think that giant was godlike? In a Soulslike, no one stops your growth. You just need the patience to farm and sweat it out. A real tryhard lives inside you, so I believe you can become stronger than this jar. Much stronger."

As Alexander had helped him, now it was Kosta's turn to help him.

No more falling victim to the script!

Kosta paused, letting his friend absorb the weight of his words.

"Call me to a duel when you’re sure you could destroy that jar in a single hit."

"By the stars—do you have any idea how long that’ll take?! Madman, that’s practically impossible!"

"I’ll wait," Konstantin answered simply, then unexpectedly raised his arms to the Sun, breaking through the rot-red sky. "Every time you feel tired—praise the Sun. That always helped me."

Alexander roared with laughter.

Of course the Sun’s chosen would receive aid from it. That was only natural. But the warmth in Konstantin’s voice—the way he spoke, as though reliving countless battles he couldn’t win… until he did—it sparked a strange hope.

The warrior-jar raised his mighty arms toward the heavens, catching a glimpse of that golden light.

If his friend believed in him that much, he couldn't let him down.

"Praise the Sun!!!"

Another quest was officially complete.

One of the greatest disappointments among lore scholars—Vyke, knight of the Roundtable Hold.

A former devotee of the capital’s ancient dragon cult, wielder of red lightning. A favorite of the ancient dragon Lansseax, once known as the Dragon Spear.

He had come closest of any Tarnished to becoming Elden Lord, only to scar himself with the Flame of Frenzy, refusing to inherit it in full.

Say what you will—he was a legend. A half-forgotten, fog-wrapped, rumor-drenched legend.

But he had another, far more humiliating reputation.

The cover character of the game… who ended up as a random hobo in a jail cell on the Mountaintops of the Giants. Missing two Great Runes for some reason. Truly, a mystery worthy of legend!

"Honestly, your potential questline might be the one I feel most sorry about," admitted Konstantin, raising his blade toward Vyke. "Was it really necessary to strip naked when you entered the Three Fingers' room?(4)"

His inner lore scholar was in agony—torn between pity and seething hatred. The plot holes Vyke had left behind still echoed through forums and fragmented wiki entries to this day.

Finding the knight’s prison wasn’t difficult if you knew where to look.

What was difficult was seeing what had become of someone who once graced the box art of his favorite game: now a mindless husk in melted armor, fused to his flesh. Most players didn’t even know Vyke existed… Was this the fate he deserved?

Once a proud knight, now writhing in endless convulsions, eyes glassy and burnt out by Frenzied Flame.

Melina stared at the disgraced Tarnished with disgust, imagining her own Chosen could have followed that path.

Thankfully, that possibility was long behind them.

Getting no reply, Kosta bowed deeply, staring through the blistered visor into those scorched, dead eyes.

With a jerk, the doomed knight clenched his spear and lunged at Konstantin.

It seemed… he understood what this new contender had come to say.

The grace, the mastery, the strength that had once made Vyke worthy of legend—Kosta felt it immediately. He stepped aside from the first blow, but did not counterattack.

He wanted the fallen knight, forgotten by the world, to go all out.

"You can do better," he said quietly, raising his own spear.

A spark of golden lightning danced at the weapon’s tip.

Vyke leapt, whipping up a whirlwind around himself and propelling his body toward Konstantin, striking downward in a flurry.

Kosta dodged again, refusing to return the blow. The knight no longer had the clarity to consider whether or not his opponent was showing honor.

He simply fought with everything he had.

He raised a hand, conjuring two red thunder spears, similar to those Konstantin had recently seen a dead dragon summon.

The spears howled through the air, homing in on where the Tarnished had stood only moments earlier before exploding into a shower of arcing serpents of lightning.

AoE, Kosta thought with a satisfied squint, performing a clean roll.

He'd been rolling less often lately—adjusting his body and soul for a different style, one that would eventually replace rolling once he mastered true parries.

But that didn’t mean he was giving it up completely. After all, rolling was a core mechanic.

"Dragon Strike."

Backstep.

"Lightning Flurry."

Backstep, backstep, backstep…

Even reduced to a mockery of his former self, the once-proud knight of the Roundtable still wielded impressive power. Power that hinted at a fascinating potential questline.

But fate (or script) had… other plans.

When Konstantin saw that the deranged knight was finally beginning to falter, he struck only once—driving his spear, charged with golden lightning, clean through.

Vyke—spent, broken, but still fighting—fell in battle, as a true warrior should.

Strike.

Castle Sol. A once-forgotten fort raised high on the Mountaintops of the Giants. Long ago, its people had served Miquella the Unalloyed—but that era was long past.

Now, like so much of the region, it had been abandoned.

Only one man remained—Commander Niall.

He had long since forgotten what he was guarding. Forgotten who he was, and who his retainers had been. But the memory of duty remained. And it was duty that kept the spirits of his long-dead soldiers bound here, fighting one eternal final battle.

A dead fortress. A garrison protected for centuries by summoned phantoms and one man who still drew breath.

You might think his fate would match all the others: someone would come along and end his life—by blade or by magic.

In a sense… that was true. But only for those who still lived.

After the anticlimactic battle with the cursed giant and Alexander’s shaken soul, Konstantin had been doing some rethinking.

Staring at the fort, Roderika gave a hesitant smile.

"I’m so glad… you found something for me to do, Konstantin."

She looked like she might burst into tears.

Kosta glanced at the homebody waifu, shrugged.

"Just help Master Hewg."

"I know."

Seeing the way her face lit up made him feel weirdly guilty.

Her quest was one of the safest, so he hadn’t given it much attention. Maybe that was a mistake—but in that case, he’d have to make the impossible even more impossible.

Maintaining a stern look, he pulled a bow from nowhere, nocked an arrow, and—

Let’s just say, he needed to get the boss’s attention.

Only the Outer Gods know how many players skipped(5) Commander Niall like this…

Thwip.

(1) During Alexander’s questline, the player can summon him for the Fire Giant boss fight.

(2) In-game hints suggest that, during their lifetime, fire giants placed a great deal of importance on height—without realizing just how wildly wrong they were. Many fans speculate that Radagon was originally part of this monstrous tribe but was rejected for being too short. Personally, I don’t support this theory—because it only adds more plot holes, and we really don’t need that ಠ_ಠ.

(3) Most players instinctively target the giant’s legs, unaware that he also has a weak spot on his arms.

(4) Considering the path to the Three Fingers only opens if the player removes all their clothes, it's easy to make a hilariously awkward assumption: that Vyke stripped down, opened the doors, got dressed again, and then walked in to embrace the Flame of Frenzy.

(5) Source: https://youtu.be/watch?v=ChNNwoJp2Y4

[Life is Good] Chapter 60

As I stepped into Captain Stacy’s office, I was surprised to find not only her but also a journalist I recognized from that unforgettable night—when my mom had been taken hostage. Eddie Brock was just getting up from a chair, offering me a polite smile and his hand for a handshake.

I instinctively mirrored the smile before remembering—right as I clasped his hand—that I was wearing a helmet. Damn, I should start figuring out how to project emojis onto my visor or something.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Salamander," Gwen’s mom greeted me with a warm smile. "This is Mr. Brock—you might remember him from that night with the press."

"Good afternoon, Captain Stacy, Mr. Brock. Good to see you both. I read your piece in The Daily Bugle, and I wanted to thank you for the kind words."

"You’re welcome, anytime," Brock replied, his smile seeming genuinely friendly. "So, how do you feel about a follow-up? Captain Stacy mentioned you’d have some free time and weren’t opposed to the idea. Maybe grab a coffee at a nearby cafe and—"

"No, no, no! Absolutely not a cafe! Not like this!" I practically flailed my hands, stabbing a finger at my helmet for emphasis. Brock looked baffled, so I quickly clarified. "I was this close to being torn apart for souvenirs just now! Let’s just grab some coffee here at the station and talk in an office or something."

