JohnnyZ

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 34

And so, I finally made it—the Uchiha district.

Well... uh.

Welcome to Konoha's very own post-apocalyptic wasteland.

The vibes? Pretty grim. It’s like everyone stepped out for a quick minute and just never came back. And honestly, that’s not far from the truth. Clothes still hanging out to dry, abandoned toys scattered around, a faint, rotten smell from spoiled food. The only reason this place hasn’t been looted yet is that everyone assumes it’s been empty for years. Joke’s on them—it’s only been, what, two weeks? But the high walls surrounding the district do a great job hiding all this “abundance.” The entrance is taped off with those crime scene ribbons you see in cop shows. Never been to a crime scene myself, but TV has prepared me well for the aesthetic. Wait, what's a TV? Ah, whatever, can’t think properly because of the smell.

Speaking of! I should poke around here for supplies. Maybe there’s rice or some grains left behind. The locals here are obsessed with rice. They’ll eat it plain if they have to—definitely beats instant ramen. A little variety wouldn’t hurt. Earlier, Naruto scarfed down a bowl of rice and sausages like it was his last meal on earth. Kid nearly choked, he was eating so fast.

After breakfast, I walked Naruto to the Academy, keeping a low profile. No need to draw attention just yet. Found a nice ledge near the windows and made myself comfortable, checking in on the classroom every now and then. My ears and nose are sharper than ever, so I don’t miss much.

The kids, though? Cold. They acted like Naruto was some stranger who just moved to town. Classic “new kid syndrome”—he knows them, but they don’t remember him. Add to that the passive-aggressive disdain from the teachers, and it’s a train wreck. Iruka? Never exactly doted on the kid, but now he’s turning his sarcasm up to eleven. And that other guy with the fake smile plastered on his face? Yeah, no help there either. Kids take their cues from adults, so it only took a day for Naruto to become the class punching bag. The teachers called him out for not being able to do some chakra control exercise, and just like that, he’s branded the “idiot” and the “loser.” The poor guy was devastated—nearly cried. Bastards.

And then came cultural shock number two: Sasuke.

There aren’t enough PG-appropriate words for what those monsters did to that kid. He used to be a normal kid, kind, even. Now? It’s like someone scooped out everything inside him and left an empty shell. He’s a walking zombie. And the whispers! People can’t stop talking about how he’s the last Uchiha and all that.

After class, I tailed Sasuke. Turns out they relocated him too—dumped him far from the Uchiha district into a cozy little two-bedroom apartment near the stadium. Nice place, I’ll admit, in a chubby little three-story building. Meanwhile, Naruto’s been shoved into what’s basically a boiler room next to a pond. A pond that just so happens to border the Uchiha district. A clever game of musical chairs with living arrangements, probably to keep them from running into each other more than necessary. Yeah, good luck with that.

Sasuke dropped off his school bag and headed straight for his old district. He lingered at the entrance, hesitating, then wandered down to the pond and sat on the dock. He still can’t bring himself to go back in and see it. But hey, I could!

Not that it’s any less creepy for me. The abandoned district gives me the heebie-jeebies, and I’m not the one who lived here. For Sasuke? It’s gotta be a hundred times worse.

Where are all the cats, though? You’d think a place like this would be crawling with them. All the scent markers I can pick up are old—like, pre-massacre old. Did that masked psycho kill off the Uchiha cats too? Or did they escape on their own? Let’s hope for the latter; otherwise, that’s just inhumane.

Wait a second. That means... That guy with the toilet-bowl-swirly eye? He killed my parents, my siblings? My cat family? But... why does that feel so weird? And why does it hurt so much?

Oh, hell...

Head’s splitting. What the... Why is it so dark? Oh. Night already.

Wow, what a dream I just had. Like I was a ninja cat in the anime Naruto. I gotta tell Sergey about this—he’ll crack up when he hears why everything in that show makes so much sense now. I mean, I always thought it was weird how the whole village hated Naruto one minute, then suddenly they’re all cool with him. Like, when did Shikamaru, Kiba, Choji, and even Sasuke start being his friends? And that whole “bring Sasuke back” thing? Why so much loyalty after a few joint missions?

Now it clicks. They all grew up together but just forgot! Subconsciously, though, they still remember their bonds. Genius. Sergey’s gonna love this theory.

Wait a sec. Where am I? And—OH MY GOD, MY PAWS. MY LEGS. MY TAIL?!

I’m an actual cat?!

Okay, okay. Breathe, Greg-Tora. Deep breaths.

Holy crap, that moon is huge!

Right. I was in the Uchiha district...

So it’s not a dream?!

But the last few events felt so... foggy. Like my mind was asleep or blocked. Did that guy’s technique hit me too?

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Must’ve been a human part of me freaking out. Waking up in cat mode is rough. The last thing I remember is realizing my whole family was killed and... Yep, internal conflict must’ve broken some mental lock. Error 503, brain reboot. Great. Now I know why I’m so smart.

Man, I scared myself back there. And now I don’t even know what’s worse—that this isn’t a dream or that I’m not just a cat anymore.

Focus. I need to scout the area and plan my next steps. Oh, and I know some canon events! That’s why those images kept flashing through my head—kitty oracle mode, unlocked.

Looks like it’s six months until they graduate from the Academy. Which means the big, epic stuff is still a ways off. So this is the Naruto world, huh? But things are already different. My meddling saved Kushina-san. Which means Shisui survived first and rescued her. If he hadn’t, Kushina probably would’ve died—either from Hiruzen or Minato, depending on the situation. And even if she managed to escape on her own, she wouldn’t have gotten far in the Forest of Death with that suppression seal on her. Some nasty beastie would’ve snacked on her, no question.

This ripple effect, man. Like tossing a stone into a pond.

Without me, everything would’ve gone down like in the anime, huh? Naruto would’ve endured all that suffering, but at what cost? Just thinking about it makes my fur stand on end. Seeing this world up close—living it day by day instead of in flashes on a screen—makes it so much more real. Poor kid.

And the Uchiha? The innocents who were caught in the crossfire—women, children? Their deaths are on someone’s conscience. The ninja world is cruel. I never realized it before. It always seemed like just a game…

Alright, deep breaths. Time to let this go and focus on the present.

I’ve got two twelve-year-old emotional wrecks on my paws—er, hands—who desperately need therapy and stress relief. And who better to deliver that than me, the greatest cat of all time? Time to shake off the gloom, channel some optimism, and confuse the hell out of my opponent with my unpredictable ‘whish-whoosh-bosh’. Let’s go!

Since Naruto’s got a babysitter for now, it’s Sasuke hours. Time to thaw out our “zombie” and save Shisui from getting jumped by an emo-avenger if they ever meet.

“Namaiki-chan…” Naruto mumbled groggily when I slinked back from my scouting mission into the Uchiha zone. He rolled over and tucked me under his arm like a fuzzy body pillow.

I’d been busy surveying the local Post-Apocalypse. Call me a ninja Stalker. The place was eerily deserted—like one of those abandoned malls where you just know the rats are planning a hostile takeover. It’s only a matter of time before the rodents go nuts, and anything edible left in the ruins is history.

I did score some odd tubular veggies (probably their take on potatoes), a few carrots, and a sack of rice. But anything that relied on refrigeration? Yeah, nope. I opened one fridge and immediately regretted every life choice leading up to that moment. The smell nearly sent me to my ninth life.

I stashed my prize haul under Naruto’s bed in that dog bundle from earlier. Tomorrow, while Naruto’s at school and under ANBU surveillance, I’ll have free reign to smuggle more supplies from Uchiha-ville. Might even rope in Kuramaru for a little “Operation Borrow Indefinitely.” Ninjas don’t bat an eye at a dog hauling random stuff—it’s genius. Bonus points for living in a boiler room; no nosy neighbors! Muahaha, I’m a genius and evil.

The plan worked like a charm—110% success rate, baby. I even added a sneaky twist for extra flair. See, if the Hokage swings by Naruto’s place and finds it stocked like a Costco warehouse? Red flags everywhere. Let the Monkey Man keep his sad ramen packs; no need to blow my cover.

Instead, I turned the boiler room into a secret stash. Found a nice, dry corner to store the goods and brought in the loot with help from Kuramaru and Hana Inuzuka’s three nin-dogs. For pest control, I hired an old acquaintance—Sumi, the black cat. He’s on rat patrol now, keeping my stash rodent-free. I even issued him a VIP pass to the territory.

We pulled it all off in just six hours while Naruto and his ANBU tail were busy elsewhere. Now we’ve got a mini apocalypse bunker. The rice is still in giant sacks, though—haven’t quite figured out the logistics there—but the veggies are good to go.

“Namaiki-chan?” Naruto’s eyes practically popped out of his head when he got home and saw six hefty potatoes and one lumpy carrot sitting in the sink.

I basked in his awe as he scratched behind my ears in gratitude.

He still had some of the meat I’d “liberated,” so he whipped up a rustic stew. The kid might not remember much, but muscle memory doesn’t lie. He took one look at those ingredients and instinctively knew what to do. And, oh man, the stew was good. Even gave me the best cuts of meat. Yeah, I’m living the life.

Alright, mission accomplished here. Time to check in on Little Emo and get a closer look at the mental damage. Wish me luck.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 33

I heard back from the author. In Chapter 31, Tora didn't recall anything specific about Shijimi and Damyo (“former owners”), even though he mentioned them. At the time he only knew of them through Shisui and Kushina, learning that they were his previous owners, but he had no actual memories of who they really are or his time spent with them.

_____________________________________________

“Tora-chan?” I was nearly sniffed off my paws.

Of course, to a massive beast like Kuromaru, even though I’m no small fry myself, it’s no more effort than… well, marking his territory on a lamppost. You get the idea.

“I’m happy to see you too, Kuromaru-san,” I said, rubbing affectionately against my friend’s legs.

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” Kuromaru said, giving me a scrutinizing look with his single, sharp eye.

He wasn’t wrong. It had been about eight weeks since I’d last shown my face in Konoha, plus another ten days spent recovering from poisoning. All in all, a solid two-month disappearing act.

“You’re looking a little rough,” he added, giving me another sniff for good measure.

I swear, he could hoover up a crime scene with that nose. Hmm. Hoover… mental note for later jokes.

“You been out, having fun?” Kuromaru grinned, flashing his sharp teeth. “Or just under the weather?”

“Hey, you don’t feel like something’s… off in the village?” I asked cautiously, steering the topic elsewhere.

“No, everything seems normal,” he replied, tilting his head in thought.

“How about two weeks ago? Remember the red moon? You know, apocalyptic vibes, weird stuff?” I pressed.

Kuromaru paused, looking seriously contemplative. That’s when I remembered dogs are colorblind to shades of red and orange. Crap! Why do I even know this random trivia about canine physiology? Ugh, thanks, brain.

“There was a festival,” I clarified, trying a different angle. “With lanterns. Autumn Equinox.”

“Oh, that crowded night. All us ninken were patrolling the village perimeter while people celebrated,” Kuromaru replied, nodding. “The clan was tasked with perimeter security. Nothing unusual happened.”

“Interesting,” I muttered. So they’d conveniently kept the Inuzuka dogs busy during the big event, huh?

“Is it standard practice to send you guys out alone for patrols like that?” I asked, fishing for details.

“Yeah, on big holidays like New Year’s or the Equinox. When the village gathers together,” Kuromaru confirmed. “We handle patrols ourselves, but we can always call for backup if needed.”

“Got it. Well, hate to burst your bubble, but something did happen,” I said, grimly. “Let’s head to Tsume-san. It'll make more sense if I explain there. Also, I’m starving. Sick, running around… I’ve been through it.”

Kuromaru, ever the professional, didn’t ask questions. His job was following orders, no “why” or “how” necessary. On the way, he filled me in on Kiba and Akamaru’s absence—they were off on some school camping trip with their class and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

Tsume Inuzuka, Kuromaru’s human partner and the head of the clan, was home, busy whipping up what I recognized as her “special recipe.” My stomach growled loudly as the scent of that familiar, slightly spicy stew hit me. Food!

“Who’s this with you, Kuromaru?” Tsume asked, narrowing her eyes at me with interest.

Kuromaru froze, visibly taken aback. He gave me another quick sniff, like I might suddenly reveal myself to be some impostor under a Transformation Jutsu. You know, because that’s a normal Tuesday in Konoha.

“Your friend?” she asked again, raising an eyebrow. “And who’s this new buddy of yours?”

Cue deja vu. The whole “tiger” conversation from six months ago played out again. By the end of it, Tsume was rubbing her temples in frustration but ultimately welcomed me and, mercifully, served me some of that glorious food.

“Surprised Tsume-san didn’t remember me?” I asked Kuromaru after cleaning out Akamaru’s bowl, which they’d kindly filled with the stew. Ah, warm belly, topped-off chakra, and a full tank of energy. Bliss.

“She’s got an excellent memory and sense of smell. You’re not exactly easy to confuse with anyone else. I don’t get it…” Kuromaru replied, clearly unsettled.

“I’ll explain,” I sighed, settling myself comfortably on his back. “Long story short, someone slapped a genjutsu over the entire village and surrounding area. Basically, people were made to forget certain things. Or, more accurately… certain people.”

I gave Kuromaru the lowdown on my recent escapades, the whole mess with Kushina and Shisui leaving the Forest of Death to hunt down someone who could undo Minato’s seal, and my role as the designated babysitter for the kid.

“And that’s the tea, served with a side of existential dread,” I finished my tale.

“Ooof,” Kuromaru summarized succinctly. “The Inuzuka clan is loyal as ever… but if Tsume and the others don’t even realize the Hokage’s changed…”

“Yeah, no explaining this to the villagers,” I agreed, sighing again.

Not to mention, Kushina-san’s sudden “return from the dead” would raise a million questions, even if someone managed to dispel this genjutsu. What’s she supposed to say? That she fell into a time-space trap? Apparently, those are just everywhere around here. Anyway, she’s smart—she’ll figure it out. Me? I’ll stick to my small-scale missions. Like making sure my “yellow chick” doesn’t starve.

“I don’t know how to tell Tsume about this,” Kuromaru admitted, breaking into my thoughts. “I wouldn’t even know where to start, and it doesn’t really involve the clan. Plus, I never noticed the change myself—scent over sight, you know?”

“Yeah, don’t bring it up yet. Remember how the adults treat Naruto? Even if you explained everything to Tsume-san, she’d struggle to fight off the fabricated hatred. But Kiba doesn’t have that issue, and I want those two to be friends again,” I shared my master plan with Kuromaru.

Napoleon? Nah, I’m cooler than him. I’m—wait, who was Napoleon again? Some big-shot general? Whatever.

“What can I do to help?” Kuromaru asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“My kid’s starving, and he’s got ANBU babysitters tailing him everywhere,” I grumbled.

Evil laugh? Oh, you bet. But quietly, so I don’t drop the little bag I’m carrying in my teeth. My secret ninja stash. Kuromaru distracted the ANBU agent shadowing Naruto, giving me the perfect chance to slip into the apartment through an open window.

Kuromaru even helped carry the supplies to the Uchiha district earlier, and now it was my time to shine. Shadows? Stealth? Deception? I was practically a pro at it already.

Kuromaru and I? Total Bonnie and Clyde vibes. We “liberated” some supplies for the kid—a minor redistribution of wealth. Sure, the store we hit was run by the Sarutobi clan, but hey, that’s just karma, baby.

I commandeered a half-liter carton of milk, a pack of eight sausages, a 400-gram piece of packaged meat, and a one-kilo bag of rice from the place. Everything went into a carry sack, and Kuramaru kindly lugged it most of the way to the drop-off point before expertly diverting any unwanted attention.

Naruto, evidently worn out from his endless training sessions, was already snoozing when I got back. I stashed everything but the rice in the fridge. Say what you want, but I’ve become an absolute pro at sneaking in and out of Kushina-san’s kitchen without a sound. If there was an award for "Ninja Refrigerator Operations," it’d be mine, hands down. What’s the point of ninja skills if you can’t use them to steal a decent meal?

Feeling mighty proud of myself, I leaped onto the bed next to the kid, nudged him off my rightful pillow, and buried my face in his hair.

“Namaiki-chan?” Naruto mumbled sleepily, his fingers threading through my fur. “You’re back…”

I hummed a little tune for him, and we both drifted off into dreamland.

The look on his face the next morning? Priceless. His eyes were practically perfect little circles of shock. Totally worth getting up early.

I’d already laid out my glorious haul on the table like a five-star breakfast spread: sausages, meat, milk, all artfully arranged around me. I plopped myself in the center of it all, looking like the king of brunch. Honestly, who’s going to argue? I wasn’t dumb enough to leave everything out overnight—what if there were security seals or some ninja guarding the place after hours? Plus, October mornings weren’t cold enough yet to keep milk and meat fresh sitting out. Nope, this was ninja precision at its finest. Straight from the fridge to the table. Try proving otherwise. Heh.

Naruto? Yeah, we’re losing him.

“N-Na… ma… iki-chan…” he stammered, pointing a shaky finger at me.

I stood up, stretched luxuriously, and flicked my tail like a question mark.

The kid stepped closer, eyes darting between me, the sausages, and the meat. Back to me. Then to the milk.

“Well, are we having breakfast, or what?” I asked casually, lifting the milk carton with my teeth like the classiest dinner guest you’ve ever seen.

“F-friends share, right?” Naruto asked, his voice wobbling between uncertainty and delight.

“Yes!” I declared with a grin. “We’ve got big plans today!”

Daily Updates (31/12/24) 🥂🥂🥂

Yo! Happy New Year!  🎉🥳 🎉

Stories:

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 55

• Tier 2: Chapter 60

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 22

• Tier 2: Chapter 27

Elden Ring: My Ending:

• Tier 1: Chapter 22

• Tier 2: Chapter 27

Annoucement:

Forgot to mention this yesterday but I am planning on taking a break next week.

During that time I plan to build up the backlog I used up during this holiday season as well work towards adding 2-3 new stories to the rotation. I need to finish reading them first though (it takes me a while to read in Russian) but they look decent, at least so far. So expect some new things very soon.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 60

Jory agreed. Either he understood it was in his favor or he was just eager to consume rare prey. An experienced runner, blind in the real world—exactly his kind of delicacy.

“Virtual Dogtown—that’s their turf,” I warned. “Even for the two of us, it won’t be a cakewalk.”

“More optimism, please,” Jory quipped, his avatar smirking. The scrawny teen appearance hid a network of code and virtual constructs that seemed even denser than before.

I scanned him for details. Yup, Jory had definitely grown.

“How many people have you killed and devoured since breaking through the Blackwall?”

“No idea,” he sneered. “Do you remember every slice of bread you’ve eaten for breakfast?”

"Actually, yeah," I replied. "I’ve got a good memory."

"More like petty," Jory sneered. "Do you really give a shit about those nobodies? Don’t worry, if I ran into your girlfriend, I wouldn’t touch her. Honest!"

"The NetWatch care. Heard of 'em? This ain’t the Wild Net, Jory. Actions have consequences. You wanna get a body just to land in their hands right after?"

"Fine, fine. It’s just hard to resist when there’s so much juicy, weak prey walking around. Beyond the Blackwall, you have to fight for every scrap, but here people stroll around without even basic defenses."

Speaking of virtual arsenals, I came prepared. After our last scuffle with the Watch, I loaded up for the Voodoo Boys op—armored up with combat programs, fine-tuned shields, cloaking, worms, viruses, and, of course, demons. Whole kit cost me 50K eddies, even with loot from a couple of dead runners in the mix. Pricey, but if you’re gunning for someone like the Slider, you don’t cut corners.

I’d debated taking out Wilky LaGuerre in real life or the Net. From what I know of the future, his base is a goddamn fortress. Plus, there’s the risk that Barghest might step in to help their semi-allied gang. The Slider doesn’t leave his real fortress, but his digital lair? That’s another story. I had a plan to lure him out.

I wasn’t lying about keeping track of breakfast bread, either. My memory’s solid, and I always back up important files. Among the data from Zeitgeist’s memory that got passed to the Slider were research notes on long-term breaches of the Blackwall—places where the Old Net and the New Net had intersected. Using Jory, I’d fake one of those signals, something that could look like a random or preprogrammed activation of another secret bunker.

No way the Slider would resist. He’d rally his best runners and dive in headfirst for forbidden secrets. Of course, he’d be cautious, but creatures like me and Jory have our own advvantages in the Net.

Dogtown wasn’t just walled off in the real world—it was locked up tight in cyberspace, too. The Voodoo Boys had gone all out severing and obscuring pathways into Hansen’s domain. But after the Blackwall? Those measures didn’t faze us. The ruins and abandoned entertainment centers still harbored flickers of digital life on some servers. That’s where we set up our ambush.

In the real world, it was the Terra Cognita tech park—a scavenger’s paradise in the chaos of Pacifica. In cyberspace, it looked like a jagged canyon, its edges lined with harsh, angular lines. On either side, distant points of light marked Scavenger strongholds—ugly, jury-rigged fortresses of stolen gear. They loomed like watchtowers over the chasm below, where chaotic heaps of broken networks flickered like veins clogged with data clots.

I arrived first, beating Jory by fractions of a second. His bloated data mass slithered sluggishly through Dogtown’s frayed connections like an overfed snake.

"Charming place," Jory said, scanning the area with hundreds of simultaneous pings. "Reminds me of home. Cursed, shitty home past the Blackwall. You been here in real life?"

"Yeah. Total dump. You’d love it. Let’s prep for our guests. One of Night City’s top netrunners is coming. Let’s make it a memorable welcome."

"Gladly."

I’d brought along eight imps, three ifrits, and one fourth-gen Balron demon. Some programs I had preloaded into the Net, ready to summon. My spectral army spread out across the battlefield, finding optimal spots to hide. Like during the Susan Tower raid, I disguised my primary form, merging it with two real cyber-imps to form a triangular structure of identical spheres wrapped in tendrils. The other six imps copied the tactic, creating two more triangles.

The ifrits fragmented into scattered code, losing their forms but staying connected to my threads. They could reform into fighters in seconds. The Balron I stationed farther away, tying it to a specialized channel.

I began weaving a network of signal threads, subtly embedding them into the surrounding digital landscape.

Jory took a different approach. Masking himself as part of the environment wouldn’t work—he was too massive and unique. Instead, he restructured his data into a chaotic, broken mess. Within minutes, he looked less like a deadly AI and more like a corrupted database—a toothy treasure chest waiting to spring. A clever mimic protocol. A curious runner might poke the "data" and get mauled.

Time to bait the tomb raiders. I sent Jory the signal templates to broadcast. He’d be the lure; I’d strike from the shadows.

The Voodoo Boys didn’t take long. First, a few imps arrived—golden lightning orbs accompanied by a couple of search programs. The hounds of the net shamans sniffed around for danger but didn’t spot our ambush. Jory’s mimicry still held strong.

Searchers are great at finding netrunners and stock combat programs. But ours? Custom. Even the bought programs were heavily modded.

The searchers vanished. The imps stayed. Soon, five runners entered the canyon. Spotting the Slider among them was easy. His virtual form was massive, a pumped-up version of his real body, towering over the others. Empty eyes glowed with unnatural fire. Four lackeys flanked him, their faces painted with white, mystic-looking symbols.

The Slider spoke in Haitian Creole, the translation rendering roughly as:

"To the worthy, fate pours the strongest rum."

Worthy, huh? Guess we’ll see. Too bad you’re about to eat shit.

But the Voodoo Boys didn’t rush the bait. Careful bastards. They started scanning, running detection programs. One of them brushed against a disassembled ifrit but hadn’t yet figured out what they were poking.

"There’s a lot of weird stuff here," one of the runners muttered. "What happened, Wilk?"

"The currents of the Net have thrown us the carcass of a beast," the Slider said thoughtfully. "Like a whale’s corpse washed ashore."

So, he recognized some AI algorithm presence in Jory but assumed the Blackwall had already taken him out. Between the hands of the top net sorcerer appeared a greenish circle. Through it, like a prism, the Slider began analyzing Jory's data without taking too much risk. Damn it. If he figures out what he's dealing with, we'll lose the element of surprise. I thought Jory would strike first, but looks like it’s on me.

And one, two, three. Netrunner, RIP! (1)

In an instant, green lightning burst out from under the depths of the gorge, striking all five netrunners. My threads followed right after. Imps emerged from their camouflage, Ifrits began assembling, and the Balron lit up on the horizon with emerald fire.

"Trap!" one of the Voodooists screamed, claiming the Captain Obvious award of the day.

His prize? A double blast of green lightning from the Brainstormer, leaving him badly damaged. His virtual image flickered a few times, and his face contorted in pain. It's not pleasant having your brain fried. I tried to finish him off with my threads. Looked like it was working.

But the other runners reacted fast. Shimmering black-and-white armor with Voodooist patterns enveloped them.

"Find and kill!" the net-priestess shouted, unleashing a Cerberus.

This program looked like a massive black metal wolf, its eyes glowing white and its skin rippling with fire. Cerberus was a beast of a program—highly lethal, especially against netrunners. It could locate them and trigger a heart attack with a single pulse. But I wasn’t exactly in a human form right now and was disguised in a cluster of Imps.

Cerberus scanned over and over, but it couldn’t lock onto a target. Visually, it looked like the beast was turning its head in frustration. The priestess caught on quickly.

"Spirits!" she yelled to the others, who were fending off my Imps' and threads' attacks.

Spirits? Yeah, that’s about right.

The Voodooists released their own Imps and killer programs. Slider, arms spread wide, summoned a projection of a two-headed dragon, seemingly forged from red crystals and fire. A full-on virtual war had begun. Maxed-out chaos.

I managed to take out the wounded Voodooist, despite the others’ attempts to shield him or sever my threads. Distracted by an Ifrit’s feint, my thread destabilized his essence. The runner started glitching, screaming, and emitting pulses of nonsensical code. That’s when the others abandoned him—they knew he’d never be the same. My threads dragged him away, shredding him into pieces. But the enemy had gained enough time to mount a counterattack.

At first, the Voodooists couldn’t locate my primary structure. They saw individual threads and tendrils everywhere but couldn’t pinpoint the core. That changed when the Slider pulled some special signal-tracking move. He locked onto the cluster where I was hiding.

"It’s here!" he shouted, marking me with a blue beam. "Show it the fury of Pacifica, brothers and sisters!"

Jory... You gonna step in sometime soon? I cast you in one of the lead roles, not as background scenery. I sent him the message, but my "partner" stayed quiet.

Maybe he wanted the Voodooists to wear me and my arsenal down before he made his move.

The Slider’s dragon easily obliterated one of my Ifrits. The Balron was still holding its ground, but it now faced a swarm of killers resembling robotic skeletons in samurai helmets.

If you don’t step in now, I’m pulling out.

Unlike Jory, I could bail quickly. With his bulk, the Voodooists might just corner him—or at least strip him down hard.

Patience, patience he finally deigned to reply.

A few seconds later, his massive data structures rippled and swelled like a festering boil. And then—boom—they exploded. Once again, we were being sucked into one of Jory’s illusions. He sure loved this crap. But honestly? It worked here. We’d grown used to his extreme virtual constructs, but the Voodooists? They’d be caught off guard.

The space around us transformed into a vast dungeon. Massive columns wrapped in stone serpents supported a towering ceiling. Shadows danced along dark-brown walls, cast by flaming braziers. Programs morphed into monsters—real imps, horned djinns, hellhounds. The runners now appeared as four dark-skinned sorcerers decked out in bone talismans. Jory, meanwhile, hovered near the ceiling in his usual semi-transparent ghostly form.

"Welcome to my theater of horrors!" he announced. "The worst is yet to come!"

The Voodooists didn’t let him gloat long. They fired off four silver mist clouds, deadly to rogue AIs. But Jory... just popped. His form burst, unleashing a torrent of phantom figures from where he’d been floating. Each was a subroutine. Alone, they weren’t much, but the sheer volume was overwhelming. It completely distracted the enemy from me.

This is why working with Jory in the Net was worth it. His over-the-top moves were perfect cover for my precision strikes. We were like a tank and DPS combo.

And now, the little freak had given me free rein—or free tentacles. Breaking from the Imp cluster, I dashed toward the enemy, blending into the swarm of ghostly figures. My own form adapted to mimic them.

Three bursts of green lightning pierced the Slider’s armor, and then I launched my full assault. A multi-pronged attack aimed to overload his memory buffer while injecting hundreds of lines of corrupting code. It looked like he was about to crumble.

But instead of breaking, Slider dragged me into another subspace.

"Did you really think it’d be that easy, demon?" I heard his mocking voice.

The subspace was an icy labyrinth, untouched by Jory’s projection. Massive blue structures loomed in the Cybervoid’s darkness. How many hundreds of thousands of eddies had this cost him? How the hell had he wired this up? Must be nice to be rich, smart, and unhinged all at once.

But as Jory pointed out earlier, persistence was my strong suit. This grand fortress couldn’t intimidate me—or scare me off. Those feelings were buried, dormant, until I returned to flesh. I began the assault. Wandering through the maze was pointless—I was sure Slider had ensured it was near impossible to navigate. This wasn’t just a digital fortress; it was a complex defensive machine. One I’d have to break piece by piece.

The ice repaired itself constantly, dynamically reconfiguring. But compared to the defenses that had once protected Abernathy, this? It was second-rate.

I pushed forward, mixing brute-force assaults, viral injections, and subtle workarounds of already damaged structures. I didn’t hesitate to use worm samples I’d snagged from Arasaka. At the same time, I managed to breach the outer gates, letting Jory’s subprograms flood into the labyrinth. They added numbers to my precision strikes.

"Wait, wait..." A voice echoed through the labyrinth, far less confident now. "It’s you, V? We can still cut a deal."

I didn’t answer, hammering away. The labyrinth’s structure began to collapse. The Black Ice generation systems started eating themselves under my influence. Wilky had prepped well, but even the best swimmer won’t outpace a shark. We were on entirely different levels. For every countermeasure he deployed, I threw a hundred different attacks back at him.

"You think you can fuck me over that easy? I’ve already planted a dead-man’s switch. Go ahead, try me! Hansen and all of Night City will know who you are!"

Go ahead and try? Sure. You convinced me. And if he’s lying about the dead-man’s switch, I’ll find out in his memories. I’ll have time to neutralize it. I doubt the Slider shared this intel with a third party. It’s all got to be stashed on his base or nearby in Dogtown.

"Wait, V, hold up! Just listen—" The labyrinth’s heart, a massive disco-ball-like core, cracked open, exposing the Slider’s plain virtual form, stripped of the ridiculous muscles he’d painted on. "You’re not gonna hit a cripple, are you?"

No. I’ll just eat you alive before Jory catches up.

The last thing Wilky LaGuerre saw in his drawn-out life was a cluster of red tendrils bursting through the breach in his fortress’s heart, shredding the final shields, and…

I felt what gold rush prospectors must’ve felt, pulling a nugget the size of a fist from an unknown river. Klondike! El Dorado, with a dash of his slimy thoughts thrown in. Terabytes of valuable intel poured out—names, passwords, locations, insights on the Net, the underbelly of Dogtown and Night City. I didn’t even sort through it all, just shoved it into myself to sift through later. But one critical fact stood out—he wasn’t lying about the dead-man’s switch. I had to act fast, while his body was still twitching.

Grabbing the data, I slipped out of the collapsing labyrinth. Jory was still dealing with two netrunners. He’d handle it. Using the cover of his phantom barrage, I slipped out of the virtual trap. The Voodoo Boys’ sniffers were still lurking nearby. Perfect. I slipped into one of them and gave the order to return to base.

Under this guise, and using Slider’s virtual keys, I accessed the local network of his base.

The stash was there. The problem? It was physical. That’s how it was protected from Net-based attacks. Just an ordinary safe, set up for his crew to crack open if he died. A last will and testament. Inside was also a shard detailing all our dealings.

Smart move, Wilky. But I still had options. Through the local network, I tapped into the surveillance cameras. Then I found one of his goons with weaker ICE and puppeted him.

A regular gunman, but one of LaGuerre’s trusted guys, marched purposefully to the office. A pair of bots stood guard at the door.

"Access currently prohibited," one security bot announced.

"Twelve. Eight. Osiris. Torpedo," my puppet responded.

"Emergency shutdown protocol acti—" The bots’ voices faded as they powered down into standby.