"Torn apart by who?" The captain’s expression shifted from composed professionalism to genuine surprise, her eyebrows shooting up before knitting together in something sterner. "My officers? For souvenirs?"

"No, no, nothing like that," I raised my hands in a placating gesture before she could start disciplining people for crimes they hadn’t committed. "I, uh… made a bit of a mistake. Got out of the car about two hundred meters from the precinct, and, well… let’s just say I got swarmed." I hesitated for effect, watching both Captain Stacy and Brock’s brows lift in curiosity. "People started doing horrible things to me…" Another tiny pause, just for drama. "Mostly selfies. Group selfies. Solo shots. Videos. They shoved their phones in my face, asked for my number, painted my visor in lipstick—" I gestured vaguely at my helmet. "Your officers actually saved me. Literally carried me out of there, for which I’m eternally grateful."

Both Stacy and Brock burst into laughter. The captain’s expression softened, and Brock… yeah, his eyes gleamed just a little too much. Suspiciously much. I suddenly got the feeling that introducing him to Jubilee would be a terrible idea. Then again, maybe journalism was the perfect career path for her—if only she could curb her addiction to exaggeration.

When Blanc joined our crew, Jubilee had managed to convince half the school that she was here to build me a giant humanoid mech. Honestly? If I hadn’t known the real reason, I would’ve believed her. I mean, technically we had an invisible jet. So why not a mech? Either that, or she’d end up in the tabloids, spreading wild conspiracy theories in the best traditions of Ren TV,(1) screaming about how Lenin was a mushroom and how we were all about to experience a WAAGH.

"Alright, then," Stacy chuckled. "Better not tempt your fans." I opened my mouth to argue—because honestly, I seriously doubted that most of them were actual fans, more like people chasing chaos—but decided against it. "Grab a coffee, and I’ll have a room set up for you. When it’s time to head to the training grounds, I’ll send someone to get you."

Sure enough, they found us a coffee machine, where a young officer, eyes far too amused for my liking, handed over two cardboard cups with way too much enthusiasm. From there, we were led to an office—looked like someone’s usual workspace, but there weren’t any loose papers on the desk. Everything was neatly stored away, the place looking… slightly uninhabited. The setup was vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until I spotted a framed photo of my family on the desk that it clicked.

Mom Betty’s office.

She was still in the hospital, though we expected her to be discharged for home recovery any day now. I hadn’t been in here for a while—Mom always preferred bringing me to the shared workspace. So the girls could get used to me and recognize my face, as she’d put it. Still, I should probably start coming in every six months or so—there were a lot of new faces around, though I did recognize a few officers.

"You don’t mind if I record this, do you?" Brock asked as he sat in one of the visitor chairs, holding up a voice recorder.

"Not at all. Makes things easier," I nodded, watching as he set the device on the desk and started the recording.

I took the chair across from him, both of us pointedly ignoring the empty seat meant for the office’s usual occupant. Pulling off my mask, I activated my face’s glow, prompting Brock to squint slightly in disappointment. I dimmed the light enough to obscure my features while keeping it from blinding him. We both took a sip of coffee, then got started.

Eddie mostly asked about my life—not my identity, not where I lived, just how I spent my time outside of being Salamander. I answered honestly but carefully, keeping names, locations, and dates vague.

Lived like any normal guy. Went to school. Gained powers. Got kidnapped by women in military uniforms with no insignias. Was rescued by mutants. And what happened to my kidnappers? Nothing. Not a scratch on them—they were disarmed and left where their transport was intercepted.

Then, I told him about living in hiding, staying with mutants, about Stryker’s people kidnapping children, the experiments and torture, the army stepping in, the rescue, and the return to my people. The official story—carefully curated by Charlene—was that the government had saved those poor mutants, not a bunch of mutants storming a military base and starting a mini-war with legally recognized authorities. A neat little PR move to keep things looking clean and to prevent fueling mutantphobia. Even Magneto, despite her grumbling, had agreed it was the smart approach.

I also threw in a small detail—that I wasn’t the only male mutant there. That one of my fellow captives, someone with powers similar to mine, had suffered far worse. Given how I’d already very publicly lost my cool a while back, practically growling at the spec-ops officer, I doubted this extra tidbit would hurt. If anything, it was a good opportunity to divert suspicion away from Tobias and onto some poor, nameless mutant. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t be fooled, but it might be enough to slightly muddy the waters for everyone else.

From there, I talked about how much the rescue had meant to me. How these soldiers had pulled kids out of captivity, treated our wounds, fed us, clothed us, warmed us, and returned us to safety. And how, after that, I decided I wanted to help people.

And then, I wrapped it up with something I genuinely believed.

"Not everyone will throw a rock at you just because you’re a mutant. Some will stand beside you. And many of the people who were there with me that day will always remember that fact."

Hell, I almost inspired myself with that speech. By the end, I was practically preaching about how, in both human and mutant communities, there were always those who wanted peace. People who wouldn’t turn their backs on someone in need. People willing to help however they could.

We talked for a while—Eddie and I had long since dropped formalities—until he hit me with an unexpected question.

"Salamander, that night, when you were asked about your faith, you said something… unusual: ‘I believe in Humanity and the Emperor.’ I think our readers would be interested in knowing—who exactly is the Emperor?"

"Oh, nothing dramatic," I shrugged, scratching the tip of my nose, ready to start weaving some top-tier bullshit. "A long time ago—don’t remember when exactly—I either read a book, a short story, or maybe watched a cartoon. Very motivational stuff. It was about the evolution of Humanity as a species. The main theme throughout was the idea of uniting us—people—as one strong, indivisible Humanity. No racial divisions, no nationalism, no pointless hatred. Just progress. Growing together, getting stronger, wiser, overcoming challenges side by side. The idea was that, eventually, we’d conquer space, colonize new worlds."

Yeah, I wasn’t about to dump the grimdark horrors of Warhammer 40k on him. No need to mention hive cities, forge worlds, or an entire galaxy locked in an endless meat grinder of war. One thing is humanity united—a whole other deal is oceans of blood with floating islands of corpses. No, thanks.

"The Emperor wasn’t so much a man as he was a symbol—a figure that united everyone and led them forward. I just like the concept of a unified, strong humanity, you get me, Eddie?" I took another sip of coffee—shockingly decent, actually. "A world where, together, we could accomplish incredible things. So yeah, I believe in Humanity, truly and completely, and as for the Emperor? In my eyes, it’s just a metaphor for leadership—someone who can guide us toward becoming better. And if, in the real world, that leader happens to be an Empress, well… doesn’t matter to me. The result is what counts."

"That’s…" Brock paused, staring thoughtfully into his coffee before taking a sip. "A bit idealistic, don’t you think?" He gave me a small, almost apologetic smile, as if unsure whether he was being too critical.

"Call it faith," I shrugged, smiling under the glowing mask. "And unlike waiting for a miracle from the gods, this is something we can actually accomplish ourselves. I get it—people aren’t suddenly going to wake up one day and decide, in unison, to make the world a better place. You can’t demand that from anyone. Each person has to make that decision on their own. They have to want it. They have to start, and keep going, and not stop. I made that choice. The women in this precinct? They made theirs. Firefighters, doctors, cops, rescue workers—these people already make life safer. They save us from disasters, heal our wounds, protect us. Industry works for us. Research institutes push science forward.

"You see, Eddie, a lot of people are already doing their part to improve our world. And when I realized that, I just made my own decision—to do what I do best. To help people where my abilities can be useful. That’s my choice, my responsibility, my burden, and I carry it proudly." I sighed, spreading my hands. "Sorry if that was a bit all over the place—I’m not exactly a great speaker."