And there we were. A metal safe packed with the dead man’s secrets. But I didn’t need it anymore. I already had everything in my memory, just waiting to be sorted.

The puppet keyed in the right combination. Then he grabbed an incendiary grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, tossed it inside, and slammed the door shut. A muffled hissing sound came from the safe. A faint wisp of black smoke trickled out through the seal. Good safe, but everything inside was now toast.

Then my zombie pulled out a frag grenade, this time stepping up to the Slider’s half-dead body slumped in his chair. The pin hit the floor again. One second. Two. Three, and...

I left the puppet a split second before the explosion. Alarms were already blaring across the base, but I could still loot a little before dipping. Everything was going my way. I’d scored priceless intel and eliminated a potential enemy.

_____________________________________________

(1) In Russian there is a common phrase, a rhyme that is used during New Year celebrations: “One, two, three. Light up, Christmas tree.”

P.S. In Russia and most post USSR countries, New Year is a much more significant holiday than Christmas. What’s more, Christmas there is celebrated on Jan 7th (not 25th because of the Gregorian calendar) and it considered religious holiday not secular.

[Life is Good] Chapter 27

We arrived fairly quickly, about forty minutes tops. Storm was with us in the cabin, but when we boarded, she was already dozing in her seat. She snored softly through the entire flight.

Logan and I had a solid chat along the way. I gave him the rundown on Banner’s situation—her struggles with the government, issues with aggression, and all that jazz. I made a point to emphasize that her alternate personality wasn’t just some mindless beast, but a sentient, albeit extremely aggressive, individual. With the right approach, you could reason with her—so long as you didn’t strike first.

I kept talking, pouring on praise about Banner’s brilliant mind and genuinely pleasant personality when she wasn’t stressed out of her skull. I even made a case for her non-confrontational nature. Honestly, I was laying it on thick, mainly for Charlene, who, I’d bet my last dollar, would sift through someone’s memories for a faster resolution. Hell, she might even be Cerebro-texting right now.

Logan just grunted, gave me a pat on the shoulder, and said, “Got it, kid. I’ll talk to Xavier. Don’t lose your nerve over your girl.”

Well, not bad. Sure, he’d misinterpreted my intentions, but that actually worked in Banner’s favor. If everyone thought I had a thing for her, it might nudge their decision-making. They’d figure that if she left, I might do something reckless out of heartbreak. Not a bad setup at all.

As for how the mutants would treat her, I wasn’t too worried. She didn’t realize how young I was, but Jean and Charlene would pick up on that from her mind. And, honestly, mutant justice tended to be way more just than human laws, thanks in large part to Xavier.

Still, winning over the pro-humanity faction wasn’t enough. I needed someone on Erika’s side, too. The moment we landed, my eyes zeroed in on Mystique, who was part of the welcoming delegation. She’d been spending a lot of time at the school lately, presumably overseeing security measures.

After a quick round of greetings and assurances that I was totally fine (Jen blushed a little at that), I pulled Mystique aside for a private chat. I gave her the same spiel I’d tested on Logan, but with a twist—focusing on Banner’s value to the community, the persecution she faced, and the potential of her alternate personality as a fighter, provided Hulk could be reasoned with. I stressed that pressure wouldn’t help in this situation.

Mystique listened, nodded thoughtfully, then looked at me with this oddly respectful expression, as if appreciating my willingness to contribute to the mutant cause. And then—slap! She patted my bald head in approval.

Are you freaking kidding me?! Tobias SMASH! I’ll tell Hulk about this—we’re practically buddies now! Let’s see her slap everyone else! Damn mutant tricksters. And she was totally laughing at me in her head; I could see it in her smug, blue face. Oh, she’ll get what’s coming to her—just not right now.

We weren’t rushed into anything immediately. They gave Jen a guest room, some spare clothes, and an hour to rest and freshen up. On my way to my own room, I got intercepted by a group of concerned students, including Rogue, Pyro, and Iceman. That meant I had to give a watered-down version of recent events: how Hulk and I had been hopping across the country, then wandering the wastelands with Banner before the professors picked us up.

Rogue needed a little extra reassurance. She was upset, thinking she’d failed to protect me. I spent ten minutes explaining that with Hulk, aggression was a dead end. The best Anna-Marie could’ve done was absorb some of Hulk’s endless power, which would’ve resulted in two massive, angry, green, naked destruction machines. They’d have leveled the place for fun.

I wrapped it all up with another quick speech: “Banner’s like us—just not a mutant.” Then I excused myself to clean up.

By the time I hit the bath, I was feeling pretty good. The information was out there, and with Jubilee present during my little talk, it would spread through the school faster than wildfire. And she’d probably exaggerate the hell out of both the story and my “feelings” for Jennifer. Perfect.

Once I was done with my bath and changed, I decided to check on Jen. Leaving her alone in unfamiliar surroundings felt wrong. I knocked on her door and got invited in. The room was almost identical to mine. Jen was sitting on the bed, looking thoughtful, but she gave me a warm smile and patted the spot next to her.

We didn’t get to talk for long. I asked how she liked it here, and she politely said she appreciated the hospitality but hadn’t decided whether to stay. Fair enough—she noted that without the approval of the mutant leaders, her decision wouldn’t matter much anyway.

I left her my email address—didn’t have a cell phone yet, and the number would change when I did. I asked her not to lose touch and to write, even if she didn’t stay.

Jen was quiet for about ten seconds before smirking, flicking my nose, and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. Was that a yes? A no? No clue, and I didn’t get to find out. A knock at the door summoned Dr. Banner to a meeting with the local leaders—tea with Charlene and Erika, mutant-style.

And so, we parted ways—Jen to the meeting, escorted by Jean Grey, and me to the lounge.

Jennifer Banner, after her meeting with the mutant leaders:

The day had been packed, but all things considered, not a bad one. Lying on the guest room bed now, Jennifer could finally relax. For the first time since the Hulk incident, she felt a surprising sense of freedom from the tension that had been choking her.

She had to admit—abducting green Tobias was one of the few things she genuinely owed Hulk gratitude for. The kid was… something else.

Jen smiled, her cheeks warming as she recalled their initial meeting. Sure, she hadn’t been in her right mind when she woke up, but the warmth, the embrace, the not-so-innocent dream she’d been having… That very compromising position and the distinct pressure against her thigh…

Mff… She squeezed her legs together, shaking her head to clear the sudden rush of heat. God, what a mess. She was turning into some kind of cougar, pining after a barely legal guy. Though honestly, who could blame her? The kid kissed her. Handsome, fit, obviously into her—and in that position? Any lonely woman would’ve melted.

Especially considering how long it had been since she’d had any action. And with a man? Never. So yeah, her conscience was relatively clear. She hadn’t seduced him on purpose, hadn’t forced anything, and he seemed to enjoy it.

But enough of that.

Her reception at the school had been cautious but kind. They gave her time to recover before bringing her in for a discussion. And the meeting itself… If not for Tobias’s glowing praise, she’d have been suspicious. Even now, she was on guard, but only out of habit. The actual conversation with the senior mutants had been… promising.

“Dr. Banner,” Charlene Xavier began, once introductions were made and Jennifer had taken her seat. “We’re glad to welcome you, both to the mutant community and to our school. I’m pleased that everything has resolved peacefully enough for us to have this conversation.”

“Thank you, Ms. Xavier. I’m happy to meet you, and you as well, Ms. Lehnsherr. I’ve heard much about mutants but never had the chance to meet any of you before,” Jennifer replied with a polite smile.

“I can only imagine what you’ve heard,” Erika said with a smirk. “At least now you’ll see firsthand how far off the mark people are with their assumptions about us.”

“Uh… yeah, I get it. I’ve been on the run myself ever since my… accident,” Jennifer said, gesturing helplessly.

“On that note, Miss Banner, we’d like to offer you a place here, if you’re open to it,” Charlene said directly. “We’re aware of your situation with Hulk and believe we may be able to help you. At the very least, we could assist you in finding some understanding or balance with your… other self. Our student, Tobias, spoke highly of you. Even regarding Hulk, he described her as, 'Aggressive, but reasonable enough to talk to.' The boy… he’s remarkably mature for his age. And he seems quite fond of you.”

At this, Erika let out an amused chuckle, which clashed with her usual composed demeanor, drawing a sharp look from Charlene. Meanwhile, Jennifer felt an uncomfortable twinge. Tobias had been so earnest about keeping certain things private…

“You’re being too hard on Tobias right now, Miss Banner,” Charlene sighed, shooting Erika another warning glance. “The boy only had good things to say about you and didn’t mention any… specifics about your initial meeting. I’ll ask you to remain calm as I explain something. I don’t want to deceive you, so I’ll share a small secret. It’s something you’d learn eventually if you stayed, but I’d rather clear the air now.

“Jennifer, you see, Tobias is one of our students, and after the recent events, we were naturally concerned for his safety. When our teachers first encountered you… your memories were read. Not deeply, just the moments of your meeting with Tobias. Both Jean, who greeted you, and I are telepaths. That’s how we learned about your… unconventional introduction. But please don’t worry — that information won’t leave this room, and no one is judging you for it. In fact, I want to thank you. The boy experienced a lot of stress last week, and thanks to you, those events will not weigh as heavily on his mind. First close contact with the opposite sex always leaves a significant impression, after all.”

Jennifer was… well, stunned, embarrassed, and a bit unsettled. Telepaths were…

“I know what you’re thinking, Jennifer, and not because I’m a telepath,” Charlene added with a wry smile. “It’s just something I’ve encountered in conversations like this. You see, I’m a psychologist by profession. People often tell me things they wouldn’t share with their closest friends. You don’t need to worry — Jean and I don’t read minds unless it’s absolutely necessary. I can’t prove this to you, of course, so I’m just asking for your trust. And I sincerely apologize for this situation. Please understand that we were genuinely concerned for the boy. He may be a strong mutant, but Hulk… well, she’s stronger.”

“I… I understand. It’s just… unexpected news. I’d also like to apologize for…”

“Oh, come on, Miss Banner,” Erika interjected with a snort. “Did you see the kid’s face? He looked like a cat that just devoured an entire tub of cream. I wouldn’t be surprised if he not only lunged at you but tried to climb into Hulk’s lap too.” Ignoring Charlene’s soft cough, Erika pressed on. “And don’t give me that look. You should’ve seen how he stared at Victoria when he thought no one was watching. If looks could impregnate, Creed would’ve given birth to triplets. That kid’s a menace. Give him a couple more years, and we’ll be drowning in his harems and love triangles. Seriously, there’s nothing for you to apologize for.”

Shifting to a more serious tone, Erika added: “The real question, Jennifer, is what do you think of our offer? Your situation isn’t much different from many mutants struggling with self-control. Power that goes unchecked can be dangerous. We’ve worked with people in similar positions, helping them find stability and purpose. We could offer you protection, guidance, and a place in our large, occasionally dysfunctional family. So, what do you want?”

“And why would you want to help me?” Jennifer shot back, her tone direct.” Are you really offering this out of pure altruism? I don’t mean to sound cynical, but…” She gestured vaguely, signaling her skepticism.

“And you’re right to question that,” Erika replied with a grin. “Our mutant community operates like a commune… inside a capitalist society. Most of us don’t work for companies or corporations or mainstream organizations. Instead, we contribute to our enclave in different ways. Some run businesses that fund the community, others handle security, and still others manage daily logistics. You, Jennifer, could join our scientists. Mutant scientists are rare, but their contributions are invaluable. Dr. Henrietta McCoy, for example, has saved countless lives by helping mutants survive their own powers. She’s given many a chance to live without fear. Charlene, sitting right here, has done the same with her telepathy and counseling.

“What we’re proposing is a partnership. Work with Dr. McCoy — Beast — who has her own experience with self-control issues. She could offer guidance. Our telepaths would be here to help calm your ‘other self’ if needed. And Tobias, well, he spent hours with Hulk and lived to tell the tale. That has to count for something.”

“I’d also like to ask if you’d consider giving lectures to our students from time to time,” Charlene added with a warm smile. “Someone with your expertise could offer them a wealth of knowledge. And don’t worry — we’re not the mafia. If you decide this isn’t for you, you’re free to leave anytime.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” Charlene replied. “How much time do you need?”

Jennifer hesitated. What were her alternatives? Endless running and hiding? Submitting to the authorities and risking the creation of more Hulks? Becoming a weapon for someone else? Finally, she met Charlene’s gaze with determination.

“I’ve already thought about it. I accept.”

They assigned her a room, gave her a quick tour of the school, and introduced her to Dr. McCoy, who turned out to be a very pleasant woman despite her rather striking appearance. They agreed to meet tomorrow for a briefing in the science wing and to bring her up to speed. After that, Jennifer was left to her own devices. Tomorrow, she’d be formally introduced to the rest of the mansion’s residents—adults and teenagers alike—and would begin her work.

It was a whirlwind turn of events she couldn’t have even imagined that morning.

Yuriko Oyama. Lady Deathstrike.

The young onryō had surprised her again. First, he’d angered her. Then, he’d amazed her. And once again, he’d left her deep in thought. The moment he’d stepped outside the school grounds—and she hadn’t followed—he’d gotten himself kidnapped. By who? By Hulk. The literal embodiment of unrelenting rage and chaotic fury. Yuriko had already resigned herself to the fact that it was over for the kid. She was furious. She’d promised herself she’d keep an eye on him, repay her debt, but the very first moment she looked away—he was gone. Just like that. Snatched by a monster and most likely crushed to death the moment that behemoth landed.

So imagine her surprise when the mutants brought him back to the school not only alive but completely unscathed. And with Hulk herself in human form. What utterly shocked her, though, was the scent coming off the two of them. They reeked of each other. They reeked of sex. And that face of his… Yuriko caught herself thinking she wanted to force-feed him a few lemons, just to wipe that ridiculously smug grin off his face.

It was almost poetic. The young spirit of vengeance, playing the role of the good boy Toby, had found himself the embodiment of fury disguised as the quiet scientist Jennifer. Yuriko had heard they’d wandered the wasteland together… She wondered, did they use protection? And if not, what would their children be like? Oh, she would love to see what kind of offspring vengeance and rage could produce.

Her sudden barking laughter startled a group of students passing by. Yuriko briefly considered apologizing but instead let out another eerie giggle, watching with amusement as the teenagers hurried their pace to get away from her.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 27

They initially had no intention of staying in the Castle for long. The plan was to return with the priest to help his waifu, but the situation had taken an unexpected turn.

Konstantin was somewhat disheartened that he couldn’t yet help Irina with her eyes. The fact that her eyes were physically healthy pointed to a different nature of blindness—casual one. The man had tried to help her himself but didn’t push too far, openly afraid of doing harm. Konstantin felt that he could heal and remove such effects from himself, but others?

Let’s just say that Kosta wasn’t a fan of going online. So he simply didn’t know how to help others.

He knew an ultimate casual skill that could potentially help Irina, but for now, he couldn’t use it. All that was left was to wait.

And farm.

It didn’t need to be said how happy Irina was to receive so much care from the Tarnished. Even if he couldn’t restore her sight yet, the sheer fact of all the help he had provided made her heart beat faster.

As for the ring he had given her, imbued with a fragment of warmth from a waifu enthusiast…

It was more valuable than any other, even the most expensive of adornments.

“I will await your return, Konstantin of the Tarnished.”

Edgar coughed into his fist, seeing how broadly his daughter was smiling, clutching the ring in her hands. Such unwavering determination from the Tarnished was something Edgar had not expected at all. The man didn’t entirely know what to do in this situation. Simply watch? Or try to offer some advice? But what advice could he give? Or perhaps try to speak with this caring but still… ahem, unusual Tarnished?

In the end, the commander opted to simply observe for now.

“We were glad to see you, sir. Feel free to visit… more often, yeah…”

Kosta shrugged nonchalantly.

He would, whenever the quests allow.

“I’ll try to s-sew the best garments for you, m-my lord!”

The last person Kosta expected to meet in the Castle was Boc. Since he was mostly thinking about his waifu, it was hard to remember all the other side quests.

From the first day in the Lands Between, the man had known about the “dynamic” nature of quests. And yet, to realize that waifus themselves could progress quests as they wished…

Quite unusual.

Reflecting on the fleetingness of quests and perhaps existence itself, Konstantin simply nodded in response to Boc’s declaration of settling in the Castle.

“I will also set out on a journey,” Corhyn said with a sheepish smile. “I have much to rethink. I’m considering leaving the Roundtable Hold. Do you perhaps know of the noble hero, Goldmask?”

Konstantin, a little surprised at the unexpected advancement of one of the dullest questlines in the game, shrugged.

“Yes.”

Corhyn sighed, gathering his thoughts. The last few days had been overly stressful for him. The priest felt that he himself was in need of help.

“Once, he was a Tarnished soul living near the Lands Between and, at the same time, a great scholar who foresaw the phenomenon of grace visions. I’ve heard he now roams the Lands Between alone, hoping to uncover the Golden Order… I would give much to receive his guidance and perhaps even assist him in his studies.”

“Good luck.”

Tarnished’s overall composure and nonchalance made it hard to tell whether he genuinely wished Corhyn luck or not. But at the very least, he made an effort.

The follower of the Golden Order smirked crookedly.

Faith meant a lot. It would be strange if faith meant nothing in a world where the influence of objects of worship could be seen with the naked eye. Konstantin followed some unknown, incomprehensible Outer God, which should have been frightening and alarming, but for some reason, Corhyn instead felt calm and a strange inner warmth.

And, as a proper priest, indignation: he could do better. Just give him time, and he…

Corhyn groaned inwardly.

Perhaps the astonishing simplicity of the Tarnished’s faith had managed to hook him slightly. Or not slightly… And that was precisely why the follower of the Golden Order needed help in understanding himself.

The hero Goldmask must know the answer!..

When the priest departed, Konstantin was about to set out on his journey himself, but the quests, apparently, had their own opinion on the matter: unexpectedly, an irate Gatekeeper appeared, accompanied by another questline—this one was furtively looking around, and always left the man feeling duped. (1)

Kenneth Haight.

The fair-haired man, middle-aged with golden eyes and hair, immediately drew attention, as did the fine details of his attire—something the common folk certainly couldn’t boast. However, his overall bedraggled and skittish appearance didn’t inspire confidence.

He had evidently been through a tough journey to reach Stormveil Castle.

“This is bad…”

Ranni’s whisper made Melina glance at her. The lunar demigoddess no longer even yawned. While the physical doll body didn’t show fatigue, her spectral face conveyed the full spectrum of weariness the demigoddess was experiencing.

She had been avoiding conversations with the Tarnished lately, but now she had to give him a mission. The preparations were complete, and all that remained was to wait. Konstantin, after all, was still her servant, even if he had allowed himself to act unforgivably boldly!

On the other hand, the man had proven that, in some ways, he had earned the right to his boldness. Just a little.

Perhaps, had they lived in a peaceful Era, Konstantin’s actions might have been considered merely barbaric, but in the current age, they could be called, in a sense, the pinnacle of nobility and honor. With some exceptions.

It didn’t take Kenneth long to pull himself together. Compared to the rest of the Lands Between, Stormveil Castle now resembled the pinnacle of civilization.

“So, you declared yourself lord of Stormveil Castle,” Kenneth hissed, eyeing the stoic Konstantin. “Well, I must admit, I’m exceedingly glad: anything is better than that wretched Godrick. Even a Tarnished soul like you.”

Gostoc, casting a thoughtful glance at Kenneth, nonchalantly asked:

“May I use him for grafting, my lord?”

Kenneth flinched.

Honestly, for a moment, Kosta actually considered Gostoc’s suggestion.

“No.”

The gatekeeper wasn’t too disappointed by Konstantin’s reply, somewhat expecting as much. Sighing sadly and slumping (even further), Gostoc was already thinking of leaving, but decided to try his luck one last time:

“If you grow tired of him…”

“I’ll be sure to let you know.”

The sheer composure with which Kosta said it made Haight realize that now was not the time to get too cheeky.

Gostoc, grinning widely, cheerfully went off to handle his own affairs.

Konstantin turned his gaze to Kenneth.

“You want me to reclaim your fort?”

Already opening his mouth, the heir to Limgrave’s sovereignty widened his eyes at Kosta. However, the man quickly regained his composure.

“You’re quick to catch on, Tarnished!”

“Konstantin.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard of you, Konstantin of the Tarnished!” Kenneth said with an awkward smile.

Due to the Tarnished’s rather ordinary appearance, showing no signs of his strength, for a moment Haight forgot that standing before him was a monster in human form. Thankfully he remembered that in time.

“Th-the help is very much appreciated. Even from a Tarnished. Despite appearances, nobility is no prerequisite to serving the true Order.”

Kenneth was slightly unsettled by the decor of some of the knights, but whether it was due to his exhaustion or simply his assumption that the Sun depicted on their armor was another manifestation of the Golden Order, he chose to ignore it.

"Alright, since you know who I am and have heard about my fort, then…"

“Got it. The fort to the south, beyond the Mistwood, occupied by one of Godrick’s casual knights.”

Kosta had no intention of delaying this quest. He couldn’t skip it—there was a valuable item in the fort, along with the legend tied to it—but he wasn’t exactly thrilled about completing it either.

Kenneth nearly choked.

He didn’t expect news of the captured fort to spread so quickly. Even though Godrick had fallen, there were still some crazed loyalists clinging to his legacy.

Did that crazed knight even know his lord was dead? After all, if he wasn’t trying to gather any information, how could he possibly hear anything?

Sellen knew this better than anyone.

“Exactly!” Kenneth clapped his hands, his spirits lifted as he regained his composure. He cast a calculating glance around. “Perhaps if you enlist the support of your…”

Kenneth never finished his sentence. Kosta, unwilling to let side quests drag him away from the main story for too long, especially since he was already falling behind, summoned Torrent.

“You can try returning to your fort in about a week,” Kosta estimated.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long the journey would take, so he decided to give himself a buffer.

At least he could unlock a few new Sites of Grace along the way.

Kenneth froze in astonishment.

Torrent, still bitter about missing out on the chase for Shabriri, snorted indignantly but refrained from bucking Kosta off.

Kosta, sensing the root of the issue, patted Torrent’s mane.

“We’ll clear the location together. I mean, the fort.”

Hearing this enticing offer, Torrent’s demeanor shifted noticeably. Snorting again, this time in a much more satisfied manner, the spectral steed galloped off.

Melina pressed her lips together.

After all who would be pleased to learn that the spectral steed, entrusted with choosing the Tarnished who would become the future king of the Lands Between, was a thrill-seeking daredevil?

Kenneth, left standing in stunned silence, gestured for one of the knights to approach.

“Prepare me a bath. When the opportunity arises, I’ll, of course, reward you generously for this.”

The knight stood there for a moment before letting out a lifeless grunt.

Clearly, he’d already died several times.

Kenneth grimaced.

“I’m surrounded by idiots… Who here can prepare me a bath?! My journey to the castle was anything but easy! Hey!”

Just as Edgar approached Kenneth, he paused, casting a strange glance at the yelling noble.

Meanwhile, Kosta was already riding farther and farther away from the castle.

“That speed…”

Sellen’s projection, having hitched a ride on Torrent for the first time, was clearly enjoying herself.

The fleeting glimpse of Melina’s face in his peripheral vision didn’t interest the banished sorceress in the slightest.

Thanks to the fastest mount in all of the Lands Between, it only took a few days to reach the target location.

Fort Haight wasn’t nearly as large as Stormveil Castle. Whether he liked it or not, Kosta had long since over-leveled for this “location,” resembling those players who rushed through the main campaign only to return later with a maxed-out necromancer to help farmers with their crops. (2)

That didn’t stop Torrent, though. The satisfied steed bulldozed through the fort, leaving the invaders with no chance. Honestly, Kosta didn’t quite understand why Kenneth, the heir of Limgrave, needed a half-ruined fort overrun by demi-humans and devoid of servants.

But that didn’t mean he had no interest in the side quest.

“Hey, Meli-Meli, can you help me find a piece of the medallion?”

“A medallion piece?”

“The Dectus Medallion.”

When Melina appeared beside him, she had a hard time hiding her surprise at Kosta’s request.

The Dectus Medallion. Its discovery could indeed be of great help. Not a mandatory tool for the future king, but still a highly valuable one.

There were many ways to reach the Altus Plateau, but an elevator once existed that could take you directly to the region leading to the capital. It was said that this “Grand Lift” was built to strengthen the ties between the Carian Royal Family, the Academy, and Queen Marika’s bloodline (3). This practical purpose didn’t diminish its significance in the slightest.

Melina never would have guessed that Kosta would remember it. Gripping the ring on her finger, she vanished.

There was another reason Kosta agreed to this “side quest.” Honestly, he was a bit nervous. He was about to meet an idol of countless… well, maybe not casuals, but close enough.

One of the founding fathers of the bleed build—how could Kosta remain calm? He’d only recently become the leader of the casuals. Even the Greater Will probably couldn’t calculate how many hours Kosta had spent spamming a single button while wielding a bleed weapon.

It even used to be fun for some time. You just had to remember to heal in time.

He didn’t have to search for long. After he defeated the last of the frenzied demi-humans, the knight he was looking for leapt from the fort’s wall, unconcerned about the height.

Clad in armor, the knight seemed to remain loyal to the fallen Godrick. (Or maybe not.)

Satisfied, Torrent returned to the whistle, leaving the two men alone.

To be honest, Kosta was quickly disappointed by the encounter.

Tattered, in torn clothes, filthy, and covered in his own blood, as if he’d been repeatedly cut, the knight’s eyes behind his helmet reflected nothing but madness.

Which, considering the state he was in, wasn’t surprising. The knight slashed himself with his blood-soaked blade, running it across his chest to fuel it with his life force.

That explained a lot.

“Well, this Ash of War looks way worse from the outside than I thought…” (4)

Kosta hadn’t expected the frenzied knight to suffer the same side effects as a player. In fact, he looked even worse.

Turns out, casual gameplay could sometimes be fatal.

The knight tried to attack Kosta, but he couldn’t even land a proper hit. Kosta simply dodged every attempt the casual bloodletting knight made to reach him, resulting in more and more self-inflicted wounds with each swing.

Kosta decided to turn this into a little challenge.

Meanwhile, Melina had to work hard to locate the medallion. She hadn’t expected it to be in a completely ordinary chest, lying amidst the other junk scattered around the fort—a far larger quantity of it than she had anticipated.

What surprised Melina the most was the sheer number of portraits of Kenneth. It seemed he was collecting them.

“What’s going on here?”

Her confusion was understandable: it wasn’t every day you saw a blood-soaked psychopath chasing someone down, spamming a single attack relentlessly.

Even so, compared to some other residents of the Lands Between, Konstantin was the pinnacle of rationality.

The sleepy projection of Ranni materialized in a starry flash, mumbling something incoherent.

In Melina’s field of vision, the unknown knight—leaving himself more and more wounded with each strike—chased her chosen one like a rabid beast wielding a blood-soaked blade.

Unfortunately, no legends had yet been written about the Tarnished’s rolls, so the knight had no idea he never stood a chance.

For some reason, Melina saw a glimmer of pity in Kosta’s eyes as he rolled to avoid the knight’s attacks, as if he were staring into a reflection of himself—a version that had made less-than-ideal, yet all-too-familiar, choices in crafting a casual build during the early stages of the game.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

It ended… predictably: with another wild swing of his blade and yet another self-inflicted wound, the knight’s body suddenly went limp. He let out a faint rasp before collapsing.

He had lost too much blood.

Kosta, maintaining a stoic demeanor, approached the fallen body. Despite his composed exterior, his expression was complicated.

"Your Ashes of War will forever remain in the hearts of blood-loss fans..."

He raised his hands toward the Sun—not in celebration, but as a solemn farewell to one of the forefathers of the almost-casual blood-loss build.

The rivers of blood, Eleonora’s Poleblade, and Mohgwyn’s Sacred Spear...

Sellen, observing from the sidelines in her adult form, furrowed her brow thoughtfully as she gazed at the bloodied corpse. It looked vaguely familiar to her.

“A vile curse…”

Kosta shrugged.

Mohg was mandatory anyway.

Sellen lingered a moment longer, studying the unfortunate knight’s body, before turning and smiling. Her expression was contemplative yet playful.

“Is it time for a reward?”

Konstantin turned his head to see a composed Ranni, arms crossed. Beside her stood Melina, glaring at the smiling Sellen.

Sellen’s smirk grew even more mischievous and teasing under Melina’s scrutiny, causing a faint blush to spread across the not-quite-maiden’s face.

Ranni remained unusually silent for a long moment, forcing Melina, who was clearly losing the battle of gazes between not-waifus but simply women, to place her hand on the doll-like shoulder of the demigod and give it a small shake. Three times, of course. (5)

The nearly dissipated, ghostly visage of the demigoddess, sharpened slightly. Ranni scanned her surroundings with a sleepy gaze before nodding almost imperceptibly.

“You shall accompany me.”

Her new servant would need to meet his companions and finally receive his instructions, after which she could rest.

Barely holding herself together, the young demigoddess puffed out her spectral cheeks like a child and extended her doll-like hand to Konstantin.

She wasn’t about to forgive his insolence so easily. Oh no, the Tarnished would have to serve her well before she could truly let it go! Absolutely.

…And yet, perhaps it was a bit reckless to expend so much energy on that illusion...

Sellen chuckled. It seemed their reactions would never cease to amuse her.

“Don’t forget about my primal glintstone, my lady.”

The sorceress, who not long ago would never have imagined saying such words so lightly, now found herself doing so. In her current position, she didn’t have much control over her fate anyway. So all she could do was wait patiently, look for opportunities, and, of course…

Have some fun.

________________________________________

(1) Kenneth Haight is a nobleman and servant of the Golden Order, the rightful heir to Limgrave. Kenneth's fort is captured and he offers the player to liberate it. If you help Kenneth and agree to serve, he promises to reward the player with knightly spurs in his castle. This, of course, does not happen.

(2) This is a reference to RPG games in general, not just FromSofware’s Soulslikes. More specifically it refers to this video about “post endgame content”.

(3) The game of course offers no such details on the Elevator. However it is an important piece for several quests and as such it can’t be ignored.

(4) Ashes of War in Elden Ring are special items that allow you to grant your armaments (Weapons and Shields) new Skills and Affinities. They're integral for creating Builds and adapting to the many Enemies and Bosses of The Lands Between. 

This specific “Ashes of War: Bloody Strike” deals damage both to you and your enemy and inflicts Hemorrhage (blood-loss) on the target.

(5) This is how many times the player must try to talk to Ranni while completing the quest chain when he finds one of her receptacles.

Daily Updates (30/12/24)

Stories:

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 32

• Tier 2: Chapter 37

Prof. Umbridge

I promised to finish the story before the New Year, so here are the last 3 chapters, enjoy :)

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 52

  • Chapter 53

  • Chapter 54

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 57

  • Chapter 58

  • Chapter 59 (epilogue)

Mad Tiger

Still waiting on clarifications from the author so no chapter  :(

Btw anyone actually reads Mad Tiger? Numbers say nobody is interested in it.

[Prof. Umbridge] Chapter 59 (Epilogue)

The vestibule was brightly lit, and the footsteps of the students echoed crisply on the stone-tiled floor as they moved toward the double doors leading to the Great Hall. Tonight marked the feast celebrating the beginning of the school year.

In the Great Hall, students were already taking their seats at the four long house tables, while a fifth table was reserved for the newcomers. Above them, the enchanted ceiling shimmered, displaying grand spiral galaxies curling into luminous clusters. Sagittarius, resembling Firenze, loomed with his bow, Virgo smiled serenely, and Scorpius threatened with his venomous tail.

Conversations quickly died down; there had been plenty of time to chat during the long journey to the castle. Now, it was time to eat. The first-years, initially timid, soon dived into the feast with gusto. When the dinner finally ended, a short woman rose from the staff table.

"I’m delighted to welcome you all," she began. "Let’s skip the long speeches. The rules of the school will be explained to newcomers, and for those who may have forgotten, the prefects will provide reminders. We have one staff change this year: Mr. Thomson, from the Auror Office, will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts for the senior years. As for the juniors, I’ll handle those classes as usual."

"Madam Headmistress, where’s Professor Snape?" a despairing voice called out from the Gryffindor table.