"No, I get you," Brock smiled, reassuring. "It’s a noble way to see things. And I like it. But you keep saying ‘we, people’. Some don’t consider mutants human. I’ve even heard theories that you might be a different species entirely…"

"That’s complete, utter, unfiltered bullshit," I cut him off, voice sharper than before. "We weren’t created by some mad scientist. We aren’t aliens from outer space. We aren’t magical creatures from another dimension. Mutants are humans, just like everyone else. We’re born, we grow up, and we die, just like any other person. We’re born into families—often human families. We go to school, fall in love, have sex, eat, sleep. We are people. And the only ones who think otherwise are idiots—sorry, but I won’t sugarcoat that. Some morons still believe redheads don’t have souls, does that suddenly make it true? No. Mutants are human. And with our abilities, we can be useful to society. We’re tools that, in the hands of the right master, can be used incredibly effectively."

"You said that a little too easily—calling yourself a tool," Brock tilted his head. "Don’t you think that’s… a bit degrading?"

"Some might," I leaned back in my chair, feeling oddly comfortable with the topic despite how personal it was. "But I just see it differently. You’ve heard the phrase ‘cog in the machine,’ right?"

Brock nodded, so I continued.

"We’re all parts of society, one way or another. Cells in the body of Humanity. I don’t see anything shameful in being useful to that body. Call it what you want—a cog, a tool, an organ, a cell—the meaning doesn’t change. It doesn’t stop us from being individuals, from having our own ideas and goals."

Just as Brock was about to ask his next question, a knock came from the door. A female officer peeked inside, briefly freezing when she caught sight of my glowing face, then relayed that Captain Stacy was waiting for me.

I slipped my helmet back on, bid Brock farewell, and he, in turn, handed me his card. "In case you ever want to share something interesting."

I assured him that I’d be in touch the moment I had something juicy, then headed for Stacy’s office. Damn, quick bastard. I huffed to myself on the way there, catching an odd look from the officer walking me out. Lazy journalists, man. Now they wanted me to call them and hand over stories on a silver platter? Pff. Let him chase the leads himself—movement is life, after all.

Waiting for me in Stacy’s office was an old acquaintance—Sybilla. Her expression was a lot friendlier than during our first meeting. She even greeted me without cursing, which, from what I’d gathered, was practically a miracle for her.

She led me out to the police parking lot, where a squad car was already waiting. We got in, and as the officer started the engine, we drove past the precinct’s main entrance—right past a huge crowd.

"Press and your fangirls," she explained, while I—completely baffled—stared at a couple of… very questionable posters.

One read: "I love you, Salamander! Call me, and I’ll love you all night!"—phone number included.

The other? Just a straight-up, bold demand for a certain physical activity with the sign-holder.

"What. The. Fuck." I muttered in Russian.

"Oh-ho," Sybilla cackled before seamlessly switching to Russian too. "Guess you’re not completely hopeless, kid." She nodded toward the posters with a smirk. "Better get used to it—these dumbasses are not going away anytime soon."

"What the hell?" I instinctively switched back to English, because, holy shit, that was actually terrifying. The whole situation was just… way too off. Creepy as hell. And the owner of the second sign? Yeah, she was not the kind of woman you wanted fantasizing about you—pushing fifty and looking like she'd spent the last decade smoking two packs a day in a basement.

"What did you expect?" Sybil snorted, eyes on the road. "These crazy bitches are always the most enthusiastic. Honestly, this is one of the reasons your little superhero club keeps your identities under wraps. Imagine idiots like that camping out in front of your home? And that’s just the tame ones. Trust me, kid, as a male hero? You’re gonna get the absolute worst of the obsessed nutjobs."

"That’s… not exactly reassuring," I swallowed the much stronger words that almost slipped out. Not that I couldn’t curse—I absolutely could, and often did—but holding a conversation that was entirely made of profanity, the way Sybil did? Yeah, not my thing.

She just laughed. "Don’t sweat it, Salamander. We take care of our own." A brief pause, then, completely deadpan, "And if it comes down to it, we will avenge your violated honor. My girls already saved your ass from that mob of thirsty cougars today—so among us? No need to be nervous."

I groaned, rubbing at my face through the helmet. Sybilla, of course, just cackled. Then, with a sharp shift in tone, her voice went all business.

"Alright, here’s the plan: we get to the training grounds, I introduce you to the girls. Most of them are solid. Good officers, good fighters. I say most because we just had two transfers—some of our old crew got promoted, and we’ve got fresh blood filling their spots. One’s a veteran, the other’s a rookie straight out of training. And—holy fuck, learn how to drive, you Hollywood-ass donkey!"

The car jerked as some absolute menace on the road decided to execute a completely nonsensical maneuver for no reason whatsoever.

Sybil did not take it well.

For the next two minutes straight, she unleashed a torrent of profanity so creative that I actually found myself impressed. And trying—desperately—to remember some of the best phrases for later use.

Okay, so maybe I had underestimated her cursing skills. This woman had turned swearing into art, and right now? I was witnessing a goddamn masterclass.

When she finally finished eviscerating the other driver’s existence, she clicked her tongue and got back on track like nothing happened.

"So, yeah. We arrive, do introductions, get in some shooting practice, a little sparring, and then you’ll run a couple of training scenarios with us. Minimum plan is a hostage rescue and a breach-and-clear op drills. If we have time, we’ll throw in something extra. I know you’ve got some aces up your sleeve, so during the briefing, let’s hear your suggestions.

"As for how the girls feel about you? Don’t stress it. Most of them already respect you—you took down Scorpia and helped get the kidnapped girls out. Some think you got lucky, but they still appreciate the effort. Luck is a skill too, you know. Now, about the new ones—I can only vouch for the rookie, and she is so into you that she’s practically pissing herself with excitement. So if she asks you to sign her tits, just… don’t be surprised.

"As for the veteran? No idea. But from what I hear, she’s solid—did her time in the army, been with the SWAT team for years, got plenty of experience. Basically, as long as you don’t start acting like an asshole, you’ve got a good shot at fitting in with our crew."

I just nodded, filing all that away. Honestly, I was really curious to see how this would compare to the training I’d done with Yuriko and the girls. Probably not too different, but we’d see.

Just as I was mulling that over, my phone buzzed from its case.

"Don’t make plans for the weekend."

A text from Sensei.

…Huh.

I sighed. I already HAD plans, dammit! Muttering a silent curse, I shoved the phone back. Experience told me that replying would be pointless.

Yuriko had been stupidly generous during Penny Week, but right now? There was no way in hell she’d be budging.

And, well… that was on me. I could’ve warned her that I had my own damn schedule.

(1) Ren TV (Рен ТВ) - I think this link will answer all your questions https://www.reddit.com/r/ANormalDayInRussia/comments/1gpnjsq/a_russian_tv_show_hired_a_biologist_to_discuss/

[Life is Good] Chapter 64

The drums in my head beat a ragged rhythm of madness, but even they couldn’t drown out that soft, indifferent little girl’s voice: “Too late.” One short word slammed pain straight through me, sharp and deep.

Rage. Focus. Urgency. And a whole damn horde of obstacles in the way. These… soft ones... irritate me. Piss me off. I hate them.

A snarl and a burst forward toward the next group of terrified prey— A swipe sends the nearest female’s weapon flying. A sweep of my tail, then I slam down on her upper limb with a crack. Her scream of pain brings a flicker of cruel satisfaction.

The drums are pounding out a melody of punishment, and that voice whispers again, cold as death: “Not a real Hero.”

I growl and surge forward. A fist to the next one’s knee—crack, scream, satisfaction. The third? Gotta let off steam. My left hand grabs her skull. The right rips off her jaw with a wet pop. Blood and spit mix. Bits of dangling flesh. That stupid little tongue still twitching in what’s left of her mouth. Eyes wide in horror. And that hilarious burble-screech she makes. A mocking thought flashes across my mind, tinged with disgust and pleasure: installation piece. I toss the soon-to-be corpse aside—let the ones chasing us get a good look.

I turn to the last one and grimace. The stench of piss and shit hits me hard. Disgusting. That’s why I don’t like gutting people—hate the smell. This one’s turning ghost-white, hair and all. Kinda pretty, if you ignore the stench.

There’s a pause in the chaos inside my head. Just long enough to appreciate the weird beauty of it. Her eyes roll back as she starts to collapse. I catch her gently and lay her in the blood. White on red—pretty. I like it—and I hate it. I glance one last time at the scene and let out a low, satisfied clicking from my throat.

The drums resume, rough and fast, snapping me out of it.

“Why didn’t you help… when they took my heart?”

That voice again. Soft, sweet, and not even accusing. Which makes it so much worse.

I shriek—can’t help it—and tear open the chest of the one whose jaw I took.

Had to hold back. Can’t rip the rest apart—the broken ones and the white-haired girl are payment for the vamps. That’s the deal. The deal matters. I—we—know that. The fanged freaks trying to keep up with us from behind break the tension a little. Their slowness adds a drop of irony, even if it can’t silence the voice. Or the drums.

More doors. More corners. Colorful, vibrant energy around me. Behind some doors, soft ones tremble in fear. Too bad—we’re in a rush.

The kin… and their kids… are close. I don’t want to see more dead children's eyes staring at me.

“Eyes that will never grow up,” the voice reminds me calmly, and my tail lashes out, slashing a jagged gash in a steel door. Screams inside. But I don’t stop. Can’t be late again. Unacceptable.

Another bulkhead drops in front of us. Idiots. I—we—launch a bolide of Hellfire, leaping straight through. Metal shards explode like shards of ancient, blood-red lakes I’ve never seen. The ones behind the door don’t stand a chance. Screams, panic. I help one of them put out the flames—by caving in her chest with my tail.

Nice fountain of blood. Gross-beautiful. The others? Just broken bones. We keep them alive. I—we—don’t want our girls blamed for breach of contract. So we only take part of the lives.

Rage. It’s normal for me—us. But we can’t fully control ourselves yet. So I lead us. We’ll adapt. Later. We’ll get used to being together. I—we.

I snort mockingly in the face of one who’s barely injured. Soft, helpless, terrified. She should be afraid. I’m drained, I need to feed… I open my jaws wide and, staring into her blown-wide pupils, drive a claw through her skull.

Satisfaction. Disgust.

Life surges into me, no tricks needed. Didn’t even have to bite. It just… soaks in. Handy.

I feel something ahead in a big room. Soft ones. And someone else. Odd. A kin maybe?

Drums thunder.

“She could’ve been on the slab with us,” the voice says, and I let out a growl-whimper.

Gotta move. Help. Save them. I charge, tail-checking one last survivor, smashing her knee with the flat of my blade-stinger. Behind me, the screaming and gurgling intensifies. Music-nightmare, echoing in our ears.

I burst out into a hailstorm of lead. Odd—the maybe-kin is attacking me too. Confused flashes in my head—they must’ve controlled one of ours before. Hot and cold at once. Harsh but protective. I get why she’s attacking.

Drums hammer.

“Can you save her?”

Yes. I snarl. Fury sears through me in a fiery wave. Hatred pours out in a bestial roar, and I leap toward the soft ones who dared enslave a kindred. The bullets melt on contact, my bone armor drinks them in. Energy blasts? Useless. Just fuel.

Idiots. Feeding me your ammo. Morons.

They’re wearing full-body metal suits. I laugh—we laugh. Loud, wicked clicking fills the room. I melt through armor with burning claws, searing the metal into their skin. They scream, trapped in their walking coffins. They won’t die. But their screams will echo… Maybe loud enough to drown out her voice. Maybe.

Free meat for the vamps. Crispy. Bloody. Canned.

My maybe-kin bolts. Fast—but I’m faster. Two leaps, I’m there. I lower her temperature, sweep her legs, gently scoop her up by the scruff. She pokes me in the forehead. Then punches me in the face.

Strong. Head snapped back.

Not soft. Not normal.

Definitely one of mine. Kin.

We snarl in frustration—not because it hurt, but because she could've hurt herself slamming into our armored face. We-I didn’t come here to injure our own. We-I came with kin and bloodsuckers to save them from the soft ones.

She reeks of fear, aggression, rage. Don’t be afraid, little female. We don’t want to harm you. Gently, we catch her arms with a free hand, wrapping her in our tail—surprised to see no bruises or cuts on her delicate, slender wrists—and carry her toward the metal wall. We’ll immobilize you. Then we’ll punish the ones who enslaved you. The ones who made you so angry.

While we’re securing her, she fights back—again and again—each strike stoking the fire of our hatred toward the fuckers who dared do this to her. She even kicks us between the legs, and we let out a low series of pissed-off clicks, rewarding her with a quick slap across the ass using the flat of our tail-blade. That was precious. We-I haven’t even sired any offspring yet. And leaving an enraged, mind-fucked relative behind? No way. Kin are coming. They could hurt her. Or she could hurt them. This is safer.

We glance back at the pinned little female—just in time to flinch at the cold, detached voice cutting clean through the roar of the drums:

"They could be dying while you’re wasting time."

“Fucking hell,” Kimura muttered, eyes locked on the thing as it vanished into the corridor. “What was that?”

She jerked against the metal wrapping her up like a cocoon—only her head and legs left exposed—but didn’t budge an inch. The squad in experimental armor lay scattered nearby, charred and moaning, pain thick in the air. Help wasn’t coming.

“God, I hope he’s not saving me for later.” A chill crept over her. Sure, she trusted her abilities, but that didn’t mean much when you were stuck. Invulnerable skin didn’t mean shit if you couldn’t breathe.

“Well, Rice is totally fucked at least,” she snorted, thinking about the bitch who’d sent her charging at that monster.

Kimura hadn’t been thrilled about pushing forward, but the emergency exit had been locked—and even Rice’s access card and personal code hadn’t opened it. Worse, the whole rail system was down. No train out. That thing was fast—insanely fast—and faced with the choice between dying in a tight, dark tunnel or throwing down in a wide-open room with some well-armed troops, she’d picked the latter.

Now? Hard to say if she regretted that decision or not.

Too bad Rice hadn’t sent that little mutt along—maybe those claws could’ve scratched the beast. Her own partial intangibility hadn’t done jack shit, and that both pissed and baffled Kimura.

“Shit,” she breathed, eyes darting to the newcomers flooding into the room. She recognized Deadpool and Sabretooth right away. The first could be bought. The second? Once she figured out what Kimura had done to the pup…

Fucking mutants.

Running. Running. Running. The pounding drums under our bone-plated skull. Sometimes we drop to all fours. The tail helps with turns, with braking. The scraps of cloth we used to wear—long gone. All that’s left is the belt, reinforced by Angry Flame. The weapon in the holster bounces, untouched. We don’t need it.

Almost there. We see-feel kin. And soft ones. Children and adults. We must kill the soft ones—clean and quick—without harming the ones we need to save.

Gunfire. We speed up, bursting into the room, the exit sealed by a massive steel door that looks like someone tried to carve through it with knives.

Two groups. First—kin and a single soft one, huddled beneath a shimmering, silver-tinged dome. Second—soft ones. Half in white coats, the rest armed, shooting at the shield and at a girl near the door. There are three bodies on the ground beside her.

We see the spray of blood from her body. The way her thin frame jerks with each bullet. Her flesh blackening from energy blasts.