"Mr. Abercrombie, what kind of example are you setting as a prefect, shouting out like that?" she chided gently. "There’s no need to worry—Professor Snape is delayed at a conference but will certainly return in time for the start of senior classes. For the juniors, I remind you, Professor Slughorn is teaching Potions. Now, let’s proceed with the Sorting Ceremony!"

The first-years lined up in front of the staff table, facing the rest of the students. A hunched goblin-like figure brought forth a stool and then retreated into the shadows, replaced by a tall, silver-haired woman. The ancient Sorting Hat was placed reverently on the stool and began its song.

The faces of the first-years were a mix of trepidation and anticipation. Some trembled nervously, others nudged each other and whispered in hushed tones. The Sorting commenced.

"Diana Umbridge!" the name rang out, and the moment the girl donned the Hat, it shouted:

"Gryffindor!"

Another girl, slightly older, waved enthusiastically from the Slytherin table.

"Severus will be mortified," giggled Professor Flitwick.

"Why should he care?" replied Grubbly-Plank. "Ingebjorg for example doesn’t care which house a student belongs to. He could learn a thing or two from her."

"Not about that. He’ll say this influx of students in Hogwarts used to be courtesy of the Weasleys."

Headmistress Umbridge pretended not to hear.

The Sorting continued, and finally, it was done. The enchanted ceiling darkened with storm clouds as thunder rolled ominously overhead.

"Now, let us—" the headmistress began, but her words were drowned out by a deafening clap of thunder. The doors to the Great Hall flew open with a resounding crash.

A figure cloaked in black stood on the threshold. Every head turned as lightning illuminated his face. He swept back his hood, shaking out a mane of dark hair, and strode purposefully toward the staff table.

"Aurora, confess: did you master weather magic after all?" hissed Marina Nikolaevna.

"I swear, it wasn’t me!" protested Professor Sinistra.

"Then it’s Ingebjorg again... Typical! Being Head of Slytherin has ruined her sense of humor."

"Her sense of humor has always been like this," McGonagall interjected with a resigned shake of her head.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the intruder’s face, and the first-years gasped. He looked every bit like an evil wizard from a fairy tale: long black hair framed a gaunt face with sharp features and a prominent hooked nose.

Golden light suddenly enveloped him, accompanied by a burst of ethereal song, and Marina Nikolaevna covered her face with her hand.

"Professor Snape is back!" the Gryffindor prefect shouted triumphantly.

"Merlin’s beard, Abercrombie," Snape said, turning toward the hall. "When will you finally leave for Auror training and stop ruining my dramatic entrances? And take your blasted bird—ruined the whole effect! Where did it come from?"

"’He’, sir! My bird is a he, not ‘it’" Abercrombie said seriously, emerging from the Gryffindor table and deftly grabbing the phoenix by its long tail feathers. "Sorry, Madam Headmistress said you wouldn’t be here tonight, so I didn’t bother locking him up... Not that you could lock him up if you tried."

Abercrombie was nearly as tall as Snape now but somehow managed to look up at him as if he were still a kid.

"Get your lot to bed," Snape advised. "Every year, the same nonsense—no chance to make a proper entrance at the start of term!"

"Come up with something fresher, then," Ingebjorg suggested as Snape took his seat. "Your grand entrances are starting to mold."

"I’m not the one who takes center stage," he muttered, glancing toward Slughorn. "By the way, why is no one asking how my conference went or why I returned so early?"

"Well, how did it go, Severus?" Professor Sprout asked with interest.

"They decided I was unparalleled and saw no reason to continue. That’s the short version. I’ll share the details tomorrow and display my accolades. For now, let’s toast to my triumph—and then off to bed."

"You’re getting old," Slughorn teased, twitching his walrus mustache. "In my day, a triumph like that would be celebrated until dawn—with students!"

"That was just an average mid-tier conference," Thomson said innocently, causing Flitwick to chuckle. "Maybe if it were global!"

"Exactly," Snape said with a malicious grin, raising his goblet. "To me!"

"Modesty was never your strong suit," Marina Nikolaevna muttered.

"If we listed everything I won’t die of," Snape paused theatrically, "I’ll live forever."

"Then let’s drink to that!" exclaimed Grubbly-Plank, almost spilling her goblet on McGonagall.

And they drank. Several rounds, in fact, as the Great Hall emptied, and the prefects guided the students to their dormitories.

"Dumbledore would have been pleased to see this," Slughorn remarked sentimentally. "A revitalized Hogwarts, new traditions, and such harmonious children..."

That harmony had been enforced with great effort, as had the discipline, but Headmistress Umbridge, a recipient of Order of Merlin (all three classes), Fudge’s Deputy Minister , and a sitting member of the Wizengamot, considered it well worth the price.

"They’ll bring him to see it later in the semester," Sprout reminded them. "Potter will bring him—he’s quite concerned for the headmaster and says we all owe him."

"Probably why Potter became a healer," Snape said acidly. "First, they experimented on him; now he returns ‘the favours’."

"Dumbledore’s health really declined, poor thing," Sinistra added. "You missed his last visit, Severus. He kept mentioning some Gellert and muttering about Tom—says he failed him. He even calls Harry ‘James’ half the time."

"Good thing I didn’t witness it," Snape agreed after a pause. "It’s dreadful to see such a brilliant mind fade."

"A great man," Slughorn sighed, dabbing a tear from his eye. "If not for him..."

‘Same old story every year,’ Snape’s expression clearly conveyed.

‘Let him ramble,’ Umbridge’s glance replied, having mastered Legilimency to a respectable degree. ‘Yes, my place is closer. And don’t you dare claim you’re too tired to Apparate!’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve got a house-elf now, too,’ his look countered.

[Prof. Umbridge] Chapter 58

"Excellent vantage point," Orford remarked, settling himself between the battlements of the tower. "Everything’s right in plain view. If only we could get rid of that shack over there… If I remember correctly, there’s a centaur living there now, and we certainly don’t need his involvement. Also, we should block off the forest to keep his relatives from jumpingin."

"Already done," Berkley replied. "Madam?"

"Letty, are you ready?" Marina Nikolaevna asked, glancing involuntarily at her watch. Barely any time had passed—she thought an hour had gone by, but no, the hands seemed frozen in place. "Take all the house-elves. I command you to bring Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Harry Potter here. And any creatures near them! And don’t let anyone Apparate—understood?"

"Beautifully said. Worthy of Hogwarts’ annals," O’Leary laughed. "Madam, also have the house-elves seal off all the castle’s entrances and exits. Our guys are keeping an eye out, of course, but the students are terribly sneaky. You, of all people, must know that!"

She nodded and repeated the order to the first house-elf that appeared at her call. The last thing they needed was some young hero running around in a billowing nightgown!

"Why not order them brought in separately?" Davis asked as Orford briefed his subordinates.

"It’s been said—Dumbledore won’t let go of Potter, and Voldemort is very close by. It’s better they appear here together than scattered," Connor replied. "And then there’s that phoenix and the snake… Damn zoo! Sorry, Madam."

"Nothing to apologize for—I could call it worse," Marina Nikolaevna muttered grimly, just as something clapped loudly and flared brightly on the field they had designated for the confrontation. "There they are!"

She hadn’t even finished her sentence when a shot rang out—it wasn’t Orford, but Davis, aiming at the sphere encasing the massive snake. A second later, spells flashed simultaneously from three towers—Aurors attempting to breach Voldemort’s defenses.

"A trap?! You thought to lure me into a trap?" Voldemort’s high, icy laugh grated on their ears. "Foolish old man! You didn’t even dare face me one-on-one; you brought the boy and your team? Do you think to use Potter as a shield again? Do you believe the Killing Curse will spare him this time?"

"You have been defeated by this boy more than once!" Dumbledore’s voice thundered in reply, and the phoenix echoed with a piercing cry as Voldemort, with a commanding gesture, sent the shimmering sphere holding the snake hurtling toward his opponent.

"Really?" the Dark Lord hissed silkily, ignoring the Aurors’ attacks and swatting at the phoenix as if it were a bothersome fly. "You’re unarmed, old man! You say your wand is no more? The famed one? And yet you dared to face me? Well then..."

He slashed the air with his wand.

Potter didn’t even have time to cry out as the sphere with the snake engulfed him, seizing his head and shoulders. Voldemort hissed something, and Marina Nikolaevna thought it must be Parseltongue, though the meaning was clear enough:

"Kill."

A scream erupted—it was Dumbledore’s voice. Harry’s face, pale with fear, turned waxy as his glasses hung from one ear, and his green eyes widened in horror as the snake’s fangs sank deeper into his slender neck.

"Hold your ground!" Berkley commanded, and one of the Aurors grabbed Marina Nikolaevna, pinning her arms to her sides. "Not yet—"

"My condolences," Voldemort sneered mockingly, watching his old rival struggle to support the weakening boy, blood gushing from his wounds. "And now..."

"And now!”

“Yeah, yeah. Not blind, can see." said Orford.

The Cleaner stretched strangely, his body almost serpentine, and pressed himself to the scope of his rifle.

The iridescent sphere slid off Harry’s head as he toppled backward—Dumbledore barely managed to catch him. And then…

No explosion. Just a click. Another. And one more...

Red sprayed inside the sphere, and the snake’s tail twitched before hanging limp.

"I told you armor-piercing rounds were the way to go," Orford said with satisfaction, ducking behind the sturdy stone as a green spells narrowly missed his ear. "Whoa! Is he firing in bursts now?"

"Letty! Potter—to the infirmary, now!" Marina Nikolaevna croaked, pinned to the ground by two Aurors. "If he’s still alive—"

"But wasn’t he supposed to die?" O’Leary asked in confusion, cautiously peeking out. "Wow, that bald bastard is furious! Looks like he’s trying to summon reinforcements. Berkley, I’ll go get backup—just in case he breaks through our blockade. Don’t want anyone else showing up..."

"Go! Madam, look!"

"I’d love to..." she hissed through gritted teeth.

"Let the Headmistress go," Berkley ordered his subordinate, pulling her closer to watch. "What a battle!"

Dumbledore, now wielding Harry’s wand, parried Voldemort’s attacks with confidence, though he couldn’t match the Dark Lord’s speed. The wand clearly wasn’t responding well to him either, so he switched it to his left, uninjured hand.

"Why’s he laughing like that?" O’Leary wondered as Voldemort let out another demonic cackle. "He’s a natural for the stage… And why are we just standing here?"

"When else will we see something like this?" Connor asked philosophically. "The kid’s been taken by the house-elves, and these two are adults—let them fight it out to the end."

"Gentlemen, have you forgotten this is Voldemort himself?" Marina Nikolaevna asked after clearing her throat. "And while the snake may be dead... Letty, what about Potter?"

"As you feared, Madam, he’s dead," Letty sniffled, appearing at the summons. "But Mistress Ingebjorg says he can be brought back to life..."

"And the Horcrux? The Horcrux?"

Letty spread her small hands.

"Vanished! Harry Potter stopped breathing for more than two minutes, and his scar disappeared—I saw it myself!"

Marina Nikolaevna wiped the sweat from her forehead in silence.

"Shoot him, please," she asked the men.

"Who, specifically?" Berkley asked pedantically.

"Voldemort, of course! Dad?"

"I’ve got one bullet left," Orford replied gravely. "But I’ll do my best... Old age isn’t kind—haven’t practiced in a while, and—"

"This from the man who sliced up a snake inside a sphere from that distance..." Connor muttered. "Stop playing humble, Basilisk! It’s not every day the Dark Lord’s your target!"

"You lot..." Orford sighed. "This might be my finest moment! Not my last, I’ll wager, but my best! And you won’t even let me give a speech—"

"Just shoot him already!" Connor snapped.

Another short click rang out, but Voldemort, sensing something, deftly grabbed Dumbledore by the wrist and yanked him forward, using him as a living shield. (Snape used to move like that, Marina Nikolaevna thought absently. Definitely the Dark Lord’s training.)

But the maneuver didn’t save Voldemort—the bullet tore through both the ‘shield’ and the Dark Lord himself...

And slowly, as if in a movie, a green beam of light shot toward the tower.

"Dad, no!" Marina Nikolaevna managed to knock Orford down, only to realize he had pulled her onto himself, not the other way around, shielding her from the deadly curse.

"Foolish girl," he said seriously, looking her in the eyes. "Should have found someone else to save! Yeah, yeah. Try me now, start crying."

"Wow..." came a thin, awestruck voice. "Just like in the movies!"

"Mr. Abercrombie," Marina Nikolaevna managed to say, "what are you doing here?!"

The blockade, elves… Students were forbidden to leave the grounds... Damn it, damn it, damn it!

"I didn't hear anything," someone assured her with a wide grin. "And I didn't leave the castle! Honest, I swear!"

"Guys, you're saying you didn’t notice this little rascal?!" Conner muttered. "Fine. No rewards or bonuses for anyone!"

"Aw, come on, chief. The kid’s a natural scout," Davis snorted. "Where’s he from?"

"Gryffindor, second year," Marina Nikolaevna replied grimly, helping her father get back on his feet—or maybe he was helping her; it was hard to tell.

"No way he's a Gryffindor!" Berkeley doubted, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and giving him a once-over. "Wait. I’ve seen that face before... What’s your last name?"

"Abercrombie. Why?"

"Chief, are you an idiot?" O’Leary shoved the commander aside. "Kid, was your dad named Eugene? Yeah? Well, if it weren’t for him, you and I wouldn’t be talking right now..."

"Another child of the regiment," Conner sighed heavily.

"Whose regiment?" Berkeley asked sharply, and the two men began arguing over something only they understood.

Marina Nikolaevna glanced down at the black blot that Voldemort’s body resembled from the tower’s height, and at another spot—Dumbledore, hunched over Voldemort’s corpse, cradling his own wounded shoulder, this time the left one. Above them, the phoenix circled aimlessly, as if unsure where to go or what to do.

"Should we finish him off?" Orford asked, nodding toward the former headmaster. "A regular bullet should do the trick."

"Wartime is over. You're now a janitor, not an assassin," she replied seriously.

"And you're Headmistress Umbridge. But you’re not my daughter," he said barely audibly, pulling her into a side-hug. "Flinched? I thought so. Don’t deny it—I know better."

The gun was within arm’s reach, but...

"Don’t shove a gun into my ribs; you don’t have the guts to shoot, especially with everyone watching."

"I’m not someone under Polyjuice, if that’s what you’re thinking," she whispered back.

"I can see that. You’re Dolly, but not quite. That other woman—I sometimes wanted to kill her myself. Never thought Ellen and I could have a kid like that. The younger one’s nothing like you!"

"It’s just a midlife crisis. People change sometimes."

"Not that much," he said, stepping back to examine her. "But if I tell anyone, no one’ll believe me—they’ll think I’ve lost it. Happens in our line of work... But I won’t tell. You’re Dolly, even if... different. Maybe you’d have grown into this version if I’d been home more often. Who knows? 

No point guessing now. Hey, why are you crying?"

‘Because I barely remember my other parents, and photos... what good are they? And Auntie’s stories—how much did I even hear or remember? She said Dad loved taking me to the shooting range, but I was so little I could only hold a toy water gun... And then I deliberately learned to shoot, as if that could bring us closer! So maybe this world is a reflection of ours? And here, my parents are alive, and Mom is really strict, and Dad’s not just a hobbyist athlete, but…’

"Madam, what should we do with Dumbledore?" Berkeley interrupted, pulling Marina Nikolaevna away from Orford’s shoulder.

"He should probably go to St. Mungo’s. We’ve got... Oh my God! Letty? What’s going on in the infirmary?"

The house-elf vanished without a word, then reappeared with her head bowed, her ears twitching.

"Harry Potter is alive," she whispered, "but about Professor Snape... Letty can’t say. Letty only heard them and Mistress Ingebjorg discussing... uh... a complete blood transfusion and telling 

Letty to leave and not interfere!"

"He needs an extremely rare thirty-third group!" (1) Marina Nikolaevna recalled, her mind flashing to iconic scenes with dramatic flair. And really, with magic, anything was possible!

Meanwhile, the phoenix, whose tears could heal even hopeless wounds, continued circling its master, emitting anxious, melodious cries.

"You’ll never catch it. It only obeys its master," O’Leary said, intercepting her gaze. "We’ll take its master to the infirmary, but it’s not guaranteed he’ll cooperate."

"Then take him, and leave the rest to me," she said firmly. "And bring Voldemort too. For an autopsy. He’s just lying there—why waste the opportunity?"

"We’re not taking down the barrier yet, just in case."

"Yes, of course..."

"And we need to deal with Voldemort’s remains," Berkeley reminded. "And free the hostages. But that can wait a bit..."

In the infirmary, all was quiet and peaceful. Even the phoenix’s trills, as it circled above Dumbledore, now laid on an empty cot, failed to disturb the calm.

"The boy’s asleep," Ingebjorg preempted any questions, not even surprised by the crowd’s sudden appearance. "He’s alive and well. As for his magic... we’ll check when he wakes up. He’ll need a new wand, you understand."

Marina Nikolaevna glanced at Potter—he was breathing evenly, and the scar on his forehead was truly gone. Only a couple of scratches, a black eye... trivial injuries, really!

"And the professor?" she asked.

Ingebjorg shrugged silently.

"Still conscious," she said. "Follow me."

"Dolores, I want to know how it happened!" Snape was the first to speak when they entered.

"Like in a fairy tale," she replied grimly. "Potter’s alive, Voldemort’s dead—you know that already. And when do you plan on dying?"

"Very soon," he assured her. His right side of his face barely moved. "If I’d held the vial in my left hand, I’d already be dead from cardiac arrest. But for now... such fascinating sensations, I must say!"

"If you’d held the vial with a gloved hand, none of this would’ve happened."

"Like anyone would regret my death," Snape said with complete seriousness.

"Think no one would? Draco Malfoy wouldn’t care? His parents? Your students? Even Potter..." Marina Nikolaevna asked softly.

"I certainly would!" Abercrombie, ever the intruder, announced, slipping under her elbow. 

"Please don’t die, sir—I still have so many questions! And I’m going to join the Auror Academy, where my dad studied, and they need potions so much, and..."

"I can die peacefully," Snape interrupted with a sadistic smile, "because there is no antidote. And I won’t have time to invent it myself. Even if you freeze me for future generations, I doubt anyone could replicate, let alone complete, my work."

"Well, modesty will certainly never be the cause of your death," Marina Nikolaevna regained her voice. "Enough theatrics! Where are your notes?"

Snape tapped his temple with a bent finger.

"Got it. No antidote exists..." she conceded.

"How come?" Abercrombie asked in surprise. "It’s right there, flying around!"

"Are you suggesting we catch a phoenix and wring it out over my mortal body?" Snape asked with interest, glancing at the fiery bird. Even imminent death didn’t seem to frighten him. "Careful not to burn yourselves."

"Oh, that’s a good point, sir! I didn’t think of that," the boy said seriously, rushing off to Madam Pomfrey. He returned in a dragonhide apron and gloves that reached his armpits. "Uh, excuse me... I’ll just take off my shoes!"

"This child has a bright future," Ingebjorg remarked, watching Abercrombie enthusiastically leap across beds, knocking over screens and nightstands.

"I never doubted it," Marina Nikolaevna assured, glancing at Snape’s left hand. The Dark Mark was gone.

"Stop, you stupid bird!" echoed through the infirmary. "Stop, or it’ll get worse!"

"I'll bet five Galleons on the kid," O'Leary said matter-of-factly as the phoenix narrowly dodged a blanket — a moment more, and Abercrombie would have caught it — but instead managed to knock over a lamp.

"Accepted. I'll add two more."
"He won't catch it. Another five."
"Count me in..."

"Caught it!" Abercrombie's triumphant shout rang out, and the Aurors erupted in laughter. "Why are you laughing? You think I haven't caught enough chickens and geese before?"

He held the phoenix under his arm in a clearly practiced grip, wrapped securely in the blanket and with its neck firmly clasped for good measure. The bird struggled and let out an indignant screech, but Abercrombie remained resolute, and the phoenix's attempts to peck through the dragon-hide gloves were in vain.

"It can disappear at any moment," Marina Nikolaevna said, frowning.

"Away from its master? Unlikely," Ingebjorg replied with a smirk.

"Now listen here," Abercrombie said seriously, adjusting his grip on the phoenix and giving it a shake. "Either you cry on your own, or I'll make you! Starting with your tail feathers — didn’t Harry Potter’s wand have one of those? Yeah? Well, he’ll need a new one anyway! Come on, it’s not that hard! Professor needs you! One, two..."

"I think it’s crying from laughter," Davis muttered.

"What are you all standing around for? Just two drops, that’s all I need!" Snape hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes fixed on the shimmering pearls of liquid.

"Rarer than basilisk venom?" Ingebjorg asked nonchalantly, gesturing to Hrafn, who moved to carefully collect the tears. A valuable ingredient indeed should not go to waste. "Focus on remembering the sensations instead of complaining."

"Unforgettable..." Snape muttered, flexing the fingers of his right hand cautiously. "And the phoenix-catching technique..."

"Wilhelmina would have loved this. Pity she missed it," Marina Nikolaevna said with a nod. "But we can show her in the Pensieve later. As for you, Mr. Abercrombie, stop tormenting the bird. Professor Snape is already quite revived!"

She cast a glance downward and hissed under her breath:
"Move your hand, you scoundrel, people are watching... My father... He is a Cleaner…Codename Basilisk. Oh, it worked, incredible!"

"A warning would’ve been nice," Snape hissed back.

"You knew who he was."

"But I hadn’t heard the nicknames. They say even the Dark Lord feared him..."

"And rightly so, since Voldemort just had the worst luck," she replied, but Abercrombie’s enthusiastic shout drowned her out:

"Awesome! Can I keep him?"

"No," Snape replied immediately.

"I wasn’t talking about Voldemort, sir, I meant the phoenix! And why are you all laughing?" the boy asked, pouting at the professors and Aurors. "If no one objects, then it’s fair game, right? Finders keepers!"

Marina Nikolaevna turned to meet Orford's eyes. He merely smirked as if to say, Good luck raising that one.

What choice do I have? she thought.

The phoenix, once released, let out an offended croak, soared to the ceiling, then perched atop Dumbledore’s cot. It preened itself thoughtfully, cast a long look at its master, sighed heavily, shed a couple of glittering tears, and then disappeared in a soft chime.

"Cheeky bugger," Abercrombie muttered, staring at the handful of fiery feathers in his hand. "Oh well! At least everyone’s alive, and now we can..."

"Hands off!" Marina Nikolaevna and Snape barked in unison.

"And share those feathers," Snape added. "They’re not toys for children."

_____________________________________

• A joke from an iconic soviet comedy film “Welcome, or No Trespassing”.

A schoolkid is hiding in the shed during classes and overhears teachers talking about him being such a nuisance that he “spoiled all the blood” of his teacher. (Direct translation of a colloquialism “всю кровь испортил” which means ‘to cause trouble’, ‘to be very annoying’). The kid imagines it literally, not metaphorically and pictures the scene of school nurses trying to “fix the spoiled blood” by looking for an “extremely rare 33-rd blood group”.

[Prof. Umbridge] Chapter 57

"Alright," said Orford after listening to her rambling explanation. "Got the gist. Now, Dolly, set your emotions aside. No time for crying over your lover or cursing Dumbledore—that comes later."

"My what?!" she exclaimed, then sighed. "Ah, right, I forgot who I’m talking to..."

"Don’t forget," he smirked. "Now, any idea where this whole gang might be?"

"In theory—somewhere nearby, but I can’t pinpoint their exact location. My guess would be Malfoy Manor, but that’s definitely not close!"

"What’s your house-elf for, then?"

Marina Nikolaevna cursed profanely and snapped her fingers.

"Letty, find Harry Potter! Tell us where he is and who he’s with."

"Madam, why doesn’t Letty just kidnap him?" the elf asked, perplexed.

"Can you? Dumbledore and Voldemort are likely there. And that blasted phoenix—may it drop dead!"

"Letty will try," the elf replied. "If madam allows me to bring Trinky and Dixie along, it’ll be easier!"

"Do it. Tell them it’s my order. But be careful—first scout out how many people are there and what’s going on," Marina Nikolaevna nodded.

"See? You panicked for nothing," Orford said calmly. "Typical. Call a couple more house-elves to take us to the barracks; it'll take too long to limp there ourselves. We need to grab some heavier gear and rally the boys."

"Why not just order the house-elves to bring Dumbledore and Voldemort here?" she asked as she carried out his instructions.

"All in good time. First, tell me your objectives: who are we saving, who are we killing? Come on, while I’m getting ready. Boys! Wake up!"

"Sir?" A few men gathered quickly.

"We’ve got a job. Not an Auror assignment—more up our alley," he said with a grin. "The Headmistress will brief you. Go ahead, Dolly, make it short and clear for everyone."

"Right..." Marina Nikolaevna collected her thoughts and gave a quick rundown of the Horcrux theory as it related to the unfortunate Harry Potter and Voldemort.

"Got it. So, theoretically, the boy can be pulled out of this mess, and we don’t care about the other two," one of Orford’s subordinates concluded. "And there’s a snake too..."

"The snake’s probably Voldemort’s top priority," Marina Nikolaevna added.

"We’ll handle it. So... Where are your house-elves?"

"They’re not mine—they’re school’s," she snapped. "I only have one... Ah, here she is! Letty, what’s the update? And where are the others?"

"I told them to observe and intervene if necessary. But we can’t just snatch Harry Potter, madam," Letty reported. "Everyone is standing very close, and Dumbledore is gripping the boy’s shoulder tightly with his iron hand."

"Just shoot it off and move on," a younger operative suggested.

"Voldemort is very close," Letty continued, "with his snake. It’s inside some... some... rainbow sphere."

"Davis, grab the armor-piercing rounds," Orford said. "Defense or no defense, we’ll see if it breaks through."

"The phoenix tried to peck at it, but it didn’t work, so now it’s guarding Dumbledore and Harry Potter."

"What are they even doing there?" Marina Nikolaevna frowned.

"Talking," Letty replied. "A lot, taking turns, just like in plays!"

"House-elves sure are well-read these days," quipped Davis, a short, snub-nosed man, weighing some hellish contraption in his hands.

"Letty’s former master wrote plays," the elf said indignantly. "But they were too long and boring. Just like Dumbledore’s speeches!"

"Alright, enough theater talk," Orford raised a hand. "Actually, why not? Boys, go scout out a staging area and set up some lights. Inform Berkley—his team will be needed too, I’m sure. 

Dolly, do you know if there’s any basilisk venom left?"

"There definitely is," she nodded. "Snape only broke one vial trying to protect Potter, but he’s a hoarder—he’ll have more for sure. Letty, fetch it! And check on the infirmary while you’re at it."

The elf vanished, and Marina Nikolaevna exhaled deeply.

"Need a gun? Just in case?" Orford asked helpfully.

"And you think I know how to shoot?"

Marina Nikolaevna quickly realized Dolores had likely never fired a shot, but she herself had trained in her youth. It had been ages, but still—ingrained skills should still be there!

"What’s there to know? No harder than an Avada. Though a wand is definitely lighter," he admitted after a moment. "Take it anyway—it might come in handy. Here’s the safety, press this to fire, and aim properly. Just don’t point it at us, and if you’re not sure you’ll hit, don’t pull the trigger!"

Letty returned, holding two vials.

"Here, madam!" she said quickly. "There’s more, but Professor Snape says he won’t give any."

"He’s still alive?" Marina Nikolaevna was pleasantly surprised.

"Yes, madam! Mistress Ingebjorg gave him a potion and froze his arm to... to stop the venom from spreading. Now she, Madam Pomfrey, Hrafn, and the professor are monitoring what happens next. Professor Snape specifically asked not to be interrupted while he’s dying because it’s a fascinating process. He said no one else could observe it properly except Harry Potter, and he wouldn’t be able to describe it coherently even if he survived."

"Crazy bastard!" Marina Nikolaevna hissed, kicking a step. "Of all times for memoirs..."

"Well, what’s the point of wasting time if he can’t do anything else?" Orford said seriously. "I like the approach—practical. Anyone can drop dead for nothing, but this way, there’s at least some benefit. Like Muggle inventors—what were their names? One inoculated himself with smallpox, I read, others tinkered with... something. Help me out, Dolly!"

"Radiation? Curie? Yeah, Snape is a worthy successor to mad scientists," she said with a reluctant smile. "And he was so adamant—it’s all perfectly warded, he said. Carrying a basilisk fang in your pocket is safe he said..."

"But he didn’t get pricked by a fang, right? And weren’t you planning to experiment in the infirmary, not on the battlefield? How did this happen?"

"I didn’t see it. Letty, do you know?"

"It seems when the professor tried to grab Dumbledore or Harry Potter, someone hit the hand holding the vial..." she said, ears drooping.

"Or maybe he just squeezed it too hard," Marina Nikolaevna sighed. "No use speculating. These accidents happen... Dad? What are you planning?"

"The boss and the Aurors will be here soon. I’ll tell you then—no point repeating myself."

The Aurors arrived promptly.

"Speak of the devil!" said O’Leary with a bloodthirsty grin. It wasn’t his shift, but he couldn’t resist the action. "So, where’s Voldemort?"

"He’ll be here soon," Orford replied. "Listen up..."

…

"Backup… again…" O’Leary sighed heavily.

"Can’t always be on the front lines," Connor smirked. "Alright boys, you know the plan. The gist is this - Orford from range; the rest cover for any surprises if they resist."

"They'll almost certainly resist," Berkley added. "Let’s go. Regular methods are useless against them, from what I understand?"

"Except Dumbledore. By the way, he's the most stubborn of them all."

"Then we’ll deal with him."

"It would also be nice to capture the bird alive," Orford chimed in. "It's a valuable creature, could come in handy."

"Alright, who’s the last amateur ornithologist here?" O’Leary barked. "No one? Guess it’s me then! Don’t even try to take my spot!"

"Good Lord, will you ever shut up?" Berkley muttered quietly. "Get to your position! Madam—"

"I’m coming with you," she replied firmly. "That’s my student out there, after all."

"Understood. Just don’t—"

"Get ahead of myself?" she cut him off with a biting smirk. "Don’t worry, I know when to let the professionals take the lead."

"And where are the main targets?" Connor asked.

"The house-elves will bring them," Orford said. "We decided it’s better they come to us… Davis, are you here already? Did you pick the spot? Show everyone their positions."

The senior officers exchanged glances, smirked, and jogged off to the tower.

"When else can you boss around your superiors if not from retirement," Orford said contentedly, reaching out for the vial. "What do you think, Dolly? Will the venom evaporate when fired?"

"Did you try enchanting it?"

"That’s what I’m asking you! I handle the tech; this magic stuff is your department."

Marina Nikolaevna nodded silently, summoning all of Dolores Umbridge’s knowledge of dark magic, and got to work.

"Who would’ve thought you'd be handing me ammunition," Orford said suddenly, nearly causing her to drop everything. 

"Life is wildly unpredictable, Dad," she snapped. "Here. I hope this is enough."

"And I hope so too. After all, it’s not every day you go up against Voldemort. But if something happens," he added seriously, "name your son after me."

"What?"

"Alright, alright, can’t even joke anymore... Like I don’t know people like you and that boy. You wouldn’t reproduce even if forced to," Orford chuckled, adjusting his weapon. "And you shouldn’t. You’re great at raising kids, just not your own. And he’s not fit for it at all, I can tell. Besides, Mary’s expecting her third—it's going to be a boy. What more do we need?"

"Dad, can we talk about this later?" Marina Nikolaevna managed to say, finding her voice. "We’ve got an enemy at the gates, and you’re—"

"The enemy’s not going anywhere, but I might not get another chance to say this," he said seriously. "There’s a time for everything, Dolly. Now that I’ve said my piece and you’ve heard it, we can go."

[Castling] Chapter 37

First, we swung by Harry’s, then Hermione’s. Uncle Vernon was peeking out at us from behind the curtains but didn’t come out—not keen on facing a grown wizard, I reckon.

Dad, for once, was on his best behavior. No rushing to hug the Grangers or peppering them with endless questions—probably because he was running late for work. The Grangers seemed more at ease on their own turf, anyway. Hermione’s mum even gave me a warm smile, and her dad shook my hand firmly after I promised to look out for their daughter and bring her back safe and sound in two weeks.