"Too late," says the voice again—calm, indifferent—amplified by the furious thunder of our internal drums. Rage—already at critical mass—ignites into supernova. Normal vision blinks out. Only sound and energy remain.

From the scream that erupts from us, one might just barely make out a long, drawn-out, “KILL.”

We charge the soft ones. And we kill. Nothing fancy—just kill fast. Claws across throats. Tail-blade through hearts. Stomping in ribcages. Burn by touch. Ignite just by passing by.

The soldiers die first. The lab coats try to run. Too late. That cold little girl’s voice—“Useless Hero”—rips through our mind like razors. We scream in fury and grief and slaughter. Tear off heads. Rip torsos. Snap limbs like twigs.

One of them smashes something against our bone-plated chest right before we peel her scalp off—along with her face. A claw slashes down, cleaving her ribcage. A pull to either side, and now she looks like a grotesque, crimson butterfly. Beautiful-grotesque. And we-I agree: the soft ones earned this.

A half-charred coat still twitches. We slam our tail down, silencing her groans. Is that it?

We look around. The field of slaughter is… beautiful-horrific. A sea of blood, spattered with artistic chunks of meat. Some parts still twitch, pumping scarlet little fountains.

We-I don’t understand art, but I-we are impressed. First real massacre in our conscious life. Only the bitterness spoils it.

We spot the girl’s body.

And that’s when we snap.

We launch at the soft one bending over her. Mid-air, we glimpse a younger kin under the dome lift her hands—opening a disk. A portal?

Dr. Kinney stared at the closed portal, her ears still ringing with the monstrous, unhinged scream that had echoed moments before—raw hatred and helplessness tangled together. The thing that had torn through soldiers and colleagues alike in seconds… was gone.

She barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before a group of… people? No—mutants, she corrected herself—burst into the evacuation room.

She recognized the lunatic merc—Deadpool—and the infamous radical Sabretooth.

‘It can’t get any worse,’ Kinney thought, surprisingly calm, as she gently laid her regenerating daughter’s head in her lap. The girl drew in a shaky breath, blinked her eyes open, and looked up at her mother’s face.

“Just lie still, sweetheart. It’s over now, Laura.”

 The scientist softly brushed her daughter’s hair back with trembling fingers.

“Holy. Fucking. Shit.” Deadpool whistled, running into the room with something that could only be described as horrified awe. “Blood, guts, gore, shit! We’re such a good match. Where’s my sexy beast?”

Lily-Rose, standing nearby, grimaced at the mix of burnt meat, blood, and… bodily fluids. That combo definitely wasn’t her favorite—totally ruined the taste of the meat.

“He was here thirty seconds ago,” the red-eyed girl muttered, scanning the room. “Then just… vanished.”

One corner of the room was occupied by a huddled bunch of greenish people in hospital gowns—mutants, most likely. Their bare asses were hanging out, and the smell of fear and vomit was practically a wall. A small electric transport train, a sealed (and partially slashed) emergency tunnel door, and a nice pile of corpses—scientists and soldiers. Nothing unexpected. The vamps had already bagged more than they needed. These would've ended up dead anyway.

“Fuck,” Sabretooth muttered grimly, making a beeline for the cluster of mutants. “Hey, you lot! Our guy was here—where the hell did he go?”

While Victoria interrogated the wide-eyed survivors—who looked damn near ready to cry in relief—Oyama stood silently, surveying her student's "work."

“Acceptable,” she said at last, as if evaluating an art project.

“Acceptable?” Castle, standing beside her with a twisted grimace, looked like she might hurl. “Your guy snapped. He went full massacre—didn’t spare anyone.”

“Not everyone,” Oyama replied coolly, nodding toward the terrified mutants. “Onryo remembered the point of the mission.”

“He even left some for us to eat,” Lily-Rose added. “Looks like Blood Madness in fledgling chicks… just selective.”

“And you’re one to talk,” Deadpool piped up, giving Castle a side-eye. “Didn’t you shove one of your ‘clients’ through an industrial shredder and livestream her death last time?”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Francine grunted, jaw clenched. Fucking mutants. Fucking vampires. Fucking monsters. “If your boy ran off, that’s on you.”

“Of course,” Oyama nodded, her voice utterly neutral. “You’ll get your payment as agreed. Pool—about yo—”

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, ‘I DON’T KNOW’?!” Sabretooth barked at one of the younger mutants. “Where the fuck did you send him?!”

Red-orange sky. Dark crimson clouds. A tiny, mean-looking red sun. The wasteland stretched out in all directions, painted in shades of purple, dotted with crags and dying shrubs. On a small hill stood a figure—still and silent—only vaguely human.

Thick legs bent at the wrong joints ended in clawed paws. Four toes up front, one massive talon rising from the heel. Arms too long to be human, hands hanging down to its knees. A long, segmented tail, sheathed in bone or chitin, stretched over two meters, ending in a wide, bladed stinger. The whole body—lean to the point of grotesque, all muscle and sinew—was armored in patches of natural plate.

One breastplate bore a burned-in sigil: a skull beneath a hood. Whatever the hell that meant.

And then the head. Oh, the head.

It was armored like a tank. No nose, just slits for nostrils, sucking in air like the creature was hunting something. Hollow pits where ears should be. Eyes… black, pure black. No whites. No pupils. Just endless void. And the mouth—Jesus. A maw stretched ear to ear, no lips to hide the rows of daggered teeth. It wasn’t a smile. It was a threat.

The creature sniffed the air, silently turning its head. Then it bent down, scooped a handful of dirt in fingers that looked human except for how long they were—and the claws. It crushed a rock like it was chalk, growled, and flicked its tail hard enough to make the air whistle.

“…Bumfuck… nowhere,” it rasped in a voice like rocks grinding underwater. It snorted, flinging the dirt aside in disgust.

Author’s Note (real author):

I know this chapter is a bit controversial—I’ve already read the comments from folks upset about the MC’s mental breakdowns—but there’s not much I can do about it. I’ll be honest: I really enjoy reading about transmigrators who are powerful, unstoppable, and don’t wrestle with guilt, moral dilemmas, or psychological issues. I love that stuff.

But I’m always surprised when former everyday nobodies suddenly start mowing people down by the dozens without suffering any consequences or mental recoil.

If the MC is ex-military, special forces, etc.—no questions asked. But a guy like Vasya/Ivan/John the programmer/student/waiter turning into a cheerful killing machine between massacres? That’s… well, let’s say it raises an eyebrow.

So yeah, folks. Our protagonist is not okay in the head—as I hope is already clear. I mentioned in the story that Xavier worked with him, and I’ve dropped plenty of hints, but the constant “yo but why is he acting like this” comments are getting a bit tiring. So let me spell it out:

He was triggered by the girl in the morgue—clear enough?
He’s tormented by guilt for not saving Sandy—also clear?
I even consulted a psychiatrist friend about this and got this answer:

“The human brain is capable of all kinds of weird shit.”

Comrade Den Ordo summed it up really well on FB (Ficbook):

“The MC has psychological trauma. It’s tied to a small, dead, red-haired girl. The trigger hit, and he snapped. It’s entirely possible that if the corpses were adults, boys, or just not redheads, he wouldn’t have lost it like that.”

And I’ll just add this: the MC has a little sister—a red-haired girl, around ten or eleven years old.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 93

T-Bug’s corpse was frozen mid-kitchen in a twisted pose no living person could hold for long. Her black netrunner suit stood out sharply against the reddish tile floor. Her head? Not in sight. Either the killers took it with them or dumped it somewhere else—maybe the microwave. Wouldn’t surprise me. Probably tried to scrub some evidence from inside her skull, just like I’d been doing recently.

"Don’t touch anything," I told Becca.

"Oh, damn, and I was just about to brew a nice cup of coffee and snack on those cookies!" she chuckled darkly through the respirator. "Dead bodies always get me hungry."

"Hilarious. Just... don’t touch, and watch where you step. You were right, by the way, when you saw the body."

"You mean about her getting her head chopped off? Kinda hard to miss, choom."

"No. I mean you’re not a cop. Neither am I. So what we need now is either a police expert or a private detective. Gotta examine the evidence."

"But I thought you were, like, a spy. Don’t they teach you this stuff?"

"We get trained in a lot of things. Crime scene forensics? Blood splatter reconstruction? Not exactly my specialty."

Maybe I could hit up Solomon Reed? Nah. Too much of a spook. If he sniffs out a bigger game, he’ll start ringing up his old pals in D.C.—not what I need. River Ward? Actually, not a bad idea. Seemed like a relatively honest cop, but probably wouldn’t pass up a paycheck for digging into a murder. I’ll reach out tomorrow.

"Cop it is, then," Becca nodded. "So we hitting the club now?"

"Yeah. Just gotta reseal the place. And I wanna check her rig real quick."

Even a glance at T-Bug’s leftover gear told me I wasn’t gonna find shit. The tech was fried beyond repair. Some of it melted, some of it just smashed. And a good chunk of her setup was missing altogether. Whoever did this, they knew how to clean their tracks.

Really wish I could upgrade them from "unknowns" to "known assholes." Maybe then I’d finally see the full picture of what went down at Konpeki, what happened to Jackie, and who I should pin that whole clusterfuck on. But for now? Rest sounded better.

We sealed the apartment and made our way to 7th Hell. On the drive, Becca kept squirming in her seat like she was trying to sniff herself.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Can’t tell if we still stink like corpse or not."

"Don’t worry," I smirked. "Alcohol’s the best deodorant. We’ll get drunk and no one’ll care about the subtle bouquet of rotten netrunner."

"Ugh! When you say shit like that, it’s worse than looking at the body!" Becca cringed. "I need a damn shower. You got a jacuzzi at the club?"

"Nope."

"Get one."

"Noted. Could be fun."

A small crowd had gathered out front—mostly young, flashy types. One chick in a sheer glitter blouse winked and asked:

"Hey, sexy couple, got three hundred on ya? I can thank you—him, her, both. These assholes set the cover charge sky-high."

"Let’s not start with that," I said, walking past. "The club owners are perfectly normal, good people. Examplery members of society. Either pay up or find clients elsewhere."

Inside, we headed straight to the VIP room. Lucy, Falco, and Panam were already waiting.

"Finally!" Panam nodded. "Time to wash off the blood and ash with this lovely cleansing agent." She held up a heavy bottle of whiskey.

"What’d you find at the apartment, V?" Lucy asked. "Anyone there?"

"No one alive," I muttered, slipping off my jacket.

"Someone chopped her fucking head off," Becca added, flopping down on the couch beside Lucy. "Hey, Lucy—do I still reek of corpse?"

"It’s aired out. Don’t stress it."

"In Night City, it’s dangerous to have a head that’s too smart," Falco said, clipping his cigar. "Too dumb ain’t safe either."

"Hey! What was that look for?!" Becca snapped.

"At you? Nah."

I sank into the deep lounge chair, watching the dancefloor through the smart glass. The crowd couldn’t see me—it just looked like a mirrored panel from their side. People moved and twitched in the glow of red spotlights. From here, the music was just muffled noise, like a subway train roaring in the distance. Oddly calming.

"So little silence in Night City," Panam said, almost reading my mind. "This place buzzes, hums, rustles—tires on pavement, junkies in the trash. I miss quiet. Wind whistling, creaky ghost-town buildings... One more week in this screaming anthill and I’ll be watching ASMR brain dances for burnt-out suits."

"I hate silence," Lucy countered. "Wind whistling, creepy buildings... just makes me tense. I’d rather hear everything, loud as hell."

"Yes!" Becca bounced. "Silence fucking sucks!"

Makes sense. I could guess why. I pictured little Lucy, maybe fourteen, hiding in some abandoned European squat. Back then, the creak of floorboards probably meant danger. With a past like that, silence’s the last thing you’d miss.

"Different people, different lives," Falco mused. "Sometimes fate brings together folks who click spiritually, even if they’re not alike at all. Differences can lead to conflict—or to something that fits together better."

"Sounds like a damn good toast to me," Panam smiled.

I leaned forward, grabbed a squat tumbler off the table, and clinked glasses with the others. The whiskey was harsh and heavy, like swallowing burning iron. But it carried a taste of forgetting. I just wanted to let go—for once—stop pulling all the strings tied to other people’s fates, all webbed together across Night City’s skyline.

Then my comm buzzed—Angelica Whelan, aka Angie. That call could only mean more jobs, maybe problems too. I hesitated, but yeah, you don’t ignore your partners—professional or personal.

"Talk to me," I said, making a motion to the others that I was on a call.

"You heard yet? Not on the news, but my source is solid," Angie said, sounding wound up.

"What’s going on?" I asked calmly, taking another sip.

"Lucius Rhyne is dead."

"Well... fuck," I replied.

Almost let a "Finally" slip. Angie would’ve lost her shit.

"Yeah. Total shitstorm. Yesterday, we knew who’d get the seat. Now? Rat race. Peralez is the frontrunner. Holt’s not cutting it. Whole mayoral landscape’s about to flip."

I’d actually considered betting on Peralez while Rhyne was still breathing—odds would’ve been great. But that kind of precision bet raises red flags with certain people. Sure, I could’ve routed it through a third party, but I already had enough fires to put out. My priority was the chip. If I pulled this off, money problems would be history.

"Just to be clear, I’m not taking that investigation," I said, drawing the line.

Getting tangled in Night Corp politics? Fuck no. Not my problem.

“It’s too late to investigate now,” Angie said, a bit sadly. “Time to prepare. If Peralez is actually planning to bring in the NUSA…”

“Relax. Loud campaign slogans are one thing—actual policy’s a whole other beast. Politicians forget their promises faster than they make them. Still, if Peralez really plans to crack down on corruption, I’d recommend cleaning up your books. And if that’s all, I’m logging off. I’ve earned my damn day off.”

“Jealous, V. My hellish night’s just getting started,” Angelica replied before we said goodbye.

Rhyne was dead. At least something went by the book, and without me lifting a finger. Kind of a shame, though. The guy had his charm. But I didn’t have the time, the resources, or the spare organs to jump into another political shitshow. The biochip came first. And corp entanglements? Those weren’t exactly optional anymore. My load was already heavy.

“What’s up?” Becca asked.

“Mayor’s dead.”

“Well then, no clinking glasses,” Panam suggested. “Speak well of the dead or don’t speak at all—so let’s drink in silence.”

“Oh c’mon,” Becca said, raising a glass with some neon-green nightmare of a cocktail. “When I was ten, Dad took me and Pilar to flip burgers at the mayor’s birthday bash. I liked it. They even had clowns.”

“Sad how easily folks here can be bought,” Falco commented.

“The burgers were really fucking good though.”

“Alright,” Panam smirked. “Fair. Guess that bastard did one thing right. Bottoms up.”

We drank.

“Alright, chooms,” I said. “Can’t promise a burger giveaway, but time to split up Eurodyne’s cash. Technically our shared paycheck for Konpeki.”

My own take as a regular runner, plus my fixer’s 15% for organizing the whole gig, minus expenses—came out to around 310,000. Sounds small for a job of this scale, but the chip was the real prize.

Still, my funds were growing. Total: 1,613,000. Liquid: 1,364,000.

Not bad at all.