As soon as Hermione’s house disappeared behind us, Dad flicked on the invisibility feature, and we took off. Hermione had already been goggling at the size of the car, but when it lifted off the ground… well, her face was a sight. Harry and I couldn’t help laughing, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she was so awestruck she didn’t even notice. When she found her voice again, she asked to sit in the front seat and spent the rest of the journey bombarding Dad with questions, eyes shining with excitement.

Dad, of course, loved the attention and was happy to show her every button and lever. Then he told us to buckle up, switched on autopilot, and hit a brand-new button. The car shot forward like a rocket.

"I’ve fitted it with a booster, Ron," Dad said modestly, glancing back at me, though his eyes were practically glowing with excitement. "We’ll be home in fifteen minutes."

He spent the rest of the trip chatting about how he got the idea for the booster from the Knight Bus, though ours wasn’t nearly as powerful yet.

‘And thank Merlin for that,’ I thought, clutching the seat for dear life.

The Burrow made quite the impression on Hermione, though not as much as the car had. Sure, it looked odd and lopsided to Muggles, but as a wizarding home, it was brilliant.

After about an hour of settling in—during which Mum fussed over us with food while Harry and I gave Hermione a tour of the house and garden—she seemed to fit right in with the family. She was completely fascinated by the few magical bits and bobs we had lying around.

Dad came back at five, and we Flooed to the Ministry. The international travel portal we’d booked was set for six, so Dad gave us a little tour of the floors beforehand. It suddenly occurred to me to ask about the Hall of Prophecies—better to sort that out ahead of time rather than have a massive fight in the Ministry later.

On the other side, everything went smoothly. They sorted our papers, handed us translation devices, and handed us over to Charlie.

By the time we stepped outside, it was already getting dark—time differences, you know. It was nearly nine here. Charlie activated a portal, but instead of landing at his place, we ended up at a family-run inn. A stocky, dark-eyed Romanian woman showed us to our rooms—separate ones, even for Charlie.

Turns out, it was all for Hermione’s sake. It wasn’t proper, apparently, for a girl to stay in a house with boys and no women, even if she was only thirteen and just a friend. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it at all, and I was a bit surprised that while I’d been selfishly making plans, other people had to sort out the logistics for me. Charlie's solid, though, really reliable.

The food was brilliant, and later that evening, Charlie got to know Harry and Hermione better. We talked about plans for the next day before being packed off to bed. The landlady gave Hermione a colourful book about the local area, and she darted off to her room, thrilled.

Harry stuck around for a bit but soon left, yawning—turns out, he hadn’t slept all night from excitement. I stayed up chatting with Charlie, swapping news and reminiscing about the family and school.

This trip was shaping up to be even better than the last. Maybe it was because Mum and Ginny weren’t around, or maybe we were just older now.

The first three days were a whirlwind of museums, souvenirs, dragon feeding, shows, and the hatchery. Even though I’d seen it all before, it was still fascinating. As for Harry and Hermione, they couldn’t get enough of it, their heads swiveling in awe and terror just like mine had the first time.

Charlie even took us to the training grounds where reserve staff practiced and took their exams. No one was allowed to work there without passing their tests, and it was impressive to watch.

The staff, big blokes with gruff manners, were surprisingly soft-hearted. They spoiled us with chocolate and treated us like Molly does a baby, which left Hermione thoroughly flustered. Most of them were loners, living full-time in the reserve and missing their families, so we were a welcome distraction. Still, they made up for it by teaching us some spells and showing off their magic, which was pretty entertaining.

We also trekked into the mountains. At the summit was a crumbling ancient castle with massive open courtyards exposed to the wind—one of five such castles that had been found. We visited two of them.

Charlie explained that these castles once belonged to dragon-shifters—not animals or Animagi, but dragons that could take human form, originally from a magical land. They vanished suddenly, leaving behind only legends. Some say they opened a portal back to their world, others believe they were wiped out, or perhaps they succumbed to a dragon plague, traces of which still linger as dragon pox. No one really knows.

The magic in the castles was palpable, though—like a place of power, similar to Hogwarts. But it was so intense you couldn’t stay longer than half an hour without feeling overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. Most wizards bolted before long, some even throwing themselves off the ledges in a panic. That’s why the castles remained untouched—no one could get past the gates, no matter how many protective charms they had.

We also went sailing on a wide river in an ancient ship with dragon carvings on its prow.

In the evenings, Charlie taught us spells in the inn’s garden—unlocking charms, detection spells, locator spells, useful little things. Our days were packed, with only breaks for meals, and we returned to the inn each night knackered.

Even so, I couldn’t help brooding by evening. Time was ticking, and I still hadn’t figured out how to bring up what I wanted with Charlie. Probably because I’ve never really trusted anyone in this world—not after being let down by Dumbledore and Snape, who’s so tied to his master’s orders he can’t even breathe without them. No wonder I had doubts now. But Charlie turned out to be sharper than I’d expected.

"Ron, I can tell something's bothering you," said Charlie one evening when we found ourselves alone. "You know I’ll always help you out. You can tell me anything."

I saw the serious look on his face and the concern in his eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, I decided to go for it.

"Only if you swear an Unbreakable Vow, Charlie," I said, recalling from a book that it was one of the most reliable enchantments.

"That serious, is it?" he asked calmly after a pause, and I nodded stiffly.

"I can’t bind myself or you with something like that, Ron," he replied thoughtfully. "There might come a time when I’d need to act quickly, and an Unbreakable Vow could stop me. I wouldn’t even be able to ask for help. But you can trust me—I promise I won’t do or say anything about this without your approval."

"Do you remember when the twins nearly got me killed?" I began, hesitating. He nodded, and I pressed on. "I’ve been having strange dreams since then. And they… they come true."

Charlie didn’t seem overly surprised—probably not unusual in the wizarding world.

"And what’s scared you about them?" he asked.

"The Dark Lord made Horcruxes—anchors to keep himself alive—and he’ll be coming back soon. Harry’s one of them. There’s going to be a war, and our family’s going to suffer," I said, keeping it brief.

Charlie’s expression darkened. He took the news calmly enough, but his pupils seemed to swallow the colour of his eyes.

"Does anyone else know?" he asked sharply, staring directly at me.

"No. I wanted to tell Dumbledore when I got to Hogwarts, but I realised it wouldn’t help. He knows everything going on in the school, but he’s following his own plan and won’t care what I think, even if it means the Weasleys dying to protect the Chosen One. I don’t know why he’s doing it, but he won’t change course. And from what I’ve seen in my dreams, Dad will let him."

"You’re certain, Ron?" Charlie asked. "Not because I don’t believe you—this just… if you’re right, it’s bad. Really bad."

"I am," I said, frustrated. "They made it clear my first year that I was supposed to let Potter get himself into scrapes and not interfere. Snape told me that now Harry was at school, the Dark Lord would try to kill him. And the Headmaster said it was Harry’s destiny to face the Dark Lord and win—and I’d better not get in the way."

"Then maybe you really shouldn’t interfere, Ron," Charlie suggested unexpectedly. "I know Dumbledore a bit. He doesn’t do anything lightly. And we’re not seeing the full picture."

"I can’t just stand by, Charlie," I snapped, leaping to my feet. I rubbed my hands together nervously and started pacing, casting frustrated looks at him.

"In first year, maybe I could’ve broken an arm or a leg—fine, I’d have dealt with that. But second year? A Horcrux possessed Ginny. She spent the year wandering around the castle, controlled by the Dark Lord. She unleashed a bloody basilisk, and it’s sheer luck no one died. In the end, Harry had to kill the snake—any longer, and Ginny would’ve been dead for sure."

"But Ginny’s fine now," Charlie interrupted, grabbing my arm to stop me pacing. His face was filled with worry.

"Of course," I said bitterly, pulling away and sinking into a chair. "I destroyed the Horcrux. Actually, two of them—there was another one hidden in the Room of Requirement. That leaves four more, including Harry."

"Bloody hell, Ron, this is the worst news I’ve ever heard," Charlie admitted, running a hand down his face as he slumped into a chair beside me. His pained expression mirrored how I’d felt for months. We sat in silence, each lost in thought. Finally, he broke the quiet.

"Tell me everything," he ordered. "Every detail you can remember."

I spilled it all, relieved to finally share the burden. Charlie listened intently, only interrupting to clarify a few points. When I finished, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

"Well," Charlie said after a long pause, drumming his fingers on the armrest, "this is a mess."

I snorted. Like I didn’t already know that. But I felt better knowing Charlie was on my side and willing to help.

"Tomorrow, I’ll sort this out with a specialist," he said. "Don’t worry, I’ll make them make a vow," he added quickly when he saw my alarm. "We’ll need to check Harry for the Horcrux and get some advice. Does Harry have to kill the Dark Lord himself, like the prophecy says, or can we help? And is there a way to extract the Horcrux without killing him? Sound fair?"

"Alright," I agreed reluctantly. "If money’s an issue, I’ve got some basilisk skin and a vial of venom. Not sure how much they’re worth, but I’ve got four more vials at home if needed."

Charlie looked stunned, then demanded to see my trophies. I told him the whole story of how I’d acquired them, feeling a spark of pride at his impressed reaction.

The next day started off slow, but then… well, Charlie disappeared on some errand, and in his place, a lively girl turned up—a friend’s daughter named Baska. She was about seventeen, round-faced, cheeky, and full of mischief. She took us on a whirlwind shopping trip, not in the reserve but via a portal to a wizarding quarter.

Apparently, it was a rare privilege—tourists in the reserve weren’t usually taken there, since the shops sold enchanted items, not just brooms and souvenirs. I spent nearly all the money I’d brought along.

Even Hermione couldn’t resist, though she wasn’t entirely pleased. She had plenty of money, but magical books weren’t legally sold to foreigners without permits. The hotel owner kept her entertained with light reading material, but you could see the frustration simmering.

The market had all sorts of treasures. One that caught my eye was a universal translator artifact. Wear it constantly while reading dictionaries or talking to foreigners, and you’d pick up the language effortlessly. But it drained magical energy and could mess with your temperament—leaving you either jittery or apathetic, depending on your nature. Hermione was livid she couldn’t afford it—300 Galleons—and wasn’t old enough to use it safely anyway. I kept an eye on her to make sure she didn’t try to buy anything dangerous, though our guide was equally vigilant.

They had Invisibility Cloaks—not like Harry’s but decent enough—communication mirrors, and stealth artifacts that masked a wizard’s aura and heat signature, perfect for dragon tracking. Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to buy much. I left with a couple of harmless potions, a self-inking quill, a wand holster for my forearm, and a few other bits and bobs. Nothing earth-shattering, but it was still a brilliant day.

At least Harry and I managed to get ourselves some proper clothes. Enchanted ones are miles better than Muggle stuff. They never pinch, always keep you warm, don’t get soaked, and clean themselves — not to mention you can transfigure them to look Muggle, and they’ll be none the worse for wear. Every time I think of Ron’s frilly old dress robes, I shudder. That disaster still haunts me. For some reason, a line from one of Ron’s letters to Harry popped into my head: something about the whole family going to Egypt and how his parents promised to buy him a wand, even though the trip cost a fortune — talk about priorities, eh? Anyway, as long as I can sort myself out, I’ll keep doing so.

That evening, Charlie turned up and gave me a look that screamed, you know what’s coming. He looked the same as always, though, so I relaxed — everything must be going according to plan.

He told us he’d arranged for a visit to a local shaman’s village. We’d be staying there for a week if we liked it; if not, we’d come back. He went on about natural magic, peculiar animals, and shamanic rituals. Everyone went to bed buzzing with anticipation, but I stayed back to have a word with Charlie.

“I’ve found a specialist,” he said tiredly, sinking into a chair and shutting his eyes. “Took some convincing, though. Hadji doesn’t deal with outsiders. If it weren’t for the life debt his son owes me, he’d have turned me down flat. Normally, necromancers handle this sort of thing, but there aren’t any left in Britain. Even if there were, they don’t work for money. It’s a right headache dealing with them. There’s always the option of Africa, but that’s a last resort. The local magic there’s so unpredictable, it’s better not to poke that nest. Still, if worse comes to worst, we’ll have to risk it — I can call in a favour through Kingsley.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” I sighed. “What about Black? Could we get him exonerated if we handed Pettigrew over to the authorities? Black’d be a big help back in England — you’re not exactly going to be around to help.”

Charlie frowned, his eyes snapping open as he sat up straighter. “No chance. I’ve thought about it. Black wouldn’t survive to see a trial — they’d see to that. Here’s the thing, Ron: the Ministry has no interest in admitting they cocked up. The public backlash would be massive. Just think about it: the heir of an ancient family rotting in Azkaban for years, all while being innocent. Heads would roll, and not just at the Ministry — other families with relatives in Azkaban would start demanding retrials. 

“And you’re right, Fudge and Dumbledore are in cahoots. Dumbledore was head of the Wizengamot during Black’s trial. If Fudge wanted to oust Dumbledore, he might use this to stir up trouble, but right now, it’s not worth his while. Fudge didn’t lock Black up, but he’d still be the one taking the heat for it. Easier for him to have Black quietly silenced — maybe a Dementor’s Kiss on the spot or a dose of something nasty. Ever heard of someone being ‘allergic’ to Veritaserum? Same idea. No loose ends.”

“Damn shame,” I muttered, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “I could really use someone reliable to count on. What do you reckon, Charlie?” I asked suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Maybe I should just tell Dad the whole truth? He wouldn’t risk his kids, would he?”

“I wouldn’t count on it, Ron,” Charlie sighed. “Dad owes Dumbledore too much. During the first war, he sheltered our parents. We lived in his cottage in Godric’s Hollow — the only reason our family wasn’t wiped out. And all of us Weasleys attend Hogwarts under a special program for families in need. Education’s not free, mate. The Board of Governors and the Ministry’s Education Department cover the costs. Grants are only given to Muggle-borns since they’re the ones required to attend school. Pure-bloods either homeschool their kids to keep them away from ‘undesirable influences’ or pay for it themselves, saving up from the day they’re born. 

“Blood traitors or not, we’re still pure-bloods. Used to be that wealthy families sponsored poorer ones, but these days, the Ministry grants two slots per year for those affected by the War. And the Headmaster decides who gets them, quietly. Sometimes even someone from Knockturn Alley gets lucky. I know for a fact your classmate Longbottom’s on one of those grants — his parents suffered during the war. Seven Weasley kids at Hogwarts? You get the picture. Dumbledore can ask for anything from our family, and Dad won’t say no.”

“Figures. Charlie, what’s a ‘blood traitor’ anyway?” I asked. “And don’t give me that rubbish about loving Muggles. Why’s our family branded as traitors?”

Charlie snorted but quickly sobered. “It goes back to our grandfather, from father’s side. He had three sons. Dad was the youngest and wasn’t meant to inherit the family line. But the eldest passed on the title, and then the second did the same. In the end, there was no one left but Dad.”

“How do you even pass on an inheritance like that?” I asked, floored.

“Simple enough,” Charlie said with a sigh. “There’s a ritual and a formal renunciation. Families do it when the eldest heir’s a weak wizard or sickly. They’re kept under the family’s care but can’t inherit. We were branded as traitors not too long ago, back in the late 1930s, when the Sacred Twenty-Eight list was already a thing. Dad’s brothers gave up their inheritance and married ‘unsuitable’ women — one married a Muggle, and the other married a Muggle-born witch. Grandad refused to disown them or cut ties, so our family was struck off the list and declared blood traitors.”

“What’s the point, though?” I asked, baffled. “Why’s everyone so against marrying Muggle-borns? They’re witches and wizards too, aren’t they? Why cut someone off for that?”

“Muggles don’t have magic, Ron,” Charlie explained. “They’re of no use to magical families. Worse, their bloodlines might carry illnesses or genetic quirks that could resurface in future generations. Same goes for half-bloods and Muggle-borns. They don’t know their ancestry or what’s hidden in their blood. They don’t keep meticulous records of everything. Say, a great-grandparent got scratched by a werewolf but didn’t turn, only developed a craving for rare steak. That trait could crop up in a descendant as partial lycanthropy. So for them, why risk it? 

“Then there are magical creatures, Ron. In Britain, Veelas, they aren’t beings, they are creatures (1) but in other countries, they can legally marry wizards. Veela traits usually fade after three or four generations, but you might suddenly get a child with their abilities years down the line. 

“Another example: during the Goblin Wars, some families even ransomed daughters to goblins to save their lands from raids. Who knows what happened to those women? Their children might’ve passed for a human, but generations later, you get someone like Flitwick — a great wizard but goblin-blooded. 

“Pure-bloods don’t take risks with their lines. They carefully pick which families to marry into. The desire to be perfect and normal is their obsession and they don’t take it lightly… Anyway, enough with heavy topics before bed, if you are interested I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

We said our goodbyes, and I headed to my room, but I couldn’t fall asleep for half the night. I hadn’t realised how deeply rooted the prejudice against Muggle-borns really was. At least now I understood why they’re called Mudbloods. It still didn’t sit right with me, but… Whatever. 

I still had a few more questions buzzing in my head, I’ll ask them next time.

__________________________________

AN: The author does not profess racism, but writes about pureblood wizards and their beliefs and traditions.

TN:

• Wiki says that Veelas are classified as beings in Britain. It seems to be a mistake from the author.

Daily Updates (28/12/24)

Appologies, got a bit carried away.

Stories:

Demons of NC:

• Tier 1: Chapter 54

• Tier 2: Chapter 59

Life is Good:

• Tier 1: Chapter 21

• Tier 2: Chapter 26

Elden Ring: My Ending:

• Tier 1: Chapter 21

• Tier 2: Chapter 26

[Demons of NC] Chapter 59

People often lose face, sometimes literally and rarely do they get it back. In either case. But last night, I managed to pull it off with Vic's help. Reversing the plastic mods I had ordered myself years ago. For now, Vincent Price had no one to hide from in Night City. No idea how long that’d last, but I planned to stretch it out for as long as I could.

The next evening, it was time to head to 7th Hell. The new face came in clutch—someone from security or staff might've recognized me from the recent bloodbath. But with a different face, a new hairstyle, and a fresh fit? Problem solved. For now, I also decided not to bring Lucy along and rolled out with Rebecca and Falco instead.

“A club’s a serious investment,” Falco said as he took the wheel.

I’d suggested calling a cab, but he flat-out refused.

“It’s less of an investment and more of a potential base of operations,” I replied. “Plus, a decent place to meet clients. Of course, it’d be nice to optimize the expenses and profits. The club’s right in the middle of the city, but somehow it’s swimming in debt.”

“Some folks could go broke even with growing money trees,” Falco said philosophically. “Or maybe there’s something shady going on. Could be a troublesome asset.”

Shady, huh? I’d check that out tonight.

“Troubles, my ass! A club’s fucking awesome!” Becca objected, half-sprawled across the backseat. “All the top-tier badasses have clubs. Rogue, Dino... Even Wakako’s got that place with those Japanese balls.”

“Pachinko,” Falco corrected her.

“Who’s that?” Becca asked. “Some Tiger Claw? He got a club too?”

“You’ve been hitting too much questionable shit,” Falco sighed. “It’s bad for your memory.”

Becca gave his seat a light kick.

“Stop ragging on me! Go back to your fucking Cuba!”

We got to the club pretty quick. The recent storm had cleared the streets of dust and trash, flushing everything into the gutters. The sky was still overcast, and the early evening felt more like deep night.

The 7th Hell, already blazed neon red, luring the lost souls of Night City. Stepping out of the car, I adjusted my black jacket with its crimson lining. On the left lapel, a small gold pin gleamed. Some corpos wore company emblems like that; politicians, their party badges. Mine? A crooked "A" in a circle—the anarchy symbol. A little joke about my corporate past and free-wheeling present.

“Mister V, I presume?” A man was waiting for us at the entrance, the current owner of the club.

He was a pudgy, slick-looking guy, the type you’d peg as wealthy but running in the shadier corners of the entertainment biz. His shiny jacket, with mirrored panels on the sleeves, didn’t exactly scream “legit.”

“Evening,” I nodded.

“Yo!” Becca added, flashing a V with her fingers.

Falco kept quiet.

“The club’s open,” the man said, gesturing warmly. “Feel free to look around. My lawyer from MAF has all the paperwork ready. Just needs your signature.”

MAF? Merrill, Asukaga & Finch. Big-time law firm. Solid and reliable. But the owner’s tone rubbed me the wrong way—smarmy, like a sleazy salesman hawking a set of knives from some bargain bin on AliExpress.

The bouncer, one of the Animals, stepped aside to let us in. We descended the staircase, and the music hit like a brick. The air reeked of smoke, cheap scents, and booze. Not exactly packed, but there were enough people on the dancefloor, plus a decent crowd lounging at tables.

The Animals were lurking too. Three on the first floor, two more on the second.

“Music sucks,” Becca declared.

“What’s that?” the owner asked, all polite and clueless.

“Music’s shit,” I joked, leaning in toward him. “Becca was expecting better.”

“If you buy the club, you can play whatever you want!” He shot back with that same fake smile.

We headed up to the second-floor office, where another bouncer was posted. This one was a massive black dude, easily over two meters tall. Unlike the rest of the goons, he was dressed to impress, wearing a huge red shirt with a gold collar.

“This is Sam,” the owner introduced him. “I call him Big Sam. Head of our security. And this is Mister V, our potential buyer.”

The bouncer gave me a long, appraising look, slow and deliberate, before he finally muttered in a gravelly voice:

“Nice to meet you. Uh… Welcome.”

“Please, have a seat.”

“Can I get a cocktail?” Rebecca piped up.

“Of course,” the owner nodded eagerly. “I’ll have the bartender whip something up. Would you like anything else?”

“Nothing for me,” I said.

“Three cocktails, your pick, but make sure they’ve got tequila,” Becca decided. “Oh, and chips too!”

Falco stayed silent as ever.

The owner set a laptop on the table, the documents glowing on the screen. Four hundred fifty-six thousand eddies. The biggest deal of both my lives. But first, I hit him with an important question:

“Mind if I take a quick look at the club’s books? You know, they say you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but when you’re buying one, you’d better check its teeth.”

“O-of course!” The man stammered, trying to hide his nervousness.

He handed me the laptop, switching a couple of tabs first. I sat on the couch, digging into the financial records.

Meanwhile, a staffer brought up a tray with three cocktails—neon-colored drinks that looked more like something out of a chemistry set. Along with those, a metal bowl of chips. One glass was set in front of me, but I shook my head.

“All for her.”

“Yeah, give it to momma!” Becca demanded gleefully.

Crunching on chips and with shit music thumping below, I delved into the depressing tale of this infernal club.

"You’ve got quite a lot of security here," I noted.

"Part of the business," Urban shrugged. "Booze, a crowd of young people, and aggressive music—it’s a recipe for impromptu boxing matches. Security helps wrap them up quickly. Sometimes, unfortunately, the matches turn into impromptu shooting contests. That’s actually why I’m moving from the club scene to brain-dances and studio music. It’s quieter there."

"Uh-huh."

A year ago, the club was making some profit, but then came a very lucrative deal with the Animals’ security agency. The terms for 7th Hell were, well, hellish. The Animals decided the number of guards themselves. At first, they sent manageable shifts of four or five. Then it crept up—eight, ten, sometimes even twelve hired muscleheads on any given night. Costs rose with their numbers. And the quality of their work? Let’s just say it probably left a lot to be desired. The financial reports had too many entries about property destroyed during "unforeseen incidents." Thousands of eddies flushed every month.

I remembered watching 7th Hell’s security in action. They could’ve stopped Nash’s brawl with the Tiger Claws kids right away, but no—they wanted a show. A tweaker scrapping with teens was entertainment to them. Real professionals. Afterward, the whole club had to be scrubbed clean of blood.

And then there was Urban himself. The guy wouldn’t—or maybe couldn’t—cut ties with Mauser, one of the Animals’ big shots. "He doesn’t joke around," Urban had said, clearly spooked. Jack, their other guy, was tight with the Animals. This whole mess started making sense now.

What happened to 7th Hell was essentially legalized extortion. Urban let the Animals in but couldn’t keep them on a leash. They smelled weakness and exploited it. Instead of standing up to them, Urban let them bleed him dry. When he started drowning in debt, he likely begged for a way out. Their answer? "Can’t handle it? Sell it." And I’m betting they handpicked the buyer too—someone like Jack, a regular client and a merc who suddenly came into money.

"Security measures are important," I said with a serious face, the crunch of chips in the background. "Shall we sign?"

"Of course!" Urban’s face lit up. "Let me just get my lawyer and a notary on the line."

Soon, the paperwork was ready. A sleek notary appeared on a wall monitor, his classic suit making him look more like a priest of capitalism than a bureaucrat.

"Any objections from either party?" he asked.

"No," I replied.

"None," Urban agreed, practically beaming.

It was like a wedding. "If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace." And here’s the notary, officiating the holy matrimony of two cash-hungry souls.

A few signatures—digital and on paper—and it was done. The club, and the business behind it, were officially mine.

"Congratulations, Mr. Price," Urban said, now grinning from ear to ear as he shook my hand. "Truly, congratulations."

He was congratulating himself more than me—proud of unloading his toxic waste dump of a club onto some shady buyer.

"The staff will show you everything and answer any questions," he assured, clearly eager to bolt. "No need for me to linger. Stay, make yourself at home. It’s all yours now. Have a great evening, or as the French say, bonne soirée."

My translator implant chimed in: Good evening.

Urban was already backing toward the door as he spoke. With one last Hollywood smile, he vanished.

"What a bullshit artist," Rebecca commented, polishing off her second cocktail.

Sam cracked the tiniest smile but kept his gaze locked on me, sizing up the new boss.

"So, who’s the top dog in your crew—or should I say pack?" I asked.

The Animals often used "pack" to describe their gang’s splinters. It wasn’t meant to offend.

"It’s all in the contract," Sam replied evenly.

"Nah, I’ve read it. I’m not asking about a figurehead or your finance guy. I want to know who’s actually running the show."

"If you need something, talk to me," Sam deadpanned.

"Why so secretive?" I squinted as I stood up from the couch.

"The boss doesn’t deal with clients directly," Sam explained with the patience of a saint. "I could give you a name, but it wouldn’t matter. You wouldn’t know them."

"I know everyone," I said with a calm smile, locking eyes with him. "Soon enough, everyone will know me too."

Sam’s face darkened slightly, but he didn’t flinch. He probably realized I wouldn’t be as easy to manipulate as Urban.

"Can’t be Sasquatch…" I muttered, activating a reaction scanner—a sort of low-grade lie detector. Not perfect, but it helped pick up subtle tells. "Who’s next in line? Angie? No… Cryer? Garcia?"

At the mention of Garcia, Sam made the smallest twitch, quickly suppressing it.

"Garcia, huh?" I pressed. "Logan Garcia, from the Triple Xtreme gym?"

"I told you, the boss doesn’t deal with clients," Sam repeated, his voice steady but his demeanor shifting ever so slightly.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I walked to the office window overlooking the main floor of the club. In the crimson haze, bodies writhed and spun like demons in some feverish inferno. Sinners boiling in their passions, and loving every second of it.

A staffer entered the office, introduced himself as the shift manager, and asked if I had any instructions. He seemed eager to make a good first impression.

"Instructions? Just work," I replied. "Make money."

Orders would come later. First, I had to deal with the Animals. Then, I’d clean up the rest of this mess.

I sent the club’s financial files to my personal computer and ordered a couple more cocktails for the road.

Sam didn’t ask me anything, but I knew they’d start digging into me. I was curious to see what they’d find.

Not long after, we left the club, our bloodstreams slightly more alcoholic than before—mostly thanks to Rebecca.

“Something’s off?” Falco asked, referring to the club situation.

“Yeah. The Animals turned it into their own feeding trough.”

“Wanna smoke ‘em⁈” Becca piped up, spinning around excitedly. “I’ll grab that badass cannon again!”

“I’ll try to handle this peacefully first,” I replied. “Starting beef with a gang is easy when you’re just a ghost leaving no trace. But the second you’ve got property, shit changes—fires, ‘accidents,’ you name it. I’ll explain to them that pulling stunts like this won’t fly with me. If they don’t get it, then yeah, conflict it is. In that case, I’ll need to find backup—another gang for cover or a top-tier security firm. Both cost a fortune.”

“Talking first. Smart move,” Falco said, settling into the driver’s seat.

I expected Rebecca to push for the violent route again, but she was too drunk to complain. Eyes closed, she hummed a tune and bounced lightly in her seat.

I’d deal with the Animals later. First, I had unfinished business in the Net.

“Falco, drop me off at an address.”

“What? You’re ditching⁈ What about partying⁉” Becca exclaimed.

Hmm. Jory had been stuck in Cyberspace for years. One night wouldn’t kill him. Besides, you couldn’t let work devour you completely. I didn’t escape death—and Arasaka—just to miss out on living. Fun was part of the deal too.

“Alright, fuck it,” I said with a shrug. “Let’s hit Lizzie’s.”

“Why not your new club?”

“It’s mine on paper, but I haven’t wrestled it out of its real owners’ claws yet. Not exactly a vibe for chilling. I’d rather just be a rich customer at Lizzie’s tonight.”

I wasn’t exaggerating about being rich. Even after buying the club, I still had cash left from Mauser’s stash, plus the sale of that Cuban haul (minus Lucy’s cut), the bounty for Zeitgeist, his savings, and other odds and ends. My bank balance was sitting pretty at 1,321,000. Enough for a couple of cocktails, no problem.

I texted Lucy about our destination, and she replied that she was on her way. Perfect.

Lizzie’s welcomed us with a far better vibe than the 7th Hell. Sure, there were armed guards here too, but they didn’t radiate the same oppressive menace as the thugs at my new place.

We booked two private booths, and I put down a four-thousand deposit for everyone.

“Just virtual thrills here,” one of the staffers told us as she led the way. “But if you wanna hook up, no judgment—just keep the doors closed.”

“Good to know,” I said with a nod. “Mind bringing the bar menu?”

Lucy joined us not long after. The night turned out light and fun—drinks, laughter, and messing around with some game braindances.

Every now and then, I caught myself watching Lucy. Wondering. What if she actually leaves me for that goddamn moon? Would it really be so bad? Maybe she wasn’t my “forever,” just someone meant to walk this part of the road with me. It wasn’t all downsides. There were perks to that kind of impermanence.

I’d mull it over later. For now, it was time to kick back before taking the next step toward my goal.

And yeah, I relaxed.

The next evening, it was back to business. Alone again, I drove through Santo Domingo’s poor district to the city’s edge.

A plain-looking house with a camera over the door. I killed the feed and crept up to the porch. Music thumped inside. Good. He was still here.

My target was a young netrunner I’d traced through Zeitgeist’s memories. The two had traded stolen footage after using it to ruin their victims, collecting it like kids in my old world hoarded Pokémon cards.

Using a magnetic pick, I unlocked the door and checked for traps. Nothing but a rusty chain, which I easily unhooked with my cyberhand’s deft fingers.

The place was a mess—similar to the late Okamura’s, only with more gear and less trash.

I crept to the room where the runner was jacked in, finding him slumped in a chair. Perfect. Exactly what I’d hoped for.

Plugging a shard with my virus into one of his rigs, I got to work.

"One, two, three... hacker, RIP!" I muttered, hitting the execute command. (1)

The netrunner’s connection severed. His virtual avatar would soon dissolve or get picked apart by Net monstrosities. As for his body, I had other plans. It’d make a fine vessel. No weapons, no combat implants—no need to bother tying him up.

I popped a couple of cooling pills, sat in his chair across from the empty shell, and smiled. In one fluid motion, I drew my pistol.

“Bang,” I chuckled, but it wasn’t time to pull the trigger yet.

Stashing Apparition, I jacked in.

Moments later, Jory’s virtual form materialized beside me.

“You’re late, pal,” the AI grumbled, a mix of irritation and impatience in his tone.

“Had things to handle. The body’s ready.”

“Good. Shall we start⁈”

“Not so fast. First, you’re gonna help me with something. Relax, it’s in your best interest too. There’s a netrunner in Night City who knows who I am—and he could clock your little move into this body. We need to handle him first. Name’s Wilky LaGuerre. Goes by ‘The Slider.’”

_________________________________

• In Russia there is a common phrase, a rhyme that is used during New Year celebrations: “One, two, three. Light up, Christmas tree.”

P.S. In Russia and most post USSR countries, New Year is a much more significant holiday than Christmas. What’s more, Christmas there is celebrated on Jan 7th (not 25th because of the Gregorian calendar) and it is considered a religious holiday not secular.

[Life is Good] Chapter 26

[Elden Ring] Chapter 26

Shabriri. The name of a being that had long since lost any semblance of humanity. A bodiless, immortal spirit, the embodiment of chaos, one destined to guide an unfortunate soul onto the path of the Frenzied Flame.

No one knew how long he had wandered. No one knew how much he had seen. The lore was full of holes—nothing to be done about that. What mattered was the ultimate goal: to find someone who could embrace the power of the Frenzied Flame and bring an end to this vile, disgusting world.

The fame of Konstantin the Tarnished had grown too loud to ignore. A figure like his, whose feats resembled the deeds of demigods more than those of a mere mortal—even one striving to ascend—could not escape Shabriri’s attention.

Shabriri quickly gathered all available information. What little there was, at least: the Tarnished seemed to hail from a faraway land, leaving his past shrouded in mystery. Directly approaching him was no simple matter, either. Not only did the spirit feel an uncanny sense that if he got too close, Konstantin would roll right into him, but the man was also surrounded by other… entities.

There was the Finger Maiden, harboring a chilling curse within her soul, unlike any others Shabriri had encountered before. And then there was the one bearing the title of a demigod who had orchestrated one of the most terrifying conspiracies in the history of the Lands Between.

Sure, Shabriri was a spirit of chaos, destruction, and all that—but he wasn’t a complete idiot!

At least, he believed so.

The blind maiden had intrigued him for a while. Her eyes were special. She could sense the warmth of the Frenzied Flame, touch it, and guide the Tarnished soul toward it. All she needed was a gentle nudge.

Her connection to the Tarnished soul that so fascinated him only strengthened his resolve. Complicating matters somewhat was the fake Finger Maiden who occasionally watched over her, likely acting on orders from the suspiciously perceptive Tarnished. But even she wasn’t omnipotent—Shabriri had the skill to bide his time until she stepped away without ever being noticed.

If anyone was patient, it was him. Their fury never wanes.

Unfortunately, he failed. Irina’s will turned out to be stronger than he anticipated. Moreover, she somehow knew to avoid consuming the grapes.

Shabriri wasn’t omnipotent, nor omniscient. He couldn’t have known that Irina had been forewarned. And he certainly didn’t expect the Tarnished to return so soon and immediately learn of his… little mischief.

A very, very angry Tarnished.

Shabriri had no trouble slipping into the maiden’s mind once more. It was the dead of night, and she was fast asleep. But that didn’t stop the otherworldly voice from waking her.

“Do you still refuse the gift, Irina?”

The voice in her head was impossibly gentle and caring. It was clear he meant no harm. He only wanted to help.

Irina couldn’t wear her blindfold all the time. She opened her eyes, sitting up in bed. Somehow she knew it was nighttime.

A faint smile appeared on Irina’s face.

“Yes.”

Shabriri was slightly taken aback. Her voice had grown much steadier and calmer. Her will had strengthened, as though she had found some kind of inner confidence.

Where could that have come from?

“Do you not seek the light, Hyetta? Do you not feel your hands reaching for the sweet grapes?”

His voice was like that of a worried father, chastising his daughter for making a foolish choice. Gentle, weary, yet surprisingly nurturing. Anyone who heard it would instinctively feel the urge to follow it, to trust it.

After all, the spirit truly believed in what he was saying. He genuinely wanted to help. He wanted to help cleanse this cursed world by destroying it.

He believed it was the only way.

“My name is Irina,” she said, her smile widening just a bit. “I don’t need to seek the light. I’ve already found it.”

Though Shabriri had no physical form, he still managed to furrow his non-existent brow.

“And what light would that be?”

Irina didn’t need to respond. The door suddenly swung open, and there stood the Tarnished. Fully clad in armor, sword in hand, he resembled an enforcer of some grim inquisition, come to claim his prey.

Konstantin hadn’t looked this serious or this furious since he’d first encountered parkour (1) in a Soulslike.

His rage was absolute.

Even beneath his helmet, the spirit could sense—could see—the sunlight blazing in the man’s eyes.

“W-what is this?!”

In that instant, Shabriri realized he needed to flee.

The casual-hardcore energy bursting from Konstantin’s body—decidedly unfit for a constructive conversation—forced the spirit of the Frenzied Flame to abandon Irina’s mind in haste. Though it caused her no harm, the same energy lashed out at the spirit, preemptively throwing him off balance, breaking his focus, and potentially smashing his spectral face.

And who likes having their balance and concentration (and poise!) shattered?!

Ejected from the maiden’s body, Shabriri burst into flames as he phased through solid objects, naively believing he had escaped the bizarre Tarnished. But then…

Boom!

Shabriri had existed for countless ages. Who knew how many Eras he had witnessed—or would witness? But this was the first time he’d encountered a madman who had rolled straight through a stone wall, smashing it to pieces!

A startled Irina, still seated on her bed, shivered slightly. The room had gotten colder. She understood what Konstantin had done. And, judging by her lack of surprise, she wasn’t even shocked.

…It seemed she’d need to move to another room until the repairs were finished…

Konstantin, having rolled clean out of the building, had perfectly corrected his trajectory mid-air and landed smoothly on the ground. Without missing a beat, he sprinted off with the grace and speed of a seasoned assassin trained for this exact scenario.

From the very moment Konstantin arrived in the Lands Between, he had lost one of the most fearsome limitations of Soulslikes—gravity.

How amusing. Kosta had become the most terrifying of casuals mere seconds after his arrival in the Lands Between, yet he hadn’t realized it.

The terrifying 20-meter limitation simply didn’t exist, which was enough to unsettle even a spirit(2).

Shabriri darted through Stormveil Castle, frantically attempting to possess various creatures to mount a counterattack. Yet the madman, as if expecting this, would crash into every possessed servant, knocking them out with a glowing club brimming with searing, all-consuming casual energy.

The Frenzied Flame spirit was being burned!

Had no one told this psychopath about resistances? The mechanic was still there!(3) Someone needed to remind him!!!

Unfortunately (for the spirit), the castle’s inhabitants had been briefed that a peculiar exorcism might take place. They accepted their fates with surprising dignity. With their new lord, at least, they could clean up the place without risking their lives hunting Tarnished.

Getting clobbered by a glowing club for being possessed by some malicious entity? That was still far better than what the previous lord might have done to them.

Some knights, already under Shabriri’s control, even tried saluting their new master as he charged at them, accepting their fates with honor.

Konstantin could have killed them! They’d likely revive later, albeit with diminished cognitive function. By sparing their lives and merely knocking them out with his radiant club, the Tarnished displayed remarkable kindness and loyalty. And this to those who had once hunted his kind!

Konstantin was shaping up to be one of the better rulers of the Age of Fracture.

Though, admittedly, he was a ruler in title only…

Melina had observed the entire ordeal from start to finish, barely suppressing a pang of sympathy. The bodiless spirit, a powerful agent of chaos, a living—or rather, unliving—legend, had been reduced to prey, hunted by a predator whose waifu he had dared to harm.

The girl couldn't help but smile faintly, proud of her Tarnished.

Still, she knew she had to help. After all, her form of existence had its own advantages.

The invisible Melina went after the spirit, following close behind the Tarnished. Oddly enough, the tryhard who had embraced the essence of a casual wasn’t opposed to the assistance. Anyone daring to strike at the few good things in the Lands Between deserved neither an honorable duel nor a "hardcore" victory—or any mercy at all.

The only thing that mattered was eliminating the threat, by any means necessary.

Shabriri didn’t make it out of the castle. Attempting to escape into the sky, he found himself confronted by Melina, the “Finger Maiden,” who had already manifested with a deadly dagger in hand.

The spirit of the Frenzied Flame had no choice but to inhabit a new body—a mindless soldier, a random grunt who had long lost his sanity and continued his duty by sheer inertia. Shabriri simply wouldn’t have had enough time to fully assert control over a more worthy vessel. This would have to do.

At least this way, Shabriri could have a little fun.

Konstantin stood before the possessed soldier, putting away his club and drawing his sword. Surprisingly, neither the armor nor the blade hindered his movements; he barely felt their weight as he broke into a run.

“Finally, we meet. The Tarnished who would be Lord. Oh my, why the long fa…”

Boom!

A glowing lightning bolt shot past the possessed knight, demolishing part of the wall. The casual energy barely grazed him, but it was enough for the spirit to feel the searing sting once again.

“I wonder if he thought about who’s going to fix that later…”

Sellen’s whisper prompted Melina to nod cautiously.

Apparently, even a Soulslike veteran struggled to adjust to destructible environment. No, that’s not quite it. Adjusting wasn’t the issue—it was coming to terms with the fact that all this destruction eventually needed repairing.

Well, at least the mindless undead would have something to do.

Hearing the noise, soldiers from all over the castle began converging on the area, encircling them. Among the castle’s defenders were the ever-prepared Edgar and even Gatekeeper Gostoc. Normally, Kosta would have been ready to clear out the mob, but now the situation was different:

He was the boss of this area, and some random bum had come to challenge him.

What a strange feeling.

The spirit of the Frenzied Flame surveyed the scene, realizing there was no escape. From above, the bodiless, insane Finger Maiden was watching him with the moveset of a Black Knife assassin (4). On the ground soldiers were already crowding around him.

Shabriri wouldn’t have been surprised if someone was waiting for him underground, too.

It would’ve been strange if the spirit hadn’t realized he’d walked into a trap. A twisted grin spread across Shabriri’s face as he removed his helmet, locking eyes with the unflinching Tarnished.

“Tsk, tsk. So fiercely you protect the young maiden. Don’t you know the price you’ll have to pay to become a lord?”

Shabriri shifted his gaze to Melina, who flinched, and his grin widened.

The false Finger Maiden hadn’t felt such fury in a long time. The vile spirit was employing one of the dirtiest tricks in his arsenal.

Worse still, it could actually work on her chosen Tarnished. Melina knew this. And while it warmed her heart to know how deeply the man cared, the realization that his kindness might doom their world…

It spurred her into action.

Melina was on the verge of attacking herself, ready to end the problem as swiftly as possible, but Kosta spoke first:

“Who told you I was going to sacrifice my waifu?”

The man’s unflappable composure was enough to stagger even the most focused opponent. Melina froze.

He knows. Of course, it would’ve been strange if he didn’t know…

The girl lowered her head, utterly unprepared for this conversation to arise now. She’d wanted to delay it, to save it for the very end. She understood that a Tarnished who knew so much would surely be aware of her destiny. And yet, deep down, she’d hoped he wouldn’t know this.

But he did.

Melina raised her eyes, biting her lip.

And more than that, he said he wasn’t going to sacrifice her.

Did he understand that this was impossible?

Of course, Shabriri was taken aback by the Tarnished’s cold calm and strange confidence.

“The Roots of the Erdtree, Konstantin of the Tarnished. You cannot—”

“Who told you?”

The man didn’t even let this late-game plot hint finish its monologue.

This wasn’t even a boss. Just a hint dispenser for an ending that didn’t suit Kosta at all.

“Fool,” the spirit scowled. “I give you one last chance. Descend into the depths, far below the Erdtree Capital. Seek audience with the Three Fingers and the flame of frenzy. If you inherit the flame of frenzy, your flesh will serve as kindling and the girl can be spared—”

Shabriri didn’t finish. Konstantin charged, slamming his glowing fist into the spirit’s jaw.

Obviously Kosta had 100%’ed the DLC. And though he hadn’t liked it much, he’d managed to pick up some useful tricks. (5)

Shabriri staggered from the blow, only to receive another punch, then another, and another…

Before the eyes of the astonished knights, the dumbfounded Gostoc and Edgar, the frozen Melina, and the amused Sellen, the wielder of two Great Runes began pummeling the spirit barehanded, inflicting more than just physical damage.

The spirit tried to leap back and even swung in retaliation, but the blade came faster. Konstantin, intent on showing no mercy to a waifu-offender, plunged his casual energy imbued sword into the possessed Shabriri.

The spirit wheezed, clutching at the blade.

It had been far too long since he’d felt pain like this.

“Shabriri is chaos incarnate,” the spirit growled, before crying out in a voice from beyond, “ I cannot die. Ahh, may chaos take the world!”

The body, now ablaze with frenzied flames, collapsed lifelessly. Silence fell.

Kosta grimaced.

“I never liked your dialogue.”

The man pulled the sword from the soldier’s body, feeling a bit awkward in front of everyone else. Obviously, farming knights was no longer an option. He was about to say something, but the crowd erupted first, cheering their lord’s victory.

“Praise the Sun!”

“Praise the Sun!..”

“Praise the Sun!!!”

Slightly rattled after the attack on his waifu, Konstantin felt something inside him twist at their cries.

Once again, they’d completely ruined his concentration.

Corhyn, pushing through the shouting knights, approached the possessed body and crouched over it. He sighed.

He already had experience… dealing with this type of entity. He knew it couldn’t have ended so easily.

“You haven’t truly killed him, Konstantin.”

The man shrugged. He hadn’t received any runes, so it was easy to figure out. As for where the spirit had scurried off to… that was anyone’s guess.

Shabriri could potentially have been one of those mid-tier bosses who lose part of their HP, flee, and then pop up in random places later. Isn’t the first for that to happen

Still, Konstantin was confident he'd inflicted enough damage on the waifu-harassing spirit to keep it from daring to approach them again anytime soon.

Not even the Greater Will could predict how long it would take Shabriri to recover from those burns.

Kosta blinked, only now realizing he'd managed to burn the spirit without really paying attention to it...

Burn the spirit of The Frenzied... Ahem, Flame?

Not that Kosta dwelled on it too much.

He’d never claimed to be a scholar (or lore master, for that matter). If it worked, why question it?

Melina watched the now noticeably more relaxed man strolling back through the screaming crowd without a care in the world. Her heart was racing. They needed to have a serious talk.

Could she bring it up, though? No. She had to. If her chosen Tarnished succumbed to the Frenzied Flame's temptation, then...

Seluvis’s apprentice, Sellen, had been observing the false Finger Maiden's inner turmoil and was, frankly, growing slightly tired of it.

The women surrounding the Tarnished were, as a rule, not the most socially adept. And the man himself? Let’s just say he wasn’t much better.

Taking advantage of Melina’s distracted state—she’d forgotten about the illusionary exiled sorceress observing the scene—Sellen kept quiet, keenly watching events unfold.

Life had been so boring when she was alone.

Once Kosta returned to the quarters assigned to him, Melina appeared before him. Kosta wasn’t startled by her sudden appearance; he’d expected it.

Meli-Meli loved to keep tabs on everything, after all.

“I beseech you, do not heed that spirit's words. It’s a dangerous path. Chaos drains life and feeds on the mind.”

Melina fell silent for a moment, unwillingly biting her lip again and clenching her burn-scarred hands.

“Yes, our world lies in ruin, and it may seem as though the suffering and despair will never end... But life endures. It persists. Surely you, too, see the sad yet undeniable beauty in that? A future lord cannot forget this. I beg you—don’t align yourself with the Frenzied Flame.”

Because of Shabriri’s early interference, Melina was delivering this plea much sooner than she was supposed to.

Kosta didn’t respond, simply staring at her waifu.

Melina, irritated by his silence, pressed on:

“I beg of you,” she repeated desperately. “Do not seek the Frenzied Flame. A true lord must nurture life and every new sprout it brings. One who destroys all existence has no right to bear the title of lord, for their domain is but dead lands.”

Melina took a deep breath.

“I act of my own free will. I strive to make the world better—my own vision of better. This is my dream, mine and no one else’s. And I won’t let anyone defile it. Not even you.”

She raised a determined gaze to the Tarnished, waiting for his reply.

To sacrifice her life so he could become a lord—that was her choice. Hers alone.

Kosta stared at her for a while before shrugging.

“I already said I’m not sacrificing you.”

“Then...”

“And I’m not aligning with the Frenzied Flame, either.”

He’d briefly considered “skipping” that ending through a certain needle in a certain place, but Shabriri’s actions had quashed any desire to go that route.

Not that the desire had been strong to begin with.

Melina tensed.

“Then how?”

Her mind raced to find an alternative route through the roots. Only one image came to her: her brother. Her long-banished brother.

The one sealed long ago in lands she herself couldn’t reach easily.

Naturally, the overly well-informed man had heard of the Shadowed Lands, too.

“You want to use...”

“I’ll check out the DLC later, but not for that reason.”

Kosta’s typically stoic, cryptic response left Melina momentarily stunned.

Then how? She had no other—

Melina abruptly lifted her gaze to him.

“You want to use the power of the Sun?”

Kosta blinked.

“If you mean cheesing it, sure, you could call it that.”

Now it was Melina’s turn to blink.

She had no idea what her Tarnished was talking about, only vaguely grasping his meaning.

“I...”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said calmly, cutting through her doubts. “I strive to make the world better—my own vision of better.”

Melina recoiled, unprepared for him to use her own words against her.

After a brief pause, Konstantin spoke gravely:

“I’ll keep tryharding and cheesing and casualling as long as it takes.”

These were the words of a true man, a true Souls-like player, and a true waifu fan—spoken from the depths of a soul scarred by dramatic storylines.

Melina had no idea how to respond. On the one hand, he outright dismissed her will.

On the other, he was prepared to defy all odds to ensure that she, someone not even fully alive, could maintain her fragile existence.

This stirred not only anger and frustration within her... but something else.

Without her purpose, who was she? What was left for her?

By his actions, Konstantin was robbing her of the one goal that defined her existence.

How long had she been wandering the Lands Between?

Melina exhaled deeply.

“I’ve become completely useless...”

She froze as Konstantin unexpectedly extended a ring to her. It was old and battered—clearly looted off some corpse. But Melina could feel a faint warmth emanating from it.

“I’ve been experimenting with some mechanics,” Konstantin shared as if it were no big deal, his expression still serious and stoic. “To make sure no waifu suffers harm without my knowledge.”

There were quests that could potentially harm waifus while he wasn’t around. He couldn’t let that happen. He needed a solution, even if half-measure. Pushed by his enhanced perception, he had ventured even further beyond the game’s basic mechanics and started tinkering with them.

With experiments, casual energy felt less and less like regular magic or faith, taking on increasingly bizarre qualities.

Kosta’s stoic demeanor cracked slightly under Melina’s gaze—her eyes locked onto the ring with an intensity that unsettled him.

After all, he wasn’t used to this kind of interaction.

Melina silently took the ring and, without saying a word, disappeared, fleeing somewhere. Konstantin stared at the spot where the false Finger Maiden had just stood, baffled.

“Well, well, I underestimated you, didn’t I?”

A tiny illusion of Sellen appeared on his shoulder, giving him a thumbs-up.

A sly smirk spread across the sorceress’s face.

Fate favored the patient.

“I want to be your apprentice (6).”

The fleeing Melina belatedly realized that the unnoticed sorceress had been there the whole time.

The cursed eye of the false Finger Maiden widened.

Surely, when the drowsy lunar demigoddess returned after her pre-sleep preparations, she’d be in for more than one shock.

(1) So-called “parkour” in Souls-likes is broken. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t exist. That doesn’t stop the devs from occasionally adding it, leading to players dying from dumb falls more often than from bosses. Gravity remains the deadliest foe.

(2) In Elden Ring, the maximum fall distance is just 20 meters, unless it’s a scripted fall. A bit more than that means instant death—unless you exploit game glitches.

(3) Different enemies have different resistances. Logically, an enemy with no magic resistance will take far more damage from magic than fire if it has high fire resistance.

(4) Interestingly, Melina uses Black Knife Assassin techniques in combat. This could have been the basis for a fascinating backstory, but unfortunately, the game doesn’t expand on it.

(5) The DLC includes a unique item granting characters a “weapon” of martial arts, allowing them to fight with their bare hands and feet like kung fu masters.

(6) In her questline, Sellen mentions that one day, the player—as a lord—might take her on as an apprentice.

Daily Updates (27/12/24)

Prof. Umbridge

• Tier 1: Chapter 51

• Tier 2: Chapter 56

Castling the Long Way:

• Tier 1: Chapter 31

• Tier 2: Chapter 36

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 27

• Tier 2: Chapter 32

Life is Good

• Tier 2: Chapter 25

[Life is Good] Chapter 25

Sorry for PDF, but that's just how it is.

[Prof Umbridge] Chapter 56

“You’ve heard enough, I presume, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked coldly, and Harry nodded.

“Letty,” Marina Nikolaevna called softly, and when the house-elf appeared, she asked, “How did he end up by the door?”

“You told me to keep an eye on him, ma’am,” Letty whispered, “so he wouldn’t cause any trouble or come to harm. But Harry Potter didn’t do anything wrong; he just came here for some reason and overheard the conversation. You didn’t order me not to let him in, and the door…”

“And I forgot to lock the door,” she nodded. “Alright, Letty, stay close just in case. Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, ma’am. I heard everything,” Harry said gloomily. “And… Madam Ingebjorg showed me. I didn’t believe it.”

“And now you believe it? After eavesdropping on us?”

“Exactly!” he burst out. “You… you were being real just now! You told each other everything, honestly—about my parents, about… everything! And with me…”

“And with you, we lied so much that when you finally heard and saw the truth, you couldn’t accept it,” Snape interjected. “Take a seat, Potter. And stop flinching—I’m not poisonous. Not inherently.”

Harry sat down opposite Snape, next to Marina Nikolaevna.

“Why did you come here, Mr. Potter?” she asked, signaling Letty to bring more tea.

“I wanted to ask if I could swap detention with Madam Ingebjorg for something else… even scrubbing cauldrons,” he glanced at Snape, “because seeing… that stuff gives me nightmares.”

“Something like what happened with Mr. Weasley?”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “That time… I became the snake. And then there were other times—I saw through Voldemort’s eyes, I was him! But this… these are just nightmares. About myself, my aunt and uncle, Dudley, and…” He glanced at Snape and added, “And you were there too.”

“No doubt as the boggart from the cupboard under the stairs,” Snape smirked.

“No, no… It was…” Harry hesitated. “You’ll kill me if I say it.”

“As headmistress, I forbid Professor Snape from killing Harry Potter without mutual consent confirmed in writing and witnessed by an official,” Marina Nikolaevna declared, completely serious. “Severus, did you hear me?”

“I am not hard of hearing,” he replied. “So, Potter, what form did I take in your dreams? I do hope they weren’t erotic nightmares?”

“Severus, I asked you to stop joking!” Marina Nikolaevna hissed.

“It was everything I saw in the Pensieve,” Harry said, ignoring Snape’s last comment. “And earlier… accidentally…”

He cast a fleeting glance at Snape, who remained silent.

“It wasn’t me in Voldemort’s memories; those dreams were different, more like watching a film. But when Dumbledore told you I had to die, that… that…”

“Mr. Potter,” Marina Nikolaevna began, “listen…”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Harry cut her off. “Why couldn’t he just explain that… I don’t know… it’s the way the magical world works, that what’s said in the prophecy has to happen whether I want it to or not? Like Madam Ingebjorg says: ‘Do what you must, and let what will be, be!’ If I’d known, I’d have gone and tried to tear Voldemort’s head off myself—right now, for my parents, for everyone! Maybe I’d die, he’s stronger, but at least I’d know why I was doing it!”

“Wow…” Snape breathed in admiration, earning a kick to the ankle from Marina Nikolaevna.

“And I didn’t even know why I was so… important,” Harry continued. “I survived, and so what? I didn’t defeat Voldemort when I was a baby—my mum protected me! What did I have to do with it? All this time, I was forced into things, or I got involved myself, but…”

“You stumbled into these adventures out of sheer stupidity,” Snape couldn’t resist. “But it’s hereditary—it happens.”

“Severus, one more word and you won’t get off with just a Silencing Charm!” Marina Nikolaevna hissed. “Letty…”

“No need, Madam Umbridge,” Harry interrupted. “Let him… let Professor talk. He’s always said these things, but…”

“But you needed a faint whisper of truth to drift through the keyhole before you’d not just hear but actually think about my words?” Snape said with mock surprise. “Well, I never—I thought I’d waste my breath on you until the end of my days!”

“Whose end?”

“What difference does it make? One way or another, one of us will fall silent. Maybe both.”

There was a pause.

“I’m probably not very smart,” Harry said suddenly.

“You’re not stupid, just underdeveloped,” Snape complimented. “And that’s not your fault—growing up in your conditions is something I wouldn’t wish on an enemy…”

“Right! And Voldemort grew up in an orphanage, and look what he managed to do!”

“Mr. Potter, are you suggesting that if you’d been sent to an orphanage instead of your aunt and uncle, you could have outdone Voldemort?” Marina Nikolaevna asked.

He shook his head.

“No. In those memories… there was so much, it’s hard to make sense of it. But I got the impression he was very… very…”

“Ambitious?”

“Yeah! And I just wanted to be left alone and live quietly… that’s all.”

“That’s what you say now,” Snape sighed. “But if you’d lived in an orphanage from the start, who knows what kind of monster you might have become.”

“Ingebjorg always says there’s no point in speculating about what didn’t happen,” Marina Nikolaevna reminded. “Mr. Potter, I understand it’s difficult for you to put your thoughts into words, but do try. I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

“I don’t know what else to say,” Harry admitted after a pause. “Everything… everything turned out different from what I thought. You… I’m sorry, Madam Umbridge, but I couldn’t stand you! I hated you…”

“I’m not surprised,” Snape interjected, “her character is abominable—not every witch is that unpleasant.”

“You should talk, Severus, with your angelic disposition,” Marina Nikolaevna sighed. “Now let Mr. Potter finish—you're distracting him!”

“I’m saying, I don’t know what else to say!” Harry sniffled, staring at his hands before lifting his gaze to meet Snape’s. “Everything was wrong. You wanted to save me, not get me killed, but it was all for nothing. You didn’t know I’d have to die, did you, sir?”

“I didn’t know,” Snape replied after a long pause, holding Harry’s gaze. “If I had, I would never have sworn that oath. But, Potter, my catastrophic mistake at least has an excuse—and it’s not my age.”

“You… you…”

“I was an idiot,” Snape declared with relish. “Not intellectually, mind you. I just let emotions override reason, and here we are!”

“Severus, you loved Lily Evans, didn’t you?” Marina Nikolaevna reminded.

“In the past tense, Dolores,” he said seriously. “In the past. Yes, I suppose I did. But truthfully? I wanted her to be mine and only mine, like back before Hogwarts, maybe that first summer. Following me around, hanging on my every word, asking me to teach her something new… And then our paths diverged, only I didn’t realize it in time. Neither did she, probably. We were the same age as this young man here,” Snape nodded toward Harry, “and every insult felt fatal, every argument permanent…”

Marina Nikolaevna double-checked the tea—no unexpected additives inducing openness.

“I’m the spitting image of my father, aren’t I?” Harry spoke up. “Is that why you took it out on me?”

“Of course,” Snape replied seriously. “Unfortunately, punching him in the face is no longer an option. A pity. And you—too young. Even now, I could take you down with one blow, Potter, no wand needed.”

“You were just waiting for me to grow up… sir?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“What’s the point? Your father, as arrogant as he was, could hold his own in a fight. You? Without Madam Umbridge’s lessons, you’d have been useless. Though who knows if your dad could have managed against me without magic; where I grew up, we practiced... well, let’s call it no-holds-barred combat.”

“Gentlemen, you’re getting sidetracked,” Marina Nikolaevna reminded them. “Perhaps you could discuss Mr. Potter’s parents and everything related to them some other time?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it because… because Professor Snape—”

“Can provoke even a stone statue,” Marina Nikolaevna finished. “Get used to it; he’s too old to change.”

“That’s not true—I’m in my prime, as you yourself said,” Snape couldn’t help but interject. “Ahem... Potter, as much as it disgusts me to say this, I regret my part in all of this. I truly didn’t know you were being groomed as a sacrificial lamb. Had I not sworn to protect you... Well, you’d have likely broken your neck during your first Quidditch match when Quirrell knocked you off your broom. Then again, you’ve had plenty of opportunities to get yourself killed since then…”

“I remember, sir,” Harry smirked crookedly. “But it wasn’t time yet, was it? Is that why the phoenix came?”

“I have no idea.”

“I can’t kill Voldemort,” Harry said seriously. “He… I don’t know if he’s stronger, but he definitely knows more. I might not get lucky again, right? Not like with the phoenix, or at the cemetery…”

“Potter remains as modest and self-critical as ever,” Snape remarked. “And stop kicking me, Dolores!”

“One more quip, and I’ll ask Letty to gag you,” Marina Nikolaevna said.

“For what purpose? Do you think my turning Potter’s dramatic self-sacrifice into a farce—because that’s what it is—changes anything?”

“A farce?” Harry echoed.

“Yes, Potter, a farce! Surely you understand that one of you must die? But he won’t die as long as you live because you’re a Horcrux. Did Ingebjorg explain that to you, or not?”

“She did. Voldemort can’t be killed while I’m alive. But if the part of him inside me—the Horcrux—is destroyed, then it’s possible. But I…” Harry shut his eyes. “I’m scared… Dumbledore wanted me to go willingly; I understood that much. But I… I can’t. Please, if there’s a way to remove it so I can survive, do it!”

“And if there isn’t?” Marina Nikolaevna asked softly, hugging him by the shoulders.

“Then at least I’ll know I didn’t die for nothing!” Harry buried his face in his knees. “And you’ll… finish it. I’m useless anyway; I can’t do anything. Everything I’ve done… someone helped me!”

“That’s not true. You’ve performed well in my classes.”

“In class, not against Voldemort! I can’t do it alone, I—”

Harry broke down, crying like a child. Marina Nikolaevna was struck by his gesture—first, he pulled off his worn glasses and placed them on the table before letting himself cry.

“Mr. Potter… Harry!” She pulled him into a hug. Snape stared at them, clearly trying to compose himself. “Letty, fetch Ingebjorg. We can’t figure this out without her…”

The house-elf vanished, and Marina Nikolaevna stroked Harry’s messy black hair.

“Harry, this wasn’t our plan,” she said.

“I know…”

“We don’t want you to die. Truly. Even Professor Snape.”

“That, I don’t believe, ma’am!” Harry laughed involuntarily. “I don’t believe it…”

“I’m not kissing him,” Snape remarked dryly.

“No need. Oaf,” Marina Nikolaevna said gloomily, gently holding the young man.
Had anyone ever hugged him before? Not his friends after a Quidditch win, not his godfather—oh, his godfather was a fool himself!—but someone…

“Dolores?” Snape’s eyes were wide with fear, but she silently pressed a finger to her lips.

He nodded and fell silent. He might have sat down next to them, but… At least he bit his tongue!

“I… don’t want to die…” Harry managed to say after some time. “I know I have to, but I don’t want to! I… I’m scared! But you’ll help, won’t you? You…”

“We won’t promise anything,” Ingebjorg said, stepping out of the deep shadows. “Sorry, boy, but that’s all we can offer. Prophecies fulfill themselves, one way or another.”

“And the sooner, the better?” Harry asked quietly. “Yeah, true. Let’s just get it over with, please! Otherwise, I’ll… I’ll get too scared and run away. I…”

“You fear death,” Ingebjorg nodded. “Don’t be afraid. It’s not yours. Come on… And you too, what are you standing around for?”

Marina Nikolaevna glanced at Snape—his expression was strange. Calm and even satisfied, but so detached it worried her. He asked:

“Lady Ingebjorg, we’re doing this right now, all at once?”

“Do you have any other ideas? No? Then let’s proceed…” The old witch placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, looked him in the eye, and asked, “Are you ready, boy?”

“No. I’m scared,” he repeated.

“Of what? Death? You’re nodding? What exactly in death do you fear? Pain? Agony? You’ve felt those more than once; you know they’re not so terrible.”

“True… not terrible,” he admitted. “But…”

“Afraid your friends will forget you? That won’t happen.”

“Yeah… they won’t forget. Never. Neither friends nor enemies!” Harry smiled.

“Then what are you afraid of?” Ingebjorg asked quietly. “Not seeing the so-called Dark Lord defeated? Hardly a reason…”

“He’s afraid of being alone,” Marina Nikolaevna said, stepping closer. “He’s been alone his entire life. Friends, his godfather… it’s not the same. They don’t know everything.”