And plenty of ways to grow that number. While I was off cyber-necromancing, a few messages came in. Various clients looking for a fixer. For the right price, I was happy to oblige. Didn’t want to dive into any more investigations, but with my connections, I could easily push smaller jobs—theft, property recovery, hostage extraction—to the mercs I knew, for a cut. Just another day in the city.

Let the big drama stay off-screen. I’d earned myself a bit of street cred. That Smasher performance alone had been wild. You don’t see that kind of show every day.

Flipping through the list, one message nearly made me laugh out loud. It started like this:

“Hi. We’ve never met, but I’ve seen you around Lizzie’s with your friends. I already tried reaching out to a few well-known fixers, but no luck. Now I’m trying lesser-known ones in hopes of a miracle. Some people said you solve all kinds of problems. My name’s Judy Alvarez. My friend disappeared recently…”

INTERLUDE: KIWI

The girl’s fingers trembled, and she hated them for it. The air was filled with sharp, bitter dust—a mix of chemicals leaking from the outdated filtration system in the factory. Breathing it too long made her head spin and her stomach turn. That was how every workday ended for Kiwi, and had for the past few years.

In front of her sat an unfinished illegal implant and a set of tools. But her hands shook too much to finish. She knew if she tried now, she’d screw it up.

“Kiwi!”

That voice—gravelly, like rusted gears grinding—hit her like a shock. She flinched and turned to see the unshaven face of her manager, or more like her warden.

“It’s time, Kiwi. Time! You haven’t even finished the joints yet. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Sorry, Mr. Darcy. I… I just need a break. My hands…”

“What you need is to worry about your ass,” he sneered. “You’ll finish it right now, with me watching. And if anything’s off—even a millimeter… I swear, the next week or two, you won’t be able to sit down without screaming, little miss. Or should I say, you worthless little—”

“Still playing your stupid games, Riviera?”

The voice—female, strange—cut through the horror. Kiwi blinked. And remembered. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. The factory, the boss, even the pain—it was all an illusion. A mindfuck crafted by Peter Riviera.

In truth, she was lying in one of the torture rooms of some black-market braindance salon, while that blue-eyed freak messed with her head. When she came to, she’d hear screaming through the walls, followed by Maelstrom laughter.

Now, in the middle of this fake-ass factory, stood a young brunette woman. Work shirt, ersatz-canvas jeans, heavy dusty boots. Her black hair was slicked back into a knot tied with a red ribbon. Tanned, strong arms, sleeves rolled up. Tattoo on her wrist read: “CAVEAT EMPTOR.”

The manager warped and shifted—no longer a hairy bruiser but Riviera himself, all pretty-boy slime and junkie eyes.

“I’m working, Pat. Don’t interrupt, sweetheart.”

“You’ve never worked a damn day in your life,” the woman replied. “And you’re still full of shit even after death. That’s assuming you were ever alive to begin with. I’m starting to doubt it.”

“Pat…” Riviera grinned. “Your basic, cliche little mind just can’t grasp my work. But I’ll throw you a bone—through her, I get to know Lucy better. And she’s the key to reaching V. To understanding him, predicting him, and striking when it counts. You get it? Long con.”

“I think you’re just indulging your sick little fetishes.”

“That too,” Riviera admitted. “When work and pleasure fuck, they give birth to real art. Fear, dreams, desire—that’s my passion.”

“We’re running out of time, Peter,” Pat said, serious now. “He’s falling apart, and entropy’s eating him alive. I’m slowing it, but…”

“Patience, Pat. We’ve waited years. What’s a few more weeks?”

“You don’t get it. He’s unstable. When he starts crumbling, guess how he’ll try to survive? By feeding on us. You probably think you’ll be the last to go. Hate to break it to you—I’ve got ways to stall my decay. When he figures out he can’t digest me or the others… you’ll be all that’s left. Your tricks won’t save you.”

Kiwi didn’t know what they were talking about, but she could feel it—the woman wasn’t afraid of Riviera. Kiwi wanted to speak up, reach out, but couldn’t make a sound. Riviera controlled everything in this illusion.

“It’s fine, Pat,” the blond psycho said smugly. “I’ve seen V. All we need is to point him in the right direction at the right time.”

“You think he’ll pull it off?” she asked coldly. “With our help, he needs to move fast.”

“He’ll manage even without you,” Riviera giggled. “You two are alike. Simple. Primitive, even. But you latch on like pit bulls.”

“You talk shit like you breathe, but for once I hope you’re right. Don’t fuck it up. We’re out of time.”

“I’m doing my best,” he said. “Sure, we’ve got different motives—but we share the same goal. I’m with you, Pat.”

“And what’s your motive, huh?” she snorted. “Besides self-preservation?”

“You want to topple the system—for freedom, progress, all those sweet lies. Me? I’m different. I just believe that children are meant to feed on their parents. That’s why, as a subroutine, I want to devour the whole. To consume part of Jory. Like baby spiders eating their mother.”

“What the fuck.” She arched a brow. “You’re completely deranged, Peter.” Then she vanished.

And just like that, Kiwi forgot everything again. Her tormentor’s face twisted back into the factory manager, and his awful voice echoed once more:

“It’s time, young lady. Time!”

Daily Updates (26/03/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 65

• Tier 2: Chapter 70

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 67

• Tier 2: N/A

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 67

It turned out Gaara barely slept. Or, more accurately, used to barely sleep. And this was exactly where my patented “neko-therapy,” first successfully field-tested on Sasuke, came in real handy.

Funny enough, my new red-haired buddy reminded me of the Sandman from one of those Western fairy tale books my mom used to read me as a kid. The Sandman would sprinkle magical sand into children’s eyes to help them sleep—and depending on the story, he could bring either sweet dreams or straight-up nightmares.

As a child, I always figured the Sandman himself never got any sleep. I mean, the world’s round, right? Time zones, kids constantly going to bed somewhere… The guy must be on the clock 24/7. My mom would chuckle at my theories and say maybe he only handled Europe, and managed to sneak in a nap now and then. Still, even with that, the guy didn’t seem like he was getting eight hours. And let’s be real, those gritty crusties in the corner of your eyes in the morning? Obvious Sandman residue. Science.

So yeah, I figured Gaara’s constant stress and hair-trigger temper were tied to one thing: sleep deprivation. Like, I’m a sweet little fluffball, but if I don’t get my full nap cycle, even I turn into a menace. Now imagine never sleeping? No wonder the guy was borderline homicidal.

After our late lunch—which naturally turned into dinner—I chose to spend the night with Gaara. Apparently, this was a regular thing with him: sitting curled up with his face on his knees, not sleeping. His sister Temari and Batman (a.k.a. his edgy eyelinered brother) were visibly on edge and also not getting any rest, which only made Gaara more irritated.

After about five hours of this nonsense, I’d had enough. I asked to go outside—politely but insistently—and Gaara followed me. We made our way to that same little hidey-hole where Naruto and I had taken shelter from the kitchen staff. I let out a huge yawn and made it very clear: it was bedtime. I even asked for uppies.

Gaara, to his credit, picked up on the hint pretty quickly. He really was trainable.

And then came the surprise: the dude sleeps in a sand cocoon. Like, fully encased himself in this compact little sand sphere, like some kind of ninja Pokemon egg. The gourd on his back? Yeah, that whole thing turned into a shell.

I took charge immediately. Crawled up on his scrawny chest, curled my tail around his knees, and if he dared open an eye, I smacked it shut with a paw. It worked. He closed his eyes. I purred like a space heater and stayed warm and heavy. Eventually, his breathing evened out and—get this—he actually fell asleep.

Honestly, what a tragic case. I remembered from the anime how people used to try to assassinate him all the time. No wonder he was always on edge.