“Tell Sirius I love him very much, and our fight—it happens,” Harry blurted out. “And Ron… give Ron my broom; he’s always dreamed of it! And the cloak—to Hermione, when the time is right. That’s all… And please, let’s do it quickly, or I’ll… I’ll change my mind…”

“Letty, take us all to the hospital wing,” Marina Nikolaevna ordered. “And inform the Aurors so they don’t panic. Is everything ready?”

“It’s been ready,” Ingebjorg replied and gestured to Hrafn. He approached and gave a signal—everything was set.

“As long as it’s not in vain,” Harry said, sitting on a cot and habitually removing his glasses. “Sir… My dad was a complete idiot, wasn’t he?”

“No,” Snape replied after a pause. “He was intelligent, unlike you. But a real scoundrel, just like your godfather.”

“Thanks, sir… I won’t ask about my mom. Let’s just do this…”

“If you can’t, let Ingebjorg handle it,” Marina Nikolaevna said softly. “Letty, bring Professor Snape…”

“I’ll do it myself,” Snape said when the house-elf returned. “I swore…”

A song filled the silence—a beautiful melody that seemed to resonate inside rather than out. Light spread everywhere…

“I am not giving him up!” Marina Nikolaevna heard a fierce cry after being knocked to the ground. “Get away!...”

“Sir, wait!”

“Boy, don’t—”

Three voices merged into one; the sound of shattering glass, a scream…

Silence fell.

Marina Nikolaevna got to her knees.

"Severus..." she whispered.

"Yes," he smiled, tying a bloodied cloth around his wrist. "How absurd, Dolores... A shard of a basilisk venom vial... Just one sliver of glass was enough!"

"No, this can't be happening... it can't..." She stopped herself. "Where is Potter?"

"He was carried off by a winged seraph," Snape replied. "Heading straight for Voldemort, I imagine. Maybe you'll still have time to save him." (1)

"Severus!"

"What? I protected him with my life, as I swore I would. Shielded him... and you, by the way. 

That's it. I can't do anything more, Dolores. But I do have one last request for you..."

"Well?!"

"Kill that bastard and spit on him on my behalf," Snape said seriously. His eyes were already rolling back, his speech slurred. "And one more thing, Dolores..."

"What?"

She leaned closer to hear his faint whisper, and was rewarded for her effort.

"You're incredible in bed..."

‘Why, you son of a bitch,’ Marina Nikolaevna thought, straightening up. She called out,

"Ingebjorg! Are you alive?"

"Apparently," came the response, accompanied by the clattering of something in the corner.

"If this bastard dies," Marina Nikolaevna nodded toward Snape, "I'll fire you and Hrafn together. 

Try your methods on this body!"

"And what will you do?" the seer asked curiously, tapping her staff none too gently against the professor, who muttered a faint curse.

"I’ll move on."

She unfastened the clasp of her cloak at the neck and let it drop.
"Letty, find Orford Umbridge. Tell him it's urgent."

"Yes, madam..."

A few more steps down the corridor—her footsteps echoed, someone following behind.
"Father?"

"Yeah?"

"I need you."

_________________________________________

(1) Yep, it is a sconfusing in the original as here. Comments from other readers interpret this scene as Dambledor being the one to shout “I am not giving him up”, and instead of “seraph” it should be phoenix. The next chapter confirms that.

[Castling] Chapter 36

A week of holidays flew by in no time.

First things first, I waited until everyone except Molly went off to the beach to destroy the Horcrux. Poured a bit of venom on it, just to be sure, and gave it a stab with the fang. The diary let out a low, chilling screech and released a puff of black smoke, which quickly dissipated.

I spent a couple of days crafting a handle for the fang and knocking together something like a sheath. I carved out some wooden plates, wrapped them in dragon-hide strips from my lab gloves, and secured it all with magical tape. Not the prettiest sight, but solid as anything. Getting the gloves to cut? That was a saga in itself—they hardly yielded to the knife. Still, I didn’t fancy nicking myself rummaging through my charmed bag, so it was worth the effort. The fang and venom stayed stashed away; I wouldn’t need them on holiday. But I kept one vial and a bit of the skin to try selling through Charlie—if the stuff’s worth anything, that is. Who knows? I might need to hire a professional to destroy the ring. Not a chance I’m tackling that myself.

I swung by the blokes at the workshop for a chat and a catch-up, but I didn’t have time for work this year. Flitwick had loaded me up with a couple of books and a hefty summer assignment. I had to send him completed tests on what I’d learned, and since we’d be off on a trip soon, I didn’t want to drag my feet.

I didn’t see Luna at all, but I did stop by the next morning to see her and her dad off. It was a bit sad, but seeing Xenophilius looking chipper and reasonably grounded was a relief. At least he was engaging with real life, even if it was through his mythical creature quests, and spending time with his daughter. I was genuinely happy for her. They disappeared through a portal with a wave, and Luna promised to bring me back a Crumple-Horned Snorkack’s horn and a claw from another beastie I didn’t catch the name of.

I cracked on with Flitwick’s assignment while the twins tinkered with Merlin knows what in their room. Evenings were for Quidditch, except for Percy, of course. Speaking of Percy, we patched things up. After our falling-out and his split with Penelope, he’d taken to ignoring me entirely, only responding with short, cold answers if I spoke to him. Honestly, it got to me. I’d been on a bit of an adrenaline-fueled tear at the time and went too far. Percy was my first proper friend in this world and the best brother I’ve had. So, I swallowed my pride and apologised. He’s forgiving like that. Plus, he had a stack of books his mates had given him for summer reading, and I marked a few for myself to borrow when we got back from Romania.

Ginny, meanwhile, was busy with her puffskeins and darting off daily to visit her friend Daisy Crowley, a half-blood Hufflepuff who lived in Hogsmeade with her mum and gran. I don’t remember book-Ginny having close friends, but here she’s made a few, bonding over a shared love of puffskeins and, apparently, Harry Potter. Think about it—he’s a hero, a star athlete, and not bad-looking. Add puffskeins to the mix, and you’ve hit peak girl crush territory. Let’s just hope Harry never finds out.

Oh, and Colin Creevey was part of their gang, naturally, with his magic camera in tow.

Their little fan club consisted of three Gryffindor girls from Ginny’s dorm, one Hufflepuff (Daisy), Colin, his brother (who hasn’t even started at Hogwarts but already idolises Harry), and Ginny as their fearless leader. They’d meet three times a week at Daisy’s house. No clue how the Creeveys got there—they’re Muggle-born—but Ginny used the Floo Network, with Dad escorting her. I couldn’t fathom what they found so engaging that they couldn’t part ways even for summer. One day, I caught them in the kitchen, painting porcelain teacups with magical designs: lightning bolts, glasses (with Harry’s as the model on the table), Gryffindor scarves, Snitches, Philosopher’s Stones (I think?), and brooms—all moving, naturally. I’ll admit, it was a decent set. Daisy’s mum planned to sell them, and apparently, they sold well. This was their third batch.

“What d’you think, Ron?” Ginny asked, proudly showing me a cup with a messy-haired boy on a broom reaching for a Snitch. Thankfully, he was drawn from the back; they hadn’t quite mastered faces yet.

“Looks nice,” I said. “But don’t you think this is getting a bit much?”

“What’re you on about, Ron?” Colin piped up. “This is for charity—we’re saving up for new brooms for the team. Slytherin’s got state-of-the-art ones, and ours are rubbish. We’ve already made thirty Galleons!”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But why drag Harry into it? He hates all the fame as it is. He’d lose his mind if he knew his face was on every cup. The poor bloke would end up with a complex…”

“Actually, Ron,” Ginny said with a huff, “there’s a souvenir shop in Diagon Alley with six whole shelves dedicated to Harry. That’s where they take foreign visitors for British keepsakes.”

“Really?” I blinked. “What do they even put on six shelves?”

“Figurines, dolls, statuettes, paperweights, colouring books, jewellery boxes, cups like ours, handkerchiefs with embroidered lightning bolts and HP monograms, cufflinks—loads of stuff. Even little toy wands like Harry’s. Don’t you remember? I had a rattle with a baby Harry and his scar on it when I was little. Shame the twins broke it…”

That floored me. Harry’s got plain cotton hankies, and someone else has with his monograms?

“But I’ve never seen that shop,” I protested.

“That’s because you lot always sprint through the alley for supplies, while Mum actually takes me in,” Ginny said, nose in the air.

“Still, Ginny, it’s not right,” I said, shaking my head.

“But the sets with Harry sell better,” Daisy mumbled, wilting under my glare.

“Right,” I said. “Here’s the deal: I’ll give you some ideas to make even more money, but you’ve got to promise not to put Harry’s image on any more of your crafts. I don’t care about souvenirs, but I’m his mate. The last thing I want is for him to think we’re pals because of his fame. Got it, Ginny?”

"Alright," my sister said reluctantly, crossing her arms. "Go on, then..."

"For starters, you lot need bigger mugs, not these dainty cups," I began, letting the ideas roll. "Your problem is you’re only aiming at Gryffindors and Harry’s fans. But loads of people can’t stand him, and most don’t give a toss. No one in Slytherin’s going to buy anything with Potter’s face on it. And anyone who’s already bought a set isn’t buying another one—they don’t need to."

"So what’s your grand idea, then?" Dennis asked. He was easily the best artist of the group.

"You paint mugs in house colours," I explained. "Like, have a Gryffindor scarf wrapped around the rim, fluttering a bit, with a message underneath: ‘To the Best Mate,’ ‘To the Prettiest Girl,’ ‘To the Most Brilliant,’ or something like that. Got it? You split it into themes—romantic ones for Valentine’s, house pride ones like, ‘Ravenclaw Rules,’ or ‘Gryffindor Forever.’"

"Oh, Ron, that’s actually a brilliant idea," my sister said, perking up, and the rest of the group started chiming in their approval.

"Or a sports series," I carried on. "You could draw goal hoops with a Quidditch cup below and write something like, ‘To the Top Keeper,’ or ‘Best Supporter.’ Or even a scarf and a Snitch with ‘Seeker of the Century.’ Get creative! Don’t just stick to your house—if you’re making money, aim at all the houses. Slytherins are loaded and vain—let them splash out on us. And the Ravenclaws? They’ll snap up mugs that say, ‘Smarter Than Merlin,’ or ‘Hogwarts’ National Treasure.’ Make the scarf your signature thing, and you can slap whatever else you fancy beneath it. Even fluffy creatures, like ‘My Puffskein Is the Cutest.’

"You could also do custom photo mugs. Ask Flitwick for the spell to transfer pictures. Paint a nice frame, slap a couple’s photo in it, and add a personalised message. I heard there’s a cafe for couples in Hogsmeade—if you strike a deal with the owner, that’d make for a cracking souvenir. Get the twins involved for advertising—they’re good at this sort of thing and could work out an arrangement with the cafe owner since you lot can’t go to Hogsmeade yet. And leave Harry out of it," I added with a bit of a growl, heading for the door. "Otherwise, I’ll find a way to shut your little club down. Dennis, good to meet you, mate. Hope you end up in Gryffindor. It’s a right laugh," I said with a grin, hoping to leave a good impression.

Merlin, being the older brother to a lovesick teen and Harry’s best mate at the same time was exhausting.

The day before we left, I popped into Percy’s room. I needed to hand over Scabbers. Percy, of course, had his nose in a book again. He’s graduating next year and already dreaming of a career as Minister. For now, though, he’s hoping to become Head Boy. I mean, I know he will, but the poor bloke’s still fretting over it.

"Still scheming your rise to power, Percy?" I teased as he put down his well-thumbed copy of “How Prefects Can Achieve Power”.

"And what’s wrong with wanting a successful career in the Ministry and bringing glory to our family?" he asked sternly, adjusting his glasses. "I do hope you’re not going to mock me like the twins do."

"Course not," I said earnestly. "I’d be chuffed for you. But honestly, Percy, you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think the Ministry’s the way to go."

"And why’s that?" he asked, frowning.

"Because that kind of power is fleeting, and it doesn’t just depend on your talents and hard work," I replied. "It can collapse faster than a house of cards, and you’ll be left with nothing."

"Explain," he said, his frown deepening.

"Alright," I said, leaning forward. "You’re not getting a good job at the Ministry straight off the street, right? Someone’s got to recommend you. Dad, for instance."

"Or Dumbledore," Percy said thoughtfully. "He might write me a glowing reference if I’m Head Boy. And he’s got good relations with Father, so maybe he’d put in a good word for me."

"Fair enough," I nodded. "Hagrid mentioned Fudge listens to Dumbledore, so let’s say Dumbledore recommends you, and you’re hired—not as some basic secretary, but as a personal assistant to a department head. That’s as good as it’ll get, even with a reference from the Chief Warlock himself."

"Alright," Percy said, his brow furrowing further. "And then?"

"You’ll work hard, like you do, but mostly you’ll be sorting mail, fetching tea, and doing the odd menial task. Where’s the glory in that?"

"It’s just the start, Ron," he argued confidently. "If I do my job well, I’ll prove myself as reliable, and eventually, I could become head of the department."

"Yeah, dream on," I snorted. "That’ll only happen if Fudge stays in power, or if Dumbledore and Fudge don’t fall out. If there’s a power shift and Fudge gets booted, the new Minister will bring in their own people for all the top jobs, and you’ll be out of luck. Worse, they might hold a grudge against Dad for backing Dumbledore. Are you willing to go against the family for a cushy position, Percy? Against Dad?"

"Erm… Ron, that’s possible, I suppose... Besides, what other choice do I have?"

"How about Hogwarts?" I countered.

"Hogwarts?" he repeated, baffled. "Are you suggesting I become a professor? Ron," he added with a condescending tone, "what sort of glory would that bring?"

"Do you even know the names of Fudge’s secretary? Bagman’s? Crouch’s?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"No," he admitted, looking confused. "What’s that got to do with anything?"

"Everything," I said, smirking. "Bagman’s been in his position for a decade, and so has Crouch. Even Dad’s been there ages. No one knows their assistants, the ones fetching tea all those years. But every student knows who teaches Transfiguration or Charms at Hogwarts. Around forty kids join every year, and just as many leave. So, Percy Weasley—the ex-Head Boy, top student, and all-around legend—would be a household name in no time. Way quicker than ten years of bootlicking in the Ministry."

"Ron, mind your language," Percy snapped, though he looked pensive. "Honestly, I've never really thought about it like that."

"Well, you should," I said, watching as Percy jumped up and began pacing the room nervously.

 "At Hogwarts, a regular professor earns eighty Galleons and has everything laid on. Meanwhile, a personal assistant at the Ministry only makes fifty. Plus, the prospects! McGonagall isn’t getting any younger, and she’s still trying to juggle three roles. Who’s she going to pass the Head of House duties to? Not exactly a queue of trustworthy candidates, is there? Before you know it, you could be Head of Gryffindor. And let’s face it, Dumbledore’s pushing a hundred by now—Percival Weasley, Headmaster of Hogwarts. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?"

"I’ll think about it," Percy replied thoughtfully.

"Do that," I nodded. "No one's taken Binns’s spot in years. Kettleburn’s been begging to retire for three years straight, and they’ve gone through two Muggle Studies professors since Quirrell. You could even write a book—maybe on wizarding history or Muggle studies."

"Be serious," Percy laughed as he flopped back down on the bed next to me.

"What’s so funny?" I asked, feeling a bit miffed. "You wrote all that stuff about Hogwarts in your notebook. It was so detailed, I felt like I’d already been there. Ginny even used it to get her bearings in the castle before she started. You’ve got talent, Percy, and here you are banging on about the Ministry. You could be bigger than Lockhart—or even Bathilda Bagshot!"

"Alright, alright," Percy said, holding up a hand to stop me. "Don’t take it to heart. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just... unexpected, that’s all."

"Fine, we’ll leave it," I said, relenting. "But for the record, the twins are way ahead of you on thinking long-term. They’ve already got the whole school hooked on their pranks. Everyone knows them, and once they open their joke shop after graduation, it’ll be packed."

No one in the family seemed jealous about my trip. Ginny sulked a bit when she found out Harry was coming along, but Mum wasn’t going to let her come anyway, so she got over it. The twins could’ve come too, but they didn’t want to spend the money. They had plenty of summer orders to keep them busy anyway.

We picked up Hermione and Harry in Dad’s enchanted car—or rather, we flew there. The day before, I rang both of them from the village post office to confirm the time.

Surprisingly, Harry’s relatives let him go without a fuss. He wrote in my notebook that his uncle hadn’t even bothered to lock up his trunk this year and told him to study harder, which apparently shocked and pleased him in equal measure.

I had my own reason to celebrate—this time, no one took my wand off me. Though I did have to have a serious talk with Dad to get there.

"Dad, my best mate’s Harry Potter. He faced off against an unhinged Quirrell in first year, and Hermione got caught in the crossfire. Being around Harry isn’t exactly safe, and you know it. Do you think I’ll be able to fend off trouble with my fists? I’m not planning to mess with Unforgivables or anything, but I need to keep practicing what I already know. I even wanted to ask Charlie to teach us some simple spells while we’re staying with him. And besides, Flitwick gave me loads of work. He says I’ve got a knack for Charms and even gave me extra books. Maybe he’ll take me on as an apprentice someday, and here you are, holding me back with that daft rule. What’s so bad about revising what I’ve already learned?"

"Alright," Dad said after a moment’s thought, relenting. "You can practice the spells you already know, but if you learn anything new, you’re showing me first. I trust you, Ron. Don’t let me down."

Now I feel more confident. I might even ask Charlie to teach me the Patronus Charm—no way am I keen on facing Dementors. Even a little wisp’s better than nothing, isn’t it?

[Chapter 32] Mad Tiger

“You’re so dirty, Namaiki-chan!” Naruto muttered as he scrubbed my back with soap, determined to wash me clean in his tiny bathroom.

At first glance, it looked like just a shower with no walls and a deep basin, but apparently, if you wanted, even an adult could use it as a bath—though you’d have to tuck your knees up to your ears. When the kid realized I wasn’t going to fight him on this whole washing business—no scratching, no biting, just full cooperation—he climbed into the tub with me to make it easier.

“You’d better do a good job. I don’t want to be dirty,” I advised, stretching out a paw for him to scrub. Too bad my favorite brush wasn’t around. Naruto stared at my paw for a moment, as if he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Namaiki-chan?” he repeated questioningly.

By the way, he gave me that ridiculous name within two minutes of meeting me. After I climbed through his apartment window and marched straight into the bathroom, demanding to be cleaned, he decided “Namaiki” was fitting. It means something like “cheeky” or “sassy,” and while I can’t argue that description, “Tora” suits me much better. Did he not notice the stripes on my forehead? It’s obvious—I’m a tiger cub! Tora! But no, he calls me “Namaiki.”

“Oh, you want to know my name?” he said, shaking my paw like a handshake. “I’m Uzumaki Naruto, and I… I…” He faltered, his confidence wavering for a moment. “I live here. And I… I’m going to become Hokage!”

Those words hit me like a jolt of deja vu, itching at my ear. Something about them felt painfully familiar, unsettling. These lapses in memory were starting to worry me. I knew genjutsu didn’t usually work on animals unless they were specifically targeted, and who would bother? Besides, why? Maybe it was the poison I’d been hit with? Could amnesia also be from a psychological cause? Caused by stress? Weird that I even understand what this made up gibberish means…

After the thorough scrubbing, I shook myself dry and allowed Naruto to wrap me in a blanket to properly air out. He held onto me tightly, like he was afraid I’d bolt, and kept filling the air with chatter.

“Namaiki-chan, will you stay with me? I’m so lonely. I should be used to it by now. I’ve been alone my whole life. Always, always alone. But I still feel sad, and I don’t understand why they all look at me like that…”

His voice trailed off, and tears welled in his eyes, which he quickly wiped away.

“Maybe you can’t stay with me,” he said miserably, his head drooping. “Everyone’s so mean… What if they find out you’re mine and try to hurt you? I don’t want anything bad to happen to Namaiki-chan.”

I snorted, leveling a skeptical glare at him. They’d have to catch me first.

“You don’t believe me?” Naruto asked, surprised. “But… I don’t even have food for you. You must be hungry. You’re so skinny.”

I started grooming myself, my fur finally dry enough to sort out. No way I was going to walk around looking like a scruffy puffball. The feeling was oddly unfamiliar, like I hadn’t done this in a long time. And the loose hairs on my tongue? Ugh. But as I checked myself out, I looked more like a ragged stray than the noble feline I should be. A daimyo’s cat, that’s it! Suddenly, images flashed through my mind—a man with a sad but calm face, a restless woman with warm, welcoming knees, and… a boy. The first thing I remembered about him was “obedient.” But something about him wasn’t right. And there was crying—raw, gut-wrenching: “My son, my son…” (1)

“Namaiki-chan,” Naruto’s voice snapped me out of it as he leaned close. “Look, I found a comb. I’ll help brush your fur.”

I purred as he combed through my coat.

“Tomorrow, I’m going back to the Academy. The class should be back from their trip, but they didn’t take me,” Naruto said, a note of sadness creeping into his voice. “The old man said it’s because I can’t control my chakra well enough, so there was no point. But I wanted to go with them. They’re all good kids, you know? I want to be friends with them. And Sakura… I like Sakura.”

What was that about not controlling his chakra? I stared at him, focusing. His scent was a little off, and his chakra flow… something was wrong. It was like—oh, no. Of course! They made him a jinchuriki, and now everything’s changed. Either his body is still adjusting, with his chakra pathways blocked temporarily, or it’s some artificial restriction. A gift from that so-called Hokage, maybe, just in case Naruto remembered everything and decided to tear Konoha apart. Or maybe all his chakra is being funneled into the seal to stabilize him. Either way, the result is the same—his abilities are blocked for now. But I know this is temporary. I’ve seen glimpses—seen the visions of him mastering what every shinobi should. They wouldn’t want a jinchuriki who couldn’t do anything, right? And that “old man” from those visions… Could it be Hiruzen? If he knows what’s happening, is this normal for new jinchuriki? (1)

Poor kid. They’ve taken everything from him: his mom, his home, his family, his friends—even me! They erased his memories, his power, his skills. They rewrote his life. It’s obvious they’re trying to break him, make him depend on Sarutobi, force him to bow and scrape. Well, tough luck! I don’t know how I know this, but they’re not getting my boy. Not on my watch.

“I’ll show them! I’ll prove what Uzumaki Naruto is worth!” the kid panted, doing sit-ups on the floor.

I watched from the bed. Honestly, I was starving, but I wasn’t about to leave him. After nearly ten days of being completely alone, he was clinging to me like a lifeline. Real loneliness—not the kind they’d beaten into his head—had hit him hard.

“Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine… sixty!” he huffed, collapsing for a moment. “I need food, or I won’t manage the next set.”

His stomach growled loudly.

“I don’t know why, but I’m always so hungry,” he said, rubbing his belly. I snorted in agreement. Well, for one, he’s growing. Two, being a jinchūriki must mess with your metabolism. And three, he’s been working out nonstop.

I darted to the kitchen and rummaged through a bag his “dear grandpa Hokage” had dropped off. What a cheapskate! Where’s the real food? Just instant noodles and some sketchy-looking wafers. No way he can live on this!

“Namaiki-chan, do you like noisy bags?” Naruto teased, poking me. “Come on out, I’m hungry.”

“No way,” I growled indignantly. “What kind of junk did that wrinkly fossil leave for you?”

“You’re hungry too, huh?” Naruto sighed, checking the fridge. “I’ve got a little milk left. I was saving it for tonight, but we can share. Friends share, right?”

I climbed out of the bag and looked at him properly. Yep, he’s lost weight. His chubby baby cheeks were thinning out, and his shirt hung loose on him. I rubbed against his legs, purring softly to encourage him.

Naruto poured some milk into a bowl for me. I wasn’t a big fan of milk, but beggars can’t be choosers. As I drank, he heated some water and made himself instant noodles.

“Enjoy your meal!” Naruto said brightly, lifting the lid of a cheap instant noodle bowl. The smell wasn’t bad—no overwhelming artificial stuff like usual. Huh. Weird. Why did I even think about artificial stuff? Licking my bowl clean—the milk really hit the spot—I leapt onto a chair, watching as Naruto wolfed down his food, burning his tongue but refusing to slow down. Then he drained the broth in one long gulp.

“Not much, but it’ll have to do…” he said with a familiar smile, wiping his mouth. “We’ll manage, right, Namaiki-chan?”

“Sure,” I nodded, doing my best to look encouraging.

Naruto reached over to stroke my fur and grinned again.

“You’re such a smart cat. It’s almost like you’re really answering me.”

“Pfft,” I huffed and padded toward the window.

First, I needed to check if anyone was keeping an eye on the kid. Depending on what I found, I had a few ideas.

“You’re… leaving?” Naruto’s voice wavered behind me.

I paused, sighing, and shook my head.

“You’ll… come back, right?” His voice carried so much hope it made my chest ache.

I nodded again, pushing open the window with a paw. I left it open—just in case some ANBU were hanging around nearby.

“Come back soon, Namaiki-chan,” Naruto whispered as I hopped onto the windowsill.

Damn it. They’ve really done a number on him. Sure, he was always affectionate, but now he’s so desperate it’s like he’s saying goodbye forever. Ugh. The urge to pee in Hiruzen’s slippers was almost overwhelming but I gotta do it sneaky-beaky like. Wouldn’t do me any good if I get caught.

It didn’t take long to spot one ANBU lurking on the rooftop of the opposite building. The mask resembled a bird, some kind of beak sticking out—Crow? Sparrow? Hard to say. The guy was clearly bored, though, lazily lifting his mask to yawn. Sloppy work, but maybe there wasn’t much to see here. From that spot, he had a clear view of Naruto’s apartment. The kid, still hopeful I’d come back, had left the window open as he resumed his exercises.

“Yo, Falcon, how’s it going? I’m here to take over,” another masked figure called out, landing on the rooftop about twenty minutes later.

Falcon? Really? Okay then, "Birdbeak," that’s your name now.

“Man, I can’t wait for this surveillance to be over. This has to be the most boring assignment ever,” Birdbeak complained, stretching his arms.

“It’s just a training mission. Don’t forget that. Use it to sharpen your observation skills and enjoy the paycheck,” the newcomer replied philosophically. “Anything unusual to report?”

“Nah, not really, senpai. The demon brat did bring in a stray cat earlier, but it left after a couple of hours. Should I put that in the report?”

“Hmm.” The senior ANBU tilted his head in thought. “There haven’t been any specific directives about animals. Skip it. No need to create extra paperwork. Keep the report concise and to the point. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And one more thing—cut it out with the ‘demon brat’ stuff. Did you forget the Hokage’s orders?”

“Sorry, senpai,” Birdbeak muttered, lowering his head. “But… he really is—”

“Not your concern,” the older shinobi snapped. “Your job is to observe. Running your mouth and leaking chakra all over the place could attract unwanted attention. Understand?”

“Crystal clear.”

“Good. Now get lost, Falcon. Your shift’s over.”

Interesting. So Shisui’s theory about stronger shinobi being more level-headed seems to hold water. Noted. Wait—hold on. That senior ANBU’s chakra feels familiar. Didn’t he used to serve in Kushina-san’s personal guard? And now he’s babysitting trainees? Overkill or paranoia? Or maybe I’m just imagining things at this point.

Fine. I had my answer. The surveillance point was clear, and if they were already considering pulling back the ANBU, that meant the Third Hokage was looking to save resources. Makes sense, I guess. Why waste skilled manpower on a lonely kid?

Still, if they were going to remove the surveillance soon, that would work perfectly for me.

_______________________________________

The previous chapter already mentioned Tora remembering Shijimi and Daimyo so I don’t know why he forgot them here. It could be that I mistranslated chapter 31. It could be that instead of (my former owners, whom I recalled) it should be (my former owners, whom I recalled later)

Also the previous chapter implied that Tora remembered how Hiruzen looked but I am not so sure now. I already sent the message to the author to clarify things. Sorry for this mess.

Daily Updates (26/12/24)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 53

• Tier 2: Chapter 58

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 20

• Tier 2: Chapter 25

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 20

• Tier 2: Chapter is delayed. I just received permission from the author to experiment a bit, so let me cook a little.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 25

Lately, Edgar began hearing troubling news from Irina: she had started hearing a voice; her eyes began to feel a strange warmth guiding her somewhere.

At first, the whispers seemed distant, and the warmth illusory, almost phantom-like. But over time, these sensations became far more distinct. Edgar realized they had a serious problem when his daughter brought him a pair of eyes she found in her quarters.

Eyes who belonged to someone unknown.

"The voice said they were Shabriri's 'grapes'? You didn’t eat them, did you?!"

A cold chill ran down Edgar’s spine. Of course, he remembered the words of the noble Tarnished! Both of them did!

"They seemed so tempting, father..."

He was sure his daughter squinted beneath her blindfold, barely holding herself back. Her voice carried an unsettling excitement, betraying how much she wanted to try them.

Edgar grew even more nervous. The loathsome gatekeeper, Gostoc, who had "come with the territory" from the former lord, wasn’t helping.

"Maybe we knock her out until the lord gets back?" Gostoc offered casually.

Irina froze. Edgar widened his eyes in shock at such a straightforward suggestion.

Meeting Edgar’s glare, Gostoc quickly realized his idea was doomed to fail.

"Suit yourselves," the gatekeeper shrugged.

Gostoc was of the opinion that if they didn’t want to use reliable methods, that was their business. They’d only have themselves to blame later.

Thankfully, they didn’t need to resort to forceful means: news soon arrived of another inspiring feat by the Tarnished—the fall of the Academy of Raya Lucaria and the acquisition of a second Great Rune. Just days after the news of the sorcerers bowing to the throne's claimant, Konstantin returned.

Knowing of the Tarnished's return, Gostoc and Edgar ensured that Stormveil Castle welcomed its lord properly: the perpetually crumbling fortress was patched up (again), tidied (again), and the servants were forced to memorize a special greeting. There was still trouble with sewing new clothes, but knights bearing surcoats adorned with the Sun's emblem were beginning to appear—perfect candidates for the front lines of the greeting party.

It bears to mention that as organizers, they weren’t the worst. The servants... well, many of them were only "alive" in the loosest sense, so an uncooperative populace was out of the question!

Even in a half-dead world devoid of the concept of true death, there were silver linings to be found!

Gostoc, Edgar, and Irina dressed in garments displaying the Sun. They looked surprisingly good, thanks to their new tailor, who, despite his... peculiar appearance, was a true master of his craft.

Speaking of which, a nervous Boc hid among the soldiers, too shy to step forward due to his misshapen form but eager to catch a glimpse of the lord he'd heard about from the maid.

Everything was supposed to go perfectly.

Unfortunately, they didn’t account for the peculiarities of the Tarnished himself.

Gostoc and Edgar would long remember Konstantin’s face as he arrived, accompanied by some escaped convict. Seeing the joyous crowd, the Tarnished froze, muttered "I see," and seemed utterly drained.

It appeared that being surrounded by casuals had sapped the last of his energy.

A demi-human enthusiastically clapped his hands but quickly stopped upon realizing he was the only one reacting.

Boc wished he could disappear into the ground.

Idiot, idiot, idiot... Ugly idiot...

"It’s heartening to see such loyal servants," Corhyn said, clasping his hands in a prayerful gesture.

The awkward silence persisted.

How Corhyn could see with his blindfold on remained an open question for the curious. Then again, the Tarnished were never ordinary people. Perhaps the blindfold was just transparent?

Edgar, visibly growing more irate, was about to shout, but Gostoc took it upon himself to break the tension with a shrill cry:

"NOW GREET YOUR GLORIOUS SUN-FACED LORD, YOU SLUGS!"

Of course, the startled knights had no choice but to comply:

"Praise the Sun!"

"Praise the Sun!"

"Praise the Sun!"

"...Sun... praise..."

A giant with a massive sword on his shoulder bellowed,

"PRAISE THE SUN!!!"

The shout nearly sent Boc flying.

Corhyn, listening to the mix of half-dead cries and uneven shouts, scratched his head.

"The Sun?" the cleric asked, confused.

"Praise the Sun, and then joy," (1) Konstantin replied indifferently.

His thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

Corhyn gave an awkward smile, not fully understanding. What puzzled him even more was that neither Gostoc nor Edgar seemed fazed.

"We’re glad you’re in good spirits, my lord," the gatekeeper said slyly.

Unfortunately, no one bothered to clarify things for Corhyn. The servants, having fulfilled their task, simply dispersed and returned to their tasks.

The curse required constant vigilance over the castle to ensure swift repairs, prevent creatures from invading from the hills, tend to sewing projects, plaster their lord's banner everywhere in sight, and maintain the gardens...

In short, there was plenty to do. The celebration clearly hadn’t gone as planned.

Boc, still too afraid to approach his new lord, scurried off to tend to his own tasks, which had only increased with Konstantin's arrival.

Visually sizing up the man’s proportions, the tailor was ready to get to work!

Before long, Konstantin heard about the appearance of some malevolent spirit haunting Irina. Or whatever it was.

Truth be told, Edgar felt immense relief when he saw their lord spring into action. He felt even more reassured upon realizing that the escaped convict was actually a priest versed in true incantations of the Golden Order who could help heal his daughter.

Edgar was convinced that the Tarnished, though not the most social, was still a compassionate and caring man. He could stop worrying about his daughter.

At least, he wanted to believe that.

"I hate to say this, but... I cannot heal your eyes."

Irina reflexively blinked and then shrugged.

She was used to it.

"Why not?"

Surprisingly, Edgar was the first to ask. Konstantin remained silent, scanning the surroundings.

The man’s gaze, now realizing the danger his waifu had been in during his absence, took on the intensity of a hungry wolf.

"Her eyes are physically healthy," the cleric said with a sheepish smile. "I cannot heal what is already whole."

Edgar frowned.

"Then why can’t she see?"

At first glance, Irina’s eyes seemed perfectly fine: light green, bright, and vibrant. Anyone who looked into them would never suspect she was blind.

Unfortunately, the commandant’s daughter had her own opinion on the matter.

Corhyn was about to answer, but Irina spoke up instead:

"He called me Hyetta.(2) I almost believed him... I-I'm sorry..."

The more Irina thought about what had happened, the more frightened she became. And the more ashamed she felt: the noble Tarnished had warned her, urged her to be cautious.

Yet she had almost fallen for someone’s (or something’s) tricks.

The priest struggled to suppress his emotions: in his own time, a malevolent entity had tried to tempt him in a similar manner, urging him to betray the Golden Order. But he had passed the test of faith.

Now, this same test awaited a young, innocent maiden. Corhyn could only pray for her soul.

Or not.

“I’ll stay here for a while.”

The cold, utterly emotionless voice of the tryhard, which boded nothing good for the offender of the waifu, made the priest flinch.

Quests had proven inevitable enough to threaten ruining his entire playthrough. There was no way he would let that happen, dammit, not under any circumstances!

“Konstantin, I don’t think you’ll be able to do anythi—”

“During my first Sekiro playthrough, I mistakenly cleared out the entire Mibu Village(3) before advancing the main story,” Kosta declared sternly. “You can, and should, kill incorporeal beings with iron. The key is to break their poise. The Corrupted Monk taught me that well. The over-leveled asset reuse didn’t scare me one bit after that…”

Edgar and Corhyn exchanged glances.

Irina remained seated, still and, in a way, serene. Her heart felt surprisingly warm: before this, only her father had shown her such care. She had already been grateful for all the kindness this strange Tarnished had shown her, but now she realized he hadn’t forgotten about her even after everything else.

“I’ll follow you and do everything in my power to accomplish this mission!” Corhyn declared selflessly, unexpectedly performing the Prayer(4) gesture as he knelt on one knee.

However, the devotee of the Golden Order soon began to doubt his decision.

The Sun. At first, Corhyn thought it symbolized the Golden Order. Many scholarly minds (loremasters) believed so, equating the Greater Will directly with the sun, which represented all things golden. The light that seemed to emanate imperceptibly from the eyes of one who had lost grace long ago reminded him of the radiance of grace.

And that was true—but only partly, it seemed, as Corhyn was about to realize. Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, it dawned on the ardent follower of the Golden Order that he was following someone who advocated a different teaching.

He had thought the sun was merely an interpretation of the Erdtree. The light of grace. But it turned out the Sun was the object of worship itself. Corhyn’s heart froze with fear.

He needed answers, which greatly benefited the women watching from the sidelines.

Melina had been pondering for days how to carefully broach the subject of the doctrine her chosen one was inadvertently spreading throughout the Lands Between. She needed to bring it up somehow to find peace of mind.

But, after all this time, she couldn’t simply start interrogating him out of the blue. Her chosen one had spoken of the Sun from the very beginning, and it was her fault she hadn’t taken it seriously enough.

No. Not just her. The blame also lay with a certain sleepy witch! And speaking of witches, of course, Melina was also concerned about the ring. Well, maybe not as much as Konstantin’s teachings… or perhaps just slightly less…

Anyway, it didn’t matter.

“Are you listening to me?” Melina quietly asked Ranni.

“…”

“…Ranni?”

“…yes…”

For the first time, Melina saw the doll yawn. So sweetly and lazily that the false Finger Maiden felt like yawning herself, even though she hadn’t needed sleep in a long time.

Ranni had spent too much energy on her last “prank” for Konstantin, succumbing to her emotions. She needed rest. Unfortunately, there were still a few unfinished tasks she had to resolve before allowing herself to sleep.

At times, Ranni envied Melina’s peculiar form of existence, seemingly free of the shortcomings of her own incorporeality.

As usual, all they could do was watch and wait.

Corhyn didn’t last long. Constantly seeing soldiers pass by clad in the Sun’s regalia (and their numbers visibly increasing!), hearing legends and prayers emerge before his very eyes, and finally, witnessing the strange light in Konstantin’s eyes—less and less reminiscent of the Golden Order’s glow—the priest snapped.

Time, frozen in the stagnant world, gradually resumed its flow.

“I’d like to talk with you, Konstantin.”

Corhyn shrank, like a child before someone large and frightening. In recent days, Konstantin had changed imperceptibly: his gait was different, his body language had shifted, and he now always kept a sword within arm’s reach, scrutinizing every suspicious—or not so suspicious—stone.

It seemed he could parry even the wind if needed, and if not for his self-imposed promise not to use true parries until meeting someone important, he might have already done so.

No dodges. He hadn’t dodged even once, nor did he seem to consider it necessary. The man had even stopped unequipping his armor!

Melina was beginning to think her chosen one was sick.

Any day now, and a strand of his hair might turn gray…

“I’m listening.”

Corhyn flinched.

Even the Tarnished’s voice had changed, becoming colder and more businesslike. Not indifferent and bored anymore—focused.

The direct threat to the waifu, who couldn’t defend herself, had affected him far too deeply…

“I… I’d like to hear more about… the Sun…”

“Be specific.”

“Oh, yes… yes… I… As you know, I’m a priest studying the mysteries of the Golden Order… and I’d like to know the details of this other… doctrine… for… for general knowledge, yes…”

Peeking from behind cover, Melina sighed deeply, feeling her hand reach toward her face.

Ranni yawned.

Corhyn’s question seemed to throw Kosta off his rhythm. For a moment, the man froze, resembling… well, himself.

“What details?”

Now it was Corhyn who froze.

What details, indeed?..

“Maybe… rituals?”

“There aren’t really any rituals.”

They were made up on the spot!..

“Perhaps some rules?”

“There aren’t really any rules.”

“Laws?”

Konstantin shrugged, not knowing how to respond. Corhyn felt increasingly disheartened.

The fanatical priest was offended: how could a budding cult have no foundation?!

Melina, of course, was equally outraged by such carelessness!..

How did her chosen one plan to promote his Outer God like this?! Sure, he was doing great so far, but he needed to think about the future! Things didn’t happen on their own!..

For a moment, Corhyn’s and Melina’s thoughts seemed to synchronize.

“Ugh… Fine… then… what’s the Sun’s ideology?”

Kosta casually shrugged, pulled a helmet from a place only he knew, put it on, and raised his arms to the Sun, pouring thousands of meanings into his gesture.

And none at all.

\[T]/

Standing next to Melina, Ranni showed no reaction to the scene, occasionally raising her doll head and lowering it again.

She was having the hardest time of all.

Corhyn felt something snap in his head. The fanatical priest slumped, his voice barely audible.

“N-nothing at all?..”

“Why not?” Kosta shrugged again, sending the helmet back. “You just find the meaning yourself. No one limits or forces you into anything.”

The now-hopeless Corhyn froze. And not just the priest—Melina as well.

Ranni yawned.

"Limits or forces you into anything?"

Konstantin unexpectedly allowed himself a small smile. He genuinely believed what he was about to say.

And both Melina and Corhyn could feel it. Ranni—not as much. But she yawned again, perhaps a touch more thoughtfully this time.

"I see the Sun as a symbol of hope. Hope that no matter how hard things may be for you, there will always be a ray of light waiting for you at the end. Even in the darkest and gloomiest world. And if it doesn’t exist—then you’ll be the one to create it."

By burning yourself to fucking ash. (5)

Apparently satisfied with his explanation, the man snapped back into combat readiness.

He needed to hurry back to Irina, who was beginning to draw a lot of attention, to ensure nothing bad happened to her.

The attempt by a follower of the ending of destruction to harm his waifu had finally solidified in Kosta’s mind what he would have to do when he reached the Three Fingers.

But first, he had to catch a rat.

Corhyn remained rooted to the spot, stunned by the man’s words. Hidden from view, Melina turned to Ranni.

"What do you think?"

The lunar demigoddess blinked sleepily before giving a brief nod, dissolving into a starry burst of light. The only sound Melina heard from the departing Ranni was a faint, otherworldly yawn.

Melina pursed her lips.

"You’re not interested in my opinion?"

The ironic question came from Sellen, concealed within her usual layered robes.

It was ignored.

The one least troubled by everything merely chuckled, repeating in her trademark dismissive tone:

"What a mess. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you all overcomplicate things too much?"

The fact that the jealous Finger Maiden—intentionally or not—seemed to be keeping her away from the Tarnished only amused her more.

Did they not know that fate favored the patient? Oh no, she wouldn’t be shaken off so easily.

Not long after, Shabriri, the follower of the Frenzied Flame, resurfaced.

And he really shouldn’t have.

(1) In Elden Ring, players can leave messages for one another. Due to the mechanics, full-fledged messages can’t be written; instead, pre-set phrases are chosen, often leading to absurd but amusing results. You might come across something straightforward like “Strong foe ahead,” or stumble upon gems like “If only I had a giant… But hole?” often paired with the phantom of a player nodding contemplatively. The context is determined solely by the situation—or sometimes, there’s no context at all.

(2) Hyetta is a character who appears in place of Irina, the girl dreaming of becoming a Finger Maiden. But not for the Two Fingers. Same appearance, same attire—whoever Hyetta is, she replaces Irina. Some say Hyetta continues Irina’s quest, but unfortunately, they are separate characters with distinct goals. Why does Hyetta appear? Is there anything of Irina left within Hyetta, or is she entirely independent? Is there a direct link between Hyetta and Shabriri? The brilliant game designers don’t elaborate. So, I’ll take the liberty of interpreting the available information my way.

(3) A location in Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice, filled with spirits… and hostile roosters. As in all Souls-likes, players can stumble into areas too early and get wrecked. However, exceptions exist, like players who rush through everything without realizing the difficulty spike, bulldozing their way to the end, only to wonder why clearing Ashina Castle—meant to be tackled first—felt like a breeze. ಠ ಥಥ

(4) A gesture taught by a priest upon introduction. 

(5) One of the possible endings for the Dark Souls series.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 58

“Hello, Mr. Horan. No, we’ve never met. Name’s V. I know you recently had a delicate situation with a blackmailer using the alias Zeitgeist. Well, that problem’s no longer your problem.”

I listened for a few seconds as the cop stumbled over his gratitude, mixing it with curses aimed at the late runner. Then Nathan Horan asked about the files Zeitgeist had stolen from his computer. One of the videos was titled “Corrupt married cop, two Valentinos chicks, and a shit-ton of drugs.” Judging by the stats, the dead runner had watched it seventeen times.

“I’ve got the file, but I’m not gonna blackmail you, leak it, or even watch it. Nah. You’re good. Think of this as me doing you a solid. That said, maybe someday, I’ll need a favor. Good deeds should be rewarded, right? You get me?”

Of course, he got it. Every dirty cop and pencil-pusher in Night City understood how these relationships worked.

“Great. Have a nice day, Mr. Horan. And be more careful with your personal data. Runners are everywhere, and the NCPD’s too busy babysitting the corpos to give a shit about regular folks.”

After a few polite nothings, I ended the call. Another thread in my web. Only now, I wasn’t spinning lies—I was weaving influence.

So. Anyone else left? No. Horan was the last of Zeitgeist’s six recent victims I’d contacted today. The blackmailer himself lay just a few steps away. Or rather, what was left of him.

Jory came to mind. He and the dead runner were similar in some ways—both liked to wreck lives just for kicks. Me? I did it mostly for the money or other benefits.

I had to deal with Jory. Even if his attempt to blackmail me through Lucy didn’t pan out, his spammy cries to NetWatch could fuck me over. I’d only just started securing my foothold here. No way I wanted to run again and start from scratch.

How to sneak Jory past the Blackwall? There was one surefire way: Alt. If I could get my hands on Johnny’s biochip and use it to reach the Net, there was a chance I could get her attention. From there, what happened next matched the fragments of future memories I carried. Meaning, with Alt, I could strike a deal—promise her help with Mikoshi.

However, the problem is that there’s still a month until ’77, and Yorinobu sure as hell isn't an Amazon Delivery service. When he’ll actually decide to swipe the chip from his old man—hell if I know. Probably early in the year, but that’s just a guess.

The second guaranteed way? Songbird. But I already owe her one. Reaching out again is, well, let’s just say… risky. If she starts seeing me more as a liability than an asset, she might actually hand me over to Militech.

Which leaves the third option. No guarantees. I passed the Blackwall once before. I could dive into the Net and try to remember how I pulled it off. Besides, I’ve got Zeitgeist’s netrunner gear right here. Pretty decent setup, honestly, for a street-level hacker. The guy didn’t skimp on chrome, hardware, or software.

"Skimping is for meat," one of Zeitgeist’s absorbed thoughts popped into my head.

He had the same disdain for flesh as Adam Smasher, thought himself above its frailties. Even swapped real sex for braindances. But in his twisted obsession with sadistic stalking, I saw something very “meat.” Cruel, animalistic malice.

Whatever. Philosophical debates can wait. Right now, I need to get practical.

An hour and a half later, I’d moved the equipment and set it up in a rented room. Along with the gear, I brought combat programs—stuff I bought myself, plus trophies from the stalker’s lair.

Outside, a storm was raging. Tiny hail pelted the city like an icy shrapnel bombardment. The local rain reeked of nature’s wrath. Nitrogen and sulfur oxides—generously provided by the industrial giants—turned the water falling from the sky into death for any unlucky plants.

I cracked open the window, letting a damp gust of cold air rush in. Scooping up the top layer of accumulated hail from the windowsill, I jokingly tossed it into the ice bath sitting in the middle of the room.

The depths of the Net awaited me.

As I hooked up the equipment, I ran through what I remembered about passing the Blackwall. Lucy and the other kids from Arasaka’s secret facility had been there. Maybe Delamain originated there—or at least parts of him had tried to get through. The Blackwall can be crossed, though it’s no cakewalk. I remembered the words of the AIs from Cynosure: “You passed. It let you through. It sometimes lets you through, but it always takes something in return.”

I dove in.

The Cyberworld greeted me with a sea of cold lights, woven into endless geometric patterns and shapes. In the real world, a hurricane was tearing through Night City, but here, everything seemed calm. At first glance, anyway. I knew damn well how deceptive the stillness of the Net could be. Time to shed my human form. My essence released itself from the voluntary limits that let me function with a living nervous system.

Different ways of thinking awoke in my memory. Sensations perceived not through physical senses but through streams of data. Volumes of information vast enough to drive a person insane.

I had to readjust to it all and dig through layers of stored memories to find the moment I passed through the Blackwall. There was so much data on the great killer of AIs. For what felt like months—if not years—of real-time, stretched into an eternity in the Net, I watched that killing machine butcher its victims. The Blackwall consumed rogue AIs, absorbing fragments of them. It waged an endless arms race against anyone trying to breach it or bring down the entire structure.

The Blackwall was everywhere the working networks were. But in certain places, its stability—and that of the Net itself—wavered. Abandoned zones, outdated hardware, obsolete protection protocols, extreme conditions that inherently disrupted the functionality of most programs.

After failing to catch Lucy about ten years ago, I had followed her. Fragments of her memories had sparked the remnants of my human past. Like sparks falling on dry fuel, they reignited a desire for life within me. Driven by a strange hunger and a longing to return to the human world, I chased the girl to the point of crossing through the Blackwall.

There, a special zone of instability in the Blackwall had been created. Arasaka’s secret project used a different method to breach it than Songbird. Complex, slow, but it drew far less attention. I’d anchored myself on the other side, but I no longer attacked netrunners. I just observed how they went in and out, and then…

Then my memory was shredded. Only fragments remained. Some even contradicted each other. I remembered the actual crossing as an overwhelming strain that nearly destroyed me. Even in the zone of weakened control, the Blackwall operated with terrifying efficiency. It didn’t just blow minds—it shredded everything in its path. Ripping through informational systems like a predator tearing apart its prey.

I recalled the additional programs I’d created for the breach. My preparation. I’d used an adaptive icebreaker, a schematic I’d cribbed from Arasaka’s runners, alongside multiple layers of masking noise and decoy elements I was ready to sacrifice—like a lizard shedding its tail.

But what had actually worked? Hell if I knew. There was so little information left. Fine. I could adapt these measures for Jory, hand him the schematic, and point him to the best spot for a breach. Best case, he makes it through. Worst case? He gets shredded—but even then, I might still salvage the deactivation key for his messages and a full list of recipients from the wreckage.

It’s worth a shot.

And so I got to work. Time in the Net flowed differently, especially when your thoughts no longer followed human logic.

I didn’t have to go looking for Jory. He found me first, just as I was finishing the software.

“This for me? Really?” His voice dripped with fake surprise, sparking something like irritation in me.

A phantom image of Jory appeared nearby. Not his whole self, just a fragment that had managed to slip past the Blackwall.

I silently sent him a message along the lines of: “I’ll give you the time and place. I’ll use programs to pave the way for your main self. Some parts you’ll have to handle on your own.”

“So dry and curt!” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands theatrically. “Not even a little ‘good luck, buddy?’”

I simply sent him a signal to hurry up.

“Alright, alright! I get it. Guess you’ve got enough company over there. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here, starved for attention. Let’s get this over with! Free me already!”

Let’s get this over with indeed. The sooner, the better.

Without further ado, we began the assault on the Blackwall—or more accurately, an attempt to slip through the cracks in its unstable zones.

Once again, I found myself dangerously close to that raging sea of deadly black ice. The Blackwall shifted, sometimes forming smooth blue lines, sometimes flaring red, oscillating and sending out pulses. Occasionally, for brief moments measured in fractions of a second, the killer AI’s structure seemed to thin out. Its brutal power didn’t fit within the confines of the old, abandoned network elements we were navigating.

Geographically, it was some ghost town in Free California. Damaged, ancient equipment barely kept alive by nomads or other drifters. Like they say in the NUSA, “in the middle of nowhere.” But honestly, “smack dab in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere” feels way more accurate.

Deploying three "Ifrit"-type daemons I’d brought along, I focused on the Walls’s patterns. I felt like a character in an old game or a tomb-raiding flick, standing before a corridor of swinging blades. Watching, waiting, memorizing their rhythm for the right moment to sprint through. Except here, the blades were Black Ice, just as deadly. I needed to crack the code of its cycles.

The Blackwall’s behavior here was driven by two conflicting forces: the directive to remain impenetrable, and the limited power of the rusty-ass network gear connected to this unstable node. This fragment of the Black Wall kept revving up its power, hitting hardware limitations, crashing, then dropping power, only to be prodded again by its neighbors: “You're slacking! Block better! Boost power!”

And so the cycle continued.
Power surge. Collapse. Dip. External directive. Power surge again…

I gave the order to move in just fractions of a second before the next collapse. On the surface, it probably looked like we’d lost our minds, charging at the Blackwall at the peak of its strength. But right before its lethal strike, the system hit its breaking point again. Not the whole Wall, of course—just this local segment. But that was enough for us.

Icebreakers slammed into the weakened structure, managing to carve out what you could generously call… a gap. What I pulled off was nothing compared to the tunnel Songbird had blasted through. My move was more like holding up a collapsing mineshaft with hiking poles.

Thankfully, reaction time in the Net isn’t just something the Wall excels at. Jory shot through the opening. Shot through and…

Got stuck.

If that term even applies to what happens in Cyberspace. But yeah, he couldn’t move past the Walls’s zone. He was bogged down, trying to drag too much data. Jory had stuffed his head with so much shit, it was slowing him down.

"H-h-he-lp me!" his voice echoed in my mind.

I had to act fast.

The Wall’s Black Ice was closing in when…

It felt like an information explosion. The shockwave hit me too, pulling me into the danger zone. The black-and-red chaos morphed into something visual. Fucking Jory and his stupid theatrics—but this time, it might’ve bought us precious seconds, acting as an overclocked smokescreen.

Suddenly, I was in the middle of a hotel room ripped straight out of a noir novel. Red curtains slightly parted. Heavy moonlight spilling onto luxurious carpets. In the dim lighting, Jory’s face looked even paler than usual.

"Do something, V! This won’t hold it off for long!"

"I know!" I snapped, forced to “speak” out loud.

The illusion bogged down my usual signals, making everything sluggish, like wading through quicksand.

"How much junk did you shove into your skull?" I snarled, now resembling a typical hungover private eye. "Drop your ‘treasures,’ or you’ll die here for nothing."

"Shut up, shut up!" the little bastard howled, his face twisting. "You made it through the Blackwall! Get me through too!"

Sure, I’d made it through—but I wasn’t dragging mountains of stolen memories and bloated visualizations with me. What kind of “great riches” was Jory hoarding anyway?

I began a quick scan, trying to push past the illusion to pinpoint the real structure of this space.

Slowly… way too fucking slowly.

The illusion resisted every move I made, like the time Lucyna slipped away from me.

I summoned the Ifrits. All three appeared as classic gangsters from old mafia flicks—black suits, white shirts, fedoras, and, of course, Thompson submachine guns. Tommy guns, .45 caliber.

"It’s here! It’s close! You feel it!" Jory screeched in terror.

I felt it.

The motel—or rather, the entire illusory construct—shuddered. I glanced out the window. The moon and sky were gone. The Wall had come for us.

The illusion had given it a horrifyingly precise form. The “sky” beyond the window was now a wall of intertwined corpses. Skinned, bruised, whole, missing limbs, some even headless. They were all stitched together with glowing red threads, writhing and reaching for us.

The Wall didn’t just destroy rogue AIs—it consumed them. It tore them apart and absorbed their fragments into itself.

Lucyna once told me there were no corpses in the Net, which made it impossible to count how many lives Cyberspace had claimed. But the Wall was the exception. The Great Wall of the Dead.

The mass of bodies smashed into the building, raining down tons of writhing flesh. The illusion crumbled as the Black Ice devoured it, like a horde of starving zombies. Some were already clawing their way through the window. I sent one of the Ifrits to intercept, but it was clear it wouldn’t hold for long.

"We’re breaking through!" I shouted, shifting my thoughts beyond the illusory boundaries.

We both bolted into the collapsing hallway. Stray zombies, separated from the main mass, were already waiting for us. Sharp red threads tore through the walls, stabbing toward us.

I used a Hydra on the zombies and had the Ifrits shield us from the tendrils. Just a little farther…

I remembered Lucyna’s escape from me, mimicking her moves to slip through the illusion to freedom. But it didn’t come without a cost. A couple of times, those red threads grazed me, delivering not pain but something far worse. Probably the same thing Faraday and Sue felt when I shredded their souls.

But…

It ended suddenly. The illusion collapsed, and we found ourselves outside the Blackwall. Strangely, it was eerily calm. Suspiciously calm. Shouldn’t it have reacted with a massive counterattack? Or maybe we just got lucky, hanging on until the sector’s next collapse.

Hell if I know. Honestly, it felt like it let me go on purpose. Those words echoed in my mind again:

"You passed. It let you through. Sometimes it lets you through, but it always takes something."

Why let us through? Why, and what does it take? Hard to believe the NetWatch programmed those functions into it. The Wall’s inner workings were a mystery, even to someone like me—practically immortal.

"I did it! I made it! I’m here!" Jory howled. "I lost so much, but I made it. Thank you, friend! Thank you! I’ll never forget this!" he whined, fake as ever.

I sent him a silent message: “Codes and address.”

“Sure thing, but not right now,” Jory answered with a slimy grin. “I still need a body, remember? A fine, living shell. Then, and only then, I’ll shake your hand and hand over everything.”

Of course. Fine, friend. You’ll get your body.

The hardest part was over. The Wall was breached. Now I just needed to find this bastard a body and, most likely, flatline him the moment he got it.

Daily Updates (25/12/24)

Merry Christmas! 🥳🥳🥳

Stories:

Castling the Long Way:

• Tier 1: Chapter 30

• Tier 2: Chapter 35

Prof. Umbridge:

• Tier 1: Chapter 50

• Tier 2: Chapter 55

Mad Tiger:

• Tier 1: Chapter 26

• Tier 2: Chapter 31

[Castling] Chapter 35

We didn’t get a chance to talk properly. The common room filled up again as students returned, and it got too noisy, so we slipped out and hid behind our oak tree by the lake.

“I started hearing the voice about two weeks ago,” Harry confessed, looking guilty as sin.

“So, you kept it quiet for two weeks while risking everyone else’s lives?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Bravo, Harry. Really top work. Why am I not surprised?”

“No, Ron!” Harry snapped, his face flushing. “The snake didn’t want to hurt anyone. It was just hissing, ‘Master... I can feel the master... soon... soon I’ll find you... I’m coming for you.’”

I snorted. “Right. And that’s all it said? Nothing else?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “It just kept following me. Slithering along behind the walls wherever I went in the corridors. I thought if I ignored it, maybe it’d leave me alone and go back to sleep. But then it started whispering about being hungry… needing food. And then, well, the thing with the cat happened…”

“And your brilliant solution was to go straight to the starving snake?” I scoffed. “You’ve got a death wish, Potter.”

“Don’t take the mickey,” Harry muttered, looking embarrassed. “I know it wasn’t the best idea, but it worked, didn’t it? You can’t imagine how magnificent she is! Massive! Eyes like this—” He gestured dramatically.

“Hang on, why didn’t you get petrified?” I asked, a sudden thought popping into my head. I couldn’t help wondering about basilisk venom and Horcruxes. Trust Harry’s reckless idiocy to work in our favor.

“She’s got this sort of membrane over her eyes,” Harry explained, sounding far too pleased with himself. “She only pulls it back when she’s bathing or intentionally trying to petrify something. But she hardly ever uses it—only in self-defense or on command. And she doesn’t eat petrified animals. She hunts without venom, even.”

“So why’d the cat get petrified, then?” I asked.

“Zara didn’t touch her!” Harry said indignantly. “She told me there’s a vent leading from the Forbidden Forest into her catacombs—for ventilation. It’s got enchantments to lure small prey in—rabbits, voles, other snakes, rats—so she can hunt. But it’s also got a barrier to stop familiars from sneaking through, something like paralyzing charms. Mrs. Norris must’ve sensed the basilisk and was keeping watch. She’s always snooping around and reporting back to Filch.”

“And what about people?” I asked, feeling a chill creep up my spine. It made a grim sort of sense—Mrs. Norris being the first to get petrified when Ginny tracked Zara down.

“The vent’s too small for people to fit through,” Harry said quickly. “And it’s enchanted so wizards and magical creatures won’t notice it. Ron, do you think they’ll be able to save Mrs. Norris?”

“They’ll save her,” I said with a shrug, leaning back against the tree and chewing on a blade of grass. “The mandrakes are ready now.”

“So… do you think they’ll figure out Zara, then?” Harry asked nervously.

“Why would they?” I said with a skeptical squint. “They didn’t last time, did they? Basilisks have been considered extinct for a thousand years, and there are loads of dark curses with similar petrifying effects. Back when Myrtle died, they blamed Hagrid’s pet.”

“You’re joking?” Harry gasped.

“Nope. He spent two months in Azkaban while they investigated,” I said. “He was only thirteen at the time. If Dumbledore hadn’t vouched for him, it’d have ended badly. Even so, he was lucky Myrtle was Muggle-born. If she’d been pure-blood, they’d have executed him outright. As it was, they decided he was too young to blame entirely, so they let him off with a lifetime ban on magic and a job as the groundskeeper, thanks to Dumbledore’s intervention.”

“That’s awful… Do they really lock kids up in Azkaban?” Harry asked in a hushed voice.

“Not wizarding kids, no. But Hagrid’s half-giant,” I said. “The magical community treats him as a beast, not a person. He’s got no rights. As long as he keeps his head down, they act like he doesn’t exist. But give them a reason, and he’d be back in Azkaban faster than you could blink. Giants are treated like creatures—same as Veela and werewolves.”

“But Professor Flitwick’s part goblin,” Harry said uncertainly.

“Goblins are different,” I explained. “They’re a race of magical beings—fierce and proud. When wizards tried to oppress them, the goblins fought back with a vengeance. There were bloody uprisings, then a full-scale war. They wiped the floor with us using their own magic and brute force. In the end, someone bright enough decided to sign a treaty, splitting up power. That’s why wizards begrudgingly respect goblins. Honestly, Harry, weren’t you paying attention in Binns’ class?”

Harry waved me off impatiently. “Never mind the goblins. What about Hagrid?”

“Forget Hagrid for now. What about Zara?” I said, smirking. “You’re dodging the real story.”

Harry sighed. “Fine. Through the wall, I promised her food to get her to talk.”

“And then you showed up in person,” I said, unable to hold back a laugh. I burst out properly when I saw his scowl.

“Prat,” Harry muttered, turning away. But he couldn’t stay cross for long. “Ron, she said she senses part of her master’s magic in me. Without it, she can’t go back to sleep. There’s some sort of charm to keep her young and dormant, but it needs reactivating. She promised to sleep again if we feed her first. But here’s the thing, Ron—” Harry hesitated. “She needs two pigs. Or a ram. Where on earth are we supposed to find those at Hogwarts?”

“Not a problem,” I replied, pondering the options. “We’ll rope the twins in. Only thing is, I don’t have any Galleons—just Muggle money.”

“I’ve got some!” Harry grinned, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Right, but why’s she so hungry if she’s been hunting?” I asked as we made our way back to the castle.

“She hasn’t eaten properly in years,” Harry explained, clearly on the defensive. “Rats and rabbits aren’t enough for her. She needs a proper meal to get her strength up before she goes back to sleep—something to last her a good while.”

“Fair enough,” I shrugged. “But I’ll need you to ask her for some venom. Think she’d give it up?”

“We’ll ask,” Harry said easily, grinning like he’d just won the House Cup. He was absolutely chuffed with himself—new adventure, pet basilisk, the whole nine yards. Honestly, the bloke’s got no sense of self-preservation, and don’t even get me started on the hero complex. Now he’s not just the Boy Who Lived; he’s the heir of Slytherin, or close enough. Absolutely mental.

The operation kicked off by the end of the week. The twins didn’t let us down, though we had to get creative.

“Fred, George, got a plan,” I said, pulling them aside. “Need your help.”

They shared a look, smirking. “Go on, then. If it’s trouble, we’re in.”

“Here’s the idea,” I began. “We get two pigs in Hogsmeade. Quietly. Harry and I’ll release them in the girls’ showers near Herbology. Pigs go mental, girls run screaming out half-dressed, and then—bam! Colin with his camera. Filtch’ll lose it chasing them down. Serves him right; ever since Mrs. Norris got restored, he’s been insufferable.”

The twins howled with laughter, but it wasn’t like I’d invented the idea. Older students had been pranking each other in the showers for years. Snakes, mice, even magical concoctions to attract cats—nothing new there.

“Brother George,” Fred declared, feigning a tearful sniff, “our little Ronniekins is all grown up.”

“Indeed, Brother Fred,” George replied, clapping me on the shoulder. “We thought you’d turned out like Percy—no fun at all.”

“Alright, pay up, Ron,” Fred said once they were done taking the piss out of me. “Six Galleons for the pigs, three for an enchanted bag.”