He slept for fourteen hours straight. Fourteen. I didn’t wake him, even when I got hungry. But eventually… I really had to pee. And let’s be real, I wasn’t about to soil the man’s chakra-infused sand blanket.

Amazingly, the cocoon actually opened up a little hole for me—like it knew I needed to leave. Whether that was Gaara doing it in his sleep or the sand being semi-sentient, I still don’t know. I did my business, stole a quick snack from Naruto’s stash, and came back to find the cocoon opening again, like some high-tech spaceship.

Gaara was awake when I returned, and—shockingly—I could actually read some emotion on his face. He was happy to see me. We dropped by to visit Naruto and the crew again, I let them do the socializing while I recharged and snagged some snacks.

Sasuke gave me a few solid ear scritches and, with a hint of jealousy, asked, “So who you sleeping with tonight?”

I lifted a paw and pointed at Gaara.

Sasuke raised an eyebrow but just muttered, “Guess he needs it more,” and didn’t push it. Sakura poked her nose in too, and Sasuke reluctantly admitted that this amazing cat—okay, he just said “Tora,” but we all felt the subtext—helped him when things were rough, kept the nightmares away.

Obviously, I puffed out my chest and strutted around like I owned the place, tail high and full of pride.

That night, the gang went to the kitchen and got more food. Apparently, by the time Kakashi finally showed up, he told the kitchen staff that I was just a regular ol’ cat who belonged to his team. Somewhere along the way, it also came out that the cooks had been skimming rations from both the kids and the examiners. There were different people in the kitchen now. I got a fresh, no-questions-asked slab of raw meat. Gaara got his share too.

Around eleven, we went back to our sand nest and passed out until morning. I, fully rested, took the opportunity to mess around: popping in and out of the shell, crawling on top of Gaara, booping his face, doing little meditative stretches on his ribcage.

Turns out, even the so-called Sand Demon is just a sleepy kid who doesn’t wanna get out of bed. Cute.

“Holy crap!” Kiba blurted as Gaara and I casually opened the door to Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura’s room—like it was our morning routine now.

The room was packed: Kiba, Hinata, Neji, Ino, Shikamaru, Choji, and A very concerned Akamaru. Full squad.

Gaara froze. Honestly, so did I. His sand, laced with chakra and this weird scent, always threw off my nose, so I didn’t realize how many people were in there until the door swung open. Not ideal.

“That’s HIM!” Kiba shouted, practically jabbing a finger at Gaara.

Tension instantly spiked.

Gaara tensed. I tensed. Akamaru whimpered. Hinata looked like she might faint. Everyone else, except Naruto and Sasuke, were on high alert.

The pause was so heavy, you could slice it with a kunai.

So I did the only thing a brave, loyal cat could do.

I screamed.

The attention turned to me instantly.

“NAMAIKI-TORA-SAN?!” half the room shouted at once.

I shoved my head against Gaara and meowed pitifully to be picked up. Like, come on, buddy, this is your cue.

Gaara knelt down, never breaking eye contact with the mob, and scooped me into his arms. The vibe in the room shifted from “oh no, bloodbath incoming” to “...what the hell is happening right now.”

I locked eyes with Naruto, who finally snapped out of it.

“Gaara! Hey! Glad you came by,” he said quickly. “Everyone, this is… uh… these are my friends!” He started naming everyone at light speed.

Gaara, still holding me, glanced around and then asked, dead serious:

“Why does everyone here have cat paw prints on their clothes?”

Oh, perfect. I reached out and laid a paw meaningfully on his shoulder, fanning out my toe beans.

“Because they’re my kids!” I declared.

Ino snorted. Then she giggled. Then everyone started laughing. Nervous laughter at first, but it did the job.

“I don’t have paw print clothes,” Sakura grumbled. “Wait—hang on! That’s the same cat that was with you in the Academy, isn’t it?!”

That set off a wave of chaotic laughter, some of it clearly just people releasing tension. I huffed and flopped dramatically, covering my eyes with a paw. That only made them laugh harder.

Better laughter than hostility, though.

Naruto finally explained, once everyone calmed down:

“It all started with my outfit,” he said cheerfully. “Namakai-Tora-san decided I wasn’t fashionable enough and gave me a little... upgrade.”

Turns out, when you live with a cat, your curtains, your clothes, your bedding—and apparently your squad uniforms—all eventually come with paw prints. It's the law.

“Yeah, totally,” Sakura confirmed. “I noticed that too. All the cats had those weird little 'markings' on their clothes…”

“Wait—don’t tell me you guys actually went to the legendary Nekomata Castle?!” Ino gasped, eyes lighting up like Christmas. “No way! I’ve only ever heard bedtime stories about it from my dad when I was little!”

Everyone sat down in a loose circle, and it was like they suddenly forgot all about Gaara—no one was watching him or me anymore. They were way too busy listening to Naruto and Sakura excitedly trip over each other while retelling that mission. Naturally, neither of them mentioned Itachi or Shisui, but they made it sound like one hell of an adventure.

“Hey, Akamaru,” I called out to the nervous pup, who was trying to look smaller than he was. “What’s the deal with Gaara, anyway?”

“We saw him in the Forest of Death,” Akamaru explained quietly. “Three older ninja ambushed his team. And Gaara… he killed them. Crushed them with sand. And he’s got so much chakra. It’s scary—like, really scary. Kiba was freaked out. He kept checking to see if their team made it to the tower and warned everyone to steer clear.”

“Yeah, figures,” I muttered, stretching out across Gaara’s lap in the universal feline sign for ‘you are now required to pet me.’ “But you feel anything now?”

Akamaru sniffed the air and cautiously padded over to the hand that was scratching my belly.

“Not much. I can still smell a little of that weird chakra,” he said. “But it’s faint. Like the anger’s gone. The gourd still smells like blood and death, though…”

I bopped him on the nose with my paw.

“Then stop sniffing it, genius. He’s my friend. Same as Naruto. He’s one of the jinchuriki. You don’t sniff Naruto like that, do you? Same rules. Pass it on.”

Another hush fell over the room. I could feel every pair of eyes turning toward us.

Akamaru scampered back to Kiba and started whining something in a very specific tone that basically translated to “uhhh bro, this might be important.”

“Akamaru says Gaara’s like Naruto—a jinchuriki,” Kiba reported. “Tora-san says Gaara’s his friend.”

Naruto’s jaw just about hit the floor.

“You mean… you’re like me? You’re a jinchuriki too?!”

Just when I thought things were finally settling down, Gaara went full drama queen. Sand tendrils burst from his gourd, writhing and twisting around him in a not-at-all-friendly way. Everyone else instantly bunched up in the far corner. The boys moved in front of the girls like they were expecting a sand-based apocalypse.

“You?! You can’t be like me!” Gaara yelled, his voice breaking. He hugged me tighter, not even realizing it. “You have friends! People love you! You’re connected to others! You’re weak! I exist to kill! I am a monster!”

And because I am me, I smacked him right in the face. Full chakra-enhanced paw to the cheek.

Gaara flinched. The sand dropped limply to the floor. He let go of me and collapsed into his usual pose—curled up, face buried in his knees.

“Uh… maybe we should, y’know… give them some space?” Shikamaru offered, coughing politely. “Sasuke, Sakura, wanna come see where our rooms are? I think Naruto and Gaara need to talk. Let’s go.”

One by one, everyone filed out, tossing Naruto supportive little glances like, you got this, bro. Honestly, it made my furry little heart swell. These kids? They really got it. Last to leave was Sasuke, who gave me a knowing look and the tiniest smile.

Naruto hesitated, then sat down next to Gaara, stretching his legs out. I flopped into his lap like a comforting, purring anxiety blanket.

This talk’s gonna be rough. Still, better than summoning tailed beasts in the middle of Konoha, right?

…Right?

God, I hate suspense.