“George,” I added, trying to sound casual, “could you grab me four neutral crystal vials while you’re at it? Five ounces each, with white stone stoppers.”

“What for?” George asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Gifts,” I lied smoothly. “End-of-term stuff. Can’t exactly nip out of school myself.”

He seemed satisfied, though the fancy vials weren’t cheap. I winced, handing over the coins, but at least I didn’t have to fleece Harry for the money.

After exams, we made our move. Most of the students had cleared out for the afternoon, so Harry and I slipped down to the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry checked that Myrtle wasn’t in her toilet before opening the passage, and down we went. To this day, I don’t know what possessed me to go along with it. Maybe I figured the basilisk wouldn’t attack since Harry had that bit of Voldemort’s soul in him. If she thought he was her master, she’d obey. Still, I had to wonder—if I got my hands on the diadem Horcrux, would she listen to me too? Pity there weren’t any books in Hogwarts about this sort of thing.

The basilisk was massive—way bigger than I’d imagined. I’d pictured something as big as the Hogwarts Express, but she wasn’t quite there. Still, at least fifteen meters long and twice the girth of an anaconda.

When she spoke to Harry, I could barely hear it—a faint, hissing whisper, like air escaping a tire. But when Harry answered, the sound was louder, sharper. It hit me then—they weren’t just speaking out loud. It was more... mental, like they were in each other’s heads. Did Harry even realise?

She gave up the venom easily enough. Apparently, she didn’t need it for hunting—just for defence. Salazar Slytherin had even left a contraption for collecting it: a massive stone bowl with a slab in the middle, like a tombstone. The snake bit down on it, and the venom dripped into the basin.

The amount was staggering—nearly a litre of thick, green venom. Way more than I’d expected. Safe to say, the operation was a success.

The basin had a stone channel underneath, which let the venom flow neatly into a container—but only when you placed the flask properly on the platform. It was all very precise, thank Merlin, because even though I’d brought my dragon-hide gloves, they wouldn’t have helped much if even a single drop splashed. One wobble, and I’d be done for.

Turns out, I’d wasted my money on those flasks—there were loads already here, clearly meant for venom collection. We ended up with five and a bit flasks, each holding five ounces.

After that, Zara had her meal. It was...mesmerising to watch, though Harry went white as a sheet, and I felt a bit queasy myself when the pigs started squealing like mad. The moment we let them out of the bag, they expanded to full size and woke up properly. Looked like Fred decided to make Filch’s life extra hard and got wild, hairy black hogs—proper loud and quick on their feet. Harry and I scrambled onto a statue while Zara elegantly snapped them up, two gulps each. I reckon she could’ve fit a couple more in, easy.

While Harry was settling her down to sleep again, I poked around the Chamber looking for shed skin. All I found was a scrappy bit about a metre long, snagged on some jagged stone where she’d slithered past.

The skin itself was a surprise. I’d thought it’d be tough like dragon hide, but it was thin—almost like parchment—except stretchy, a bit like nylon. I rolled it up, and it ended up no thicker than a towel. There wasn’t any more to be found, though. Tom must’ve nicked the rest ages ago, and the bit near the exit was so old it crumbled at a touch. I left it alone.

I also found a broken tooth—not a fang, mind you, but still sharp enough to do the job. Figured it’d work just as well as Gryffindor’s sword if the situation called for it. You never know—maybe just pouring venom on a Horcrux would do the trick, but stabbing it might be necessary. Best to have both options. I tucked it away carefully to avoid cutting myself.

In the end, I didn’t collect much in the way of trophies. What I did have, I stashed in my bag with the Undetectable Extension Charm.

At least the skin wasn’t radiating any dark magic. If it had been, I’ve no idea how I’d have smuggled it out. Even so, I wasn’t sure if it was actually worth taking. Maybe I was lugging it around for nothing.

The twins were easy to deal with. I told them Snape had caught me and confiscated the pigs, then given me detention cleaning cauldrons. They had a good laugh at my expense and said it was too early for me to try pulling stunts on the older girls. Then George winked and, lowering his voice, promised to teach me a few proper tricks when I was older.

As for Mrs. Norris, she was unpetrified in no time. There was a bit of half-hearted investigation into who might’ve cursed the cat, but no one really cared. Filch had plenty of enemies, and wizards aren’t exactly known for being kind, even to their own. A cat didn’t stand a chance. The whole thing blew over quickly, though Filch became even more insufferable, prowling the castle and nitpicking over every little thing.

Meanwhile, I had other priorities. About a week before we left for summer, I snuck into the Room of Requirement under Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. I was hunting for the diadem but came up empty-handed—even after returning a couple more times. Maybe it was charmed to avoid detection, or maybe the Room itself couldn’t guide me to it. Whatever the reason, it was frustrating.

Eventually, I roped Harry into coming along. He was gobsmacked by the sheer amount of rubbish in there, but we had a good rummage. I stayed close, counting turns off the main path while he explored. Along the way, I destroyed the Vanishing Cabinet, just in case.

And then, just like that, Harry stumbled on the diadem. He didn’t think much of it, plonked it on some random bust that already had a wig, and stuck the Horcrux on top. Then he wandered off, as if it were no big deal. Looks like Horcruxes are drawn to each other.

After dinner, I went back alone, checked the diadem with my magic, and didn’t sense anything too dodgy—just the neutral hum of an enchanted object. I picked it up, turned it over in my hands, but resisted the faint urge to try it on.

It hit me that Tom probably had a system with his Horcruxes. Some, like the diadem, were designed to influence people—to make them wear it obsessively or scribble in the diary without a second thought. Those were meant to act as beacons, giving the fragment of his soul a way to regain a body or take over someone’s. That’s probably why they weren’t heavily protected—because their job was to seek out a host. Like when Lucius slipped the diary into Ginny’s cauldron, following instructions from the Dark Lord himself.

The rest, though, were his backup plan—properly hidden and well-defended, like a paranoid maniac’s emergency supply. By then, he was full-on Voldemort, completely unhinged. But it’s all guesswork. I’ll never know the truth.

Anyway, I set the diadem on the floor and poured venom over it. Didn’t go overboard, but it was a shame to destroy something so beautiful. The venom hissed, the jewels darkened, and the delicate metalwork melted. A high, keening scream rang out—like that of a terrified woman—and black smoke billowed from the diadem before it cracked in two. And that’s how I destroyed my first Horcrux.

The cleanup was the worst bit. Venom had seeped into the floor, along with some nasty black goo, and I couldn’t just leave it. Someone else might stumble across it—like Trelawney in a drunken haze—and that’d be the end of them. No way I was taking that risk.

I had to carve out a chunk of the floor with magic and burn it in magical fire. Then I spent ages rinsing the diadem to dilute the venom before drying it off and tidying everything up. Finally, I used the Chamber of Secrets to get rid of the remains, chucking them into one of Zara’s tunnels and sealing it with rubble.

The last few days before the holidays were packed. We said goodbye to Hagrid, Harry had one last scuffle with Malfoy, and we hung out with Hermione in the library.

The train ride home was a laugh. In just a week, we’d be off to Romania, and Harry couldn’t shut up about it. He kept asking the same questions about Charlie and the dragons, and Hermione listened like it was all brand-new.

Dean got invited to stay with Seamus, and Neville was off to visit his uncle—the same nutter who once chucked him out of a window. Personally, I wouldn’t go near a bloke like that, but wizards...well, they’re wizards.

[Prof. Umbridge] Chapter 55

Potter came to serve his detentions with Ingebjorg a few more times, but she merely shrugged at Marina Nikolaevna’s questioning looks. The forced viewing of memories led nowhere, and soul-searching conversations (of which the old Seer was a master) didn’t help either.

“She said she’s never encountered such an impenetrable specimen,” Marina Nikolaevna shared with Snape when he dropped by with yet another idea for optimizing the curriculum.

It was a minor issue, but the discussion dragged on, as this small problem, like a grain of sand in clockwork, affected nearly all the teachers.

“Your systematic approach could do wonders in peacetime!” Marina Nikolaevna said in exasperation when they attempted for the eighteenth time to reshuffle the schedules for all seven years, accounting for the four houses and conflicting class times. “And really, calculating all this manually... it’s absurd. We need a programmer! I’m sure a machine could create a timetable in a minute if we provided the correct input data.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about Muggles and their technologies,” Snape remarked, glancing at the pile of scribbled notes. “This requirement for mandatory Muggle Studies, watching their chronicles, reading their literature...”

“Severus, if we survive, I’ll make sure Muggle subjects are added to the curriculum,” Marina Nikolaevna said seriously. “By the way, don’t you ever get tired of reading clumsy essays? Or correcting arithmetic errors in their potions calculations?”

“I admit, it’s only through extraordinary willpower that I resist committing mass murder,” he confessed. “Dolores, they can’t even handle the simplest proportions! That’s why I wrote out recipes for reduced cauldrons so meticulously back then. Because if they’re already periodically blowing up classrooms, what would happen if they had to calculate potion compositions themselves?”

“Maybe they should first calculate it on paper before attempting to brew?”

“And who’s going to pay Slughorn for the extra teaching hours?” he asked reasonably. “My senior students don’t need this anymore, but now he’s stuck with the juniors—thanks to Dumbledore! Speaking of him… Any news?”

“Nothing. It’s like he vanished into thin air,” Marina Nikolaevna said, spreading her hands. “Or rather, dissolved into the autumn mist...”

‘Seeking, so far without any success, a wizard who’s a hundred and twenty, they say, at a guess,’ (1) she couldn’t help but think, but kept the joke to herself. Snape likely wouldn’t understand it, especially in translation.

“Typical of him,” Snape muttered darkly. “I’ll bet he’ll show up at the most inconvenient moment. I’d stake my wand on it.”

“You shouldn’t joke like that, Severus,” Marina Nikolaevna said seriously.

“I remember. I shouldn’t joke at all,” Snape smirked, unconsciously touching his left forearm. “But what’s the point now? The plan failed, didn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so. Perhaps we should have staged it more dramatically. Let’s say… Potter could have found the vial of memories under Dumbledore’s pillow in the hospital wing, fought his way into his office, and seen something he supposedly wasn’t meant to see. But we, boring adults, ruined everything. He saw it, but he didn’t believe it.”

“You know, Dolores,” Snape said quietly, “if I were in his place, I wouldn’t have believed it either. I’d have said such a thing couldn’t be true because… well, it simply couldn’t be true. If I’d been told for years that my father was a wonderful person, an excellent student, a loyal friend, and a true champion of the light…”

“But that would only work if you didn’t remember your father,” Marina Nikolaevna said cautiously.

“Exactly. I remember mine all too well. But Potter doesn’t. He’s only seen photographs. And even Black can’t tell him what James Potter was really like. He doesn’t know himself. All he has are nostalgic memories of their school years and a couple of years after Hogwarts. And who’s to say those memories aren’t partially fantasized? He’s had plenty of time for that, hasn’t he?”

“Well, so did you,” she countered, “except you weren’t in Azkaban, but at Hogwarts. And Black was much closer to Potter than you were. You only saw the… ahem… less flattering side of their group, while he saw the rest. You don’t know what James Potter was like as a friend, husband, or father, after all!”

“No matter how wonderful he was with Black, Lily, and his offspring, it still doesn’t outweigh the memory of being stripped in front of half the school!” Snape snapped unexpectedly. “Just because someone got bored...”

“Severus,” Marina Nikolaevna said, “I wouldn’t have believed it either.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I…”

She bit her tongue just in time, stopping herself from saying she hardly remembered her own parents, had only seen them in photographs, and had been raised by her aunt. Snape might have been, to put it mildly, surprised.

“What?”

“I didn’t even know what my father really did,” she said instead. “I spent my whole life thinking he was… well...”

“A nobody?” Snape suggested delicately.

“Close to it. A janitor at the Ministry—what a stellar career, wouldn’t you say?”

“Better than a housewife to a Muggle alcoholic.”

“You never talk about your parents,” she said after a pause.

“What’s there to talk about? They’re both dead. You’ve seen where I lived.”

Marina Nikolaevna nodded silently.

“I haven’t been back there in years,” he said for some reason. “Not since she died.”

“And what…?”

“I don’t know,” he interrupted. “I just don’t know. I returned from holidays and found out… found out she’d already been buried. In a pauper’s cemetery.”

“And there was no one to ask?”

“The neighbors didn’t know; no one cared about anyone else there. And my father…” Snape grimaced. “You can’t even use Legilimency on someone like him—I tried later, once I’d learned how. It doesn’t work on those who drink themselves into blackouts. One moment he had a wife, and the next, she was gone, and the bills stopped being paid.”

“My mother is a Muggle,” Marina Nikolaevna said. “And as for my father, you’ve heard…”

“I’ve not only heard, I’ve seen him,” Snape suddenly smirked. “Did you really not suspect who he was?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t want me to know.”

“He must care a lot about you.”

“Apparently… If he forgave me after everything I did...”

“Love is a foolish thing, isn’t it?” he said, looking off to the side. “I never understood why my mother married a Muggle. But fine, even if she had some great, otherworldly love for him, why couldn’t she have rid him of his drinking, stopped him from raising a hand to her—or to me? It would’ve been so easy!”

Once again, Marina Nikolaevna bit her tongue to avoid mentioning her brief marriage. Her husband hadn’t been a binge drinker, but still...

“I don’t know, Severus,” she said. “I’ve never felt anything like that for anyone. Affection, attraction… nothing more. I can’t judge from the outside. Now, it’s impossible to know what happened, why you lived… like that.”

“In poverty,” he said, clutching his temples. “In terrible poverty. I wore my mother’s hand-me-downs. Do you know how much they mocked me at school? I mean at the regular school, the Muggle one.”

“I can imagine… but this can be fixed…” Marina Nikolaevna stopped mid-sentence. “Oh, but who am I kidding? It’s not fixable, is it? Look at the Weasleys—I’ve heard plenty about their living conditions, and both parents are competent wizards! I don’t get it!”

“I heard from the neighbors that my father was a decent worker before he drank himself into ruin, and the factory paid fairly well. That’s why I can’t figure out what went wrong,” Snape muttered, shaking his head so his long hair obscured his face. “It’s enough to make you believe that blood traitors lose their magic. Marry a Muggle, and that’s it. It all fits, doesn’t it? The children survive—take me, for example, or even Voldemort, who’s also a half-blood through his father...”

“You are both powerful wizards, and your mothers are no longer alive, although they came from ancient families? And the more gifted the child, the earlier the mother dies. Is that what you are getting at?”

“Exactly. Why not? It’s a solid theory. The magic passes to the child—usually the only child—and leaves the mother with nothing, not even enough to live a full life. But if a wizard marries a Muggle woman, this doesn’t happen. At least, I’ve never heard of it.”

“True, my parents are an example of that…” Marina Nikolaevna mumbled and made a mental note to pass this idea to Percy—he should gather statistics on mixed marriages.

“You can exclude the Weasleys from any analysis. They’re just… reckless, both of them,” Snape scoffed. “Completely incompetent with finances. Besides, Molly’s alive and kicking.”

“So, we’ll exclude them,” she sighed. “And we’ve strayed far from the topic.”

“Which one? The timetable, or…”

“Or!”

“I have no suggestions on the latter,” he said, spreading his hands. “We’ve gone over the situation countless times and concluded: Potter won’t believe these memories are mine, even if I danced the jig naked in front of him and immediately dropped that scene into a Pensieve!”

“I wouldn’t mind watching…” Marina Nikolaevna muttered under her breath.

“That’s not funny!” Snape snapped. “You know that, Dolores!”

“I’ve got a terrible sense of humor, can’t help it…” she admitted, burying her head in her hands. “Severus, do you have any ideas at all?”

“Not a single one. But… I took an oath. I can’t break it. Though I’d very much like to simply poison Potter so he doesn’t have to suffer! I can’t do this anymore—I’ve been at it for fifteen years…”

The door banged open with a crash.

“Then just do it already!” Potter’s voice came from the doorway, thick with emotion. “I can’t take it anymore either!”

“You forgot to add ‘sir,’” Snape quipped. “And the magic word.”

There was a long pause before Potter finally said:
“Please, sir.”

____________________________________________________

• It is a reference to a poem by Samuil Marshak, “The tale of a hero nobody knows”. This is translation of the first stanza of the poem done by Peter Tempest:

                                                    Where can he be?

                                            They are scouring the city-

                                            Reporters, photographers,

                                                      Firemen, militia…

                                   Seeking so far without any success

                                     Someone who’s twenty, they say,

                                                            At a guess

Here is the full translation: https://archive.org/details/tale-of-a-hero-nobody-knows-soviet-children-s-book/mode/2up

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 31

Every critter in the village knows me, but thankfully I’ve had to stay hidden from humans, not critters. Shisui mentioned that, as a subtle remnant of the Uzumaki family, I’m effectively unrecognizable to most. Since memories of the Uzumaki family were suppressed for everyone, the only one who might identify me would be Asuma. Even then, he’d only recognize me as the daimyo’s cat at best—if I slipped up. Otherwise, I’m a total unknown.

Minato thought of nearly everything. With Sarutobi’s help, the archives were wiped clean. Even the Hokage’s names were always kept secret; they were referred to by their titles—Shodaime, Nidaime, Sandaime, Yondaime, Godaime. Connections, supply routes, trade, and contracts were all managed through the neighbouring city’s - Otakuku’s logistical office. Those who knew of Kushina-san’s role were either in the village at the time and caught in the genjutsu’s radius, intimidated into silence, or outright eliminated during the “palace coup.” 

By morning, a few more officials had been quietly taken out—likely because they either refused to cooperate or were inconvenient to the Sarutobi clan. Then, the clan itself became victims of the demon’s chakra, suppressing their memories and allowing them to forget their own misdeeds. 

In the end, only six people knew what really happened: Sarutobi Hiruzen, who reclaimed his title as the Third Hokage; his son, Sarutobi Asuma, who orchestrated the purges and palace coup; the daimyo and his wife, Minoruhi and Shijimi (my former owners, whom I recalled, coma made a total mess out of my memories); and Uzumaki Kushina and Uchiha Shisui, who were supposed to have died that night. Oh, right—seven. There’s also that masked man who assisted Minato.

Even the animals couldn’t reveal what had happened. For one, nothing really changed for them. Sure, there was a red moon, and their owners stared at the sky for five minutes before going about their business. Second, animals don’t care much about politics or who’s in charge of their human companions, they wouldn’t mention that out of their own volition. And third, even the ninken wouldn’t have the vocabulary to explain something so convoluted, like how the entire village had been manipulated to remove their Hokage and create hatred for a new jinchuriki.

While the children weren’t brainwashed to hate Naruto, their memories of him as a good friend and classmate were sealed, ensuring his complete isolation.

The new jinchuriki’s environment had been meticulously planned—except for me. Cats are usually tied to their territories, so if I’d been near the Uzumaki residence when it was destroyed, I’d likely have been killed. But whoever orchestrated this either didn’t know I existed or forgot about me thanks to the technique. If not, well, Shisui explained that Naruto had been relocated to a tiny apartment near a boiler station, almost diametrically opposite to his previous home. So even if my continued existence was considered they’d think of me as an ordinary cat, who would have stayed in his old territory, instead of seeking out his owner.

But I’m far from ordinary.

Minato’s plan was solid, but it faltered when he used an untested sealing technique—one he had no way to verify. His vision of reclaiming the Yondaime title and raising his son is now impossible. Naruto is left alone in a village that despises him. Kushina can’t intervene, weakened as she is, and burdened by the same hatred.

I respected her even more when she made Shisui promise never to tell Naruto the truth—that his father was behind it all. She insisted the boy should keep his bright memories of a man he saw as a hero. That’s what good parenting looks like. Naruto’s life is hard enough; having his ideals shattered could be devastating.

Our plan was straightforward: I would look after the kid while Kushina-san and Shisui searched for allies and ways to undo the seals and hatred. Personally, I decided I’d try to awaken the children’s memories of Naruto as their friend. Complete isolation, with only an elderly, “kindly” Hokage to feed him, is a depressing existence. The kid needs support, and I intended to offer it—even if it’s just a furry shoulder to lean on… Wait, do cats even have shoulders?

Shisui carried me to the edge of the Forest of Death. I wasn’t yet back in full form to deal with the monsters there, who might think I looked like an adorable, fluffy chocolate treat on legs. I didn’t mind the ride.

“Good luck, Tora-san,” Shisui said, giving me a quick pat before setting me on the grass.

I immediately bolted toward the Hokage Monument, heading away from any place that could compromise me. My target: a village where one face—one very important face—was now missing from the mountain.

At the Shinobi Academy, I hit a wall. Apparently, for some incomprehensible reason, Naruto’s class had been sent on a field trip immediately after the festival. Only after several hours of eavesdropping on the teachers did I glean the truth: the “demon child” had been excluded, which the adults rationalized as “for the best.” Apparently, the parents would have protested against their kids being exposed to “danger.” To me, this screamed of an attempt to solidify Naruto’s image as an outsider among the children. Monsters.

I ran toward the boiler station. There were plenty of buildings in that area, but Shisui had described a brown-roofed, three-story industrial building where Naruto lived alone in the attic, with no neighbors.

It took me a couple of hours to find the place. At first, I ran right past it—I mean, who would expect Naruto to live above a boiler station? But then I noticed two large, shiny windows that stood out from the rest of the structure. Something about them felt oddly familiar.

Peering through the windows, I noticed something strange: the shutters were designed backward, as though flipped inside out. Anyone could enter Naruto’s apartment through the window—there were handles on the outside, just like on the inside. Clearly, this wasn’t a mistake by some clumsy installer. It was intentional, making it easier to monitor Naruto or access his home. I tested the handle and pulled; the window opened silently and with minimal effort. No one was home.

The apartment smelled like Naruto. There was also the faint scent of recent renovations and instant ramen. I explored the space: one bedroom with a bed and two small wardrobes, a tiny kitchen with a stove, table, and mini-fridge, a bathroom with a toilet and shower. The furniture was sparse, and most of it didn’t seem to belong to Naruto. The fridge—an appliance I’d mastered opening back in the Uzumaki household—contained only a carton of milk. On the table were a few packs of instant noodles.

I exited the apartment the same way I’d entered, closing the window behind me. Most likely, the surveillance wasn’t on the apartment itself but on Naruto. Now I needed to find him.

But first, I planned to scout the local residents and establish my territory. Unfortunately, I didn’t get far. As I circled the block, I sensed a strange spike in chakra and heard shouting.

“Don’t you dare come near my son, you little monster! Stay away from him!” shrieked a woman, her voice shaking with rage. The sound alone was enough to make my fur stand on end, and a sinking feeling gripped my chest.

In the alleyway, I found my little chick—Naruto—cornered by several adults. They had him trapped against the wall, their expressions grim, while he glared back at them from under his brows, defiant yet vulnerable.

“I didn’t do anything!” he yelled, his voice cracking so sharply it almost brought tears to my eyes. “Why do you all treat me like this? I didn’t do anything! I hate you! I hate how you all look at me!”

He took a single step forward, and the crowd recoiled, parting like a wave. The adults were trembling, but it didn’t look like they’d resort to violence—yet. The kids stood nearby, watching with wide eyes, their confusion evident. They began whispering among themselves, mimicking their parents’ unease, murmuring things like, “Something’s wrong with that boy.”

Naruto broke free of the crowd and ran toward home. It was gut-wrenching to see him like that, isolated and confused, struggling against a world that seemed determined to crush him.

And as I watched him go, a strange unease crept over me. This… this felt too familiar. Like I’d seen it all before. Like I’d been here before. But how? Why?

No. Focus, Tora. Stick to the mission.

I darted back to his apartment, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. As I approached, I noticed two figures just outside his window. I crept closer, pressing myself low to the edge of the parapet, listening intently. That sickly sweet voice was unmistakable—the so-called benefactor had come for a visit.

“Please, can you at least tell me my parents’ names?” Naruto’s voice trembled with desperation, raw and heartbroken. “I just want to know their names…”

“That’s not important, Naruto,” the elder replied smoothly, his tone so infuriatingly patronizing it made my tail lash. “Your parents have been gone a long time. Knowing their names won’t change anything.”

I could practically see Hiruzen Sarutobi’s wrinkled face, his kindly “grandpa” smile, as he spewed this garbage.

“Then why does everyone treat me like this? What did I do to them?” Naruto’s voice cracked again, teetering on the edge of a scream.

“What do you mean?” The old man feigned surprise, his voice dripping with false concern. “You must be imagining things. Maybe it’s because you’ve been a little mischievous in the past, hmm? Some people might be upset about that. But don’t worry, Naruto. If you ever need anything, you can always come to me. You know I’ll help you.”

The door clicked shut, and through the window, I saw the distinctive white triangle of Hiruzen’s hat bobbing down the street, his stride calm and measured.

And yet again, it hit me—that gnawing feeling that I’d seen this before. Like I was trapped in some kind of deja vu loop. What was this? Was I some kind of clairvoyant cat now?

Before I could get my thoughts in order, the window creaked open. Naruto leaned out, his face tired and drawn. Then he spotted me, his expression lighting up just a little.

“Oh, hey there, kitty,” he said softly, his voice carrying a tentative warmth. It seemed he’d come out for some air and ended up finding me instead.

Daily Updates. Merry Christmas Eve!

Happy Holidays, everyone! 🎉🎉🎉

Stories:

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 52

• Tier 2: Chapter 57

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 19

• Tier 2: Chapter 24

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 19

• Tier 2: Chapter 24

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 24

Konstantin couldn’t say whether he was particularly surprised to see Rennala handing him a Great Rune. It glowed in her hands, distorting the surrounding space with its unnatural divine grandeur, capable of bending the very laws of reality. It was irresistibly alluring, begging to be claimed. And Kosta, seeing no reason to refuse, reached out for it.

The Rune flared and, like a golden thread of energy, was absorbed into him, becoming a part of his body. Surprisingly, he could feel how one fragment complemented the other and vice versa. The Tarnished sensed a strange energy resonating from the two fragments, feeding him, filling his body with strength, and further boosting his stats.

All the fatigue from using casual energy vanished as if it had never existed.

“You didn’t have to give me this Rune.”

Rennala, clutching the amber egg in her hands, shook her head gently, stroking her husband’s gift.

“Weave your Sun into my daughter’s night, dear. Night has no meaning without day.”

Konstantin’s actions and words couldn’t easily heal her madness. But they achieved something else: they reached what little remained of the queen and gave her hope—relief and liberation she had awaited for so long.

Perhaps, if her daughter ever overcame her fear and tried to help her mother herself, the queen might truly be healed. But for now, it was too soon to speak of such things.

These matters were usually resolved closer to the endgame.

“Understood,” Kosta replied solemnly, nodding firmly.

It seemed he had done everything right.

Was it just his imagination, or had he received something akin to a blessing?

At the exit, he was already awaited by numerous sorcerers—a whole crowd of casuals, among whom were the crimson wolf and the Carian knight, both now restored to their senses.

Kosta surveyed the casuals, who didn’t seem in a hurry to attack, and then, trusting some strange intuition, donned the robes of a sorcerer. In one hand, he held a staff glowing with the power of a true hardcore casual, while in the other, two resonating Great Runes spun in harmony.

The man raised both hands toward the Sun and, marking his complete and total victory, shouted:

“Praise the Sun!!!”

And, whether they wanted to or not, the casuals joined in, raising their staves to the Sun and shouting alongside him.

A satisfied Melina turned to the silent Ranni.

“He’s looking more and more like a true king.”

More so, even, than the first king!

Through pain and tears (or perhaps just her own), the chosen one grew, not only in strength. The false Finger Maiden felt like dancing with joy.

For his deeds, she was ready to forgive him all his peculiarities—even that ring…

Her faint smile dimmed slightly.

The ring. She had almost forgotten about it.

“Lost in other thoughts, my lady?” Sellen teased with a sly smile. “Will I be getting my reward?”

“I don’t recall you helping my servant much,” came Ranni’s quiet, grumbling reply, almost causing the sorceress to laugh.

Who would have thought the mad Tarnished would be so determined and bold? Sellen hadn’t enjoyed herself like this in ages. It seemed she’d been lacking company these past few years.

At last, life was filled with some color.

“I’ll ask Konstantin if I was helpful,” Sellen’s illusion smirked, noticing Ranni’s ghostly face glowering at her with displeasure.

Truthfully, she was a little nervous about provoking Ranni. Though the queen’s daughter appeared quiet and, in some ways, even shy, it hadn’t stopped her from becoming the main instigator of the madness engulfing their world.

Of course, as long as she didn’t cross certain lines, a little fun wouldn’t hurt.

“You will receive a new body and leave us,” Ranni declared.

Sellen’s smile froze. She opened her mouth to respond, but Ranni had already vanished in a starry flash, considering the conversation over.

Naturally, such a development didn’t sit well with the sorceress.

Her illusion turned its gaze back to Konstantin.

Oddly enough, even in such a peculiar company, the Tarnished remained, in his own way, the central figure. Though he succumbed to persuasion and manipulation, he always ended up doing things his way. If he thought something needed to be done, he would do it.

And most importantly, her presence clearly wasn’t unpleasant for one of the most powerful sorcerers in the Lands Between. If Konstantin didn’t mind her company, the lunar demigoddess wouldn’t do anything to expel her. She simply couldn’t.

At least she wouldn’t turn her into a disco ball, worst-case scenario.

Konstantin, as if sensing something, turned his gaze toward one of his waifus. The instinct for rolling screamed inside him, urging him to roll out of there immediately.

Unfortunately, the power of waifus was the only thing that could halt the Tarnished’s rolls, and it remained to be seen what actions they would take next.

For now, though, he needed to deal with this crowd—and figure out a way to slip away unnoticed.

The crowd of casuals, whom he had inadvertently proclaimed himself the casual overlord of, was grating on his nerves, acceptance of casualness or not.

Sadly, Kosta’s standing in the Roundtable Hold had changed yet again. Old twin maidens approached him like a favorite grandson to say hello. Gideon emerged from his office, shook his hand with a sly smile, and asked no questions about what happened to his servant. Ensha, as if he’d never existed, was completely forgotten.

Rogier, acting like an old casual buddy, patted him on the shoulder.

“Who’d have thought you wield sorcery, Konstantin!”

Honestly, the warrior-mage was a bit offended. So, the magic-hating warrior turned out to be a sorcerer himself? Then what was all that negativity toward him about?

Still, Rogier preferred to shove his indignation deep down, not daring to provoke the powerful madman too much. He wasn’t a complete fool…

“How about a friendly duel later?” the sorcerer quirked an eyebrow.

Of course, he didn’t expect a positive response, but—

“Sure.”

Rogier chuckled with delight.

He was genuinely pleased that his relationship with the mad Tarnished had slightly improved.

After Rogier came Fia, who embraced him with a radiant smile, entirely unconcerned about what others might think.

“Your greatness radiates such warmth, my sun.”

Fia’s whisper was loud enough for everyone to hear. Roderika nearly wanted the earth to swallow her from embarrassment. For various reasons, the rest didn’t care.

Konstantin remained as stoic as ever.

Neither Rogier nor Fia lingered long, quickly returning to their own tasks. After all, it wasn’t just Kosta who needed to move their questlines forward.

For the first time, the man saw D, the Hunter of the Dead, along with Brother Corhyn and the Knight Diallos in the Hold. They must have hurried here specifically to greet the new wielder of two Great Runes.

Quests broke before they even started. Such was the nature of first playthroughs without guides: things happened, nothing made sense, but it was incredibly fun. Most importantly, he had to find a way to avoid getting stuck during his progression.

“I'm known as D. I hunt down Those Who Live in Death, and weed their Deathroot.”

The stern, cold words from beneath his helmet sounded like a warning. Fully armored, he seemed to have just returned from hunting the undead.

As Fia departed, she gave a piercing look at D, her expression brimming with thinly veiled disdain.

"Konstantin, but you can call me Kosta."

"I couldn’t care less who becomes the next king," D suddenly declared. "As long as they don't defile the Golden Order. My only goal is to heal these lands, nothing more. Remember that. Now, I must take my leave."

Kosta could only shrug in response.

In his own way, he was a follower of a creed too. The creed of waifu. As such, he regarded other fanatics of varying doctrines with a strange mix of understanding and indifference. His only concern was that they didn’t tarnish the honor of waifus.

With that parting statement, D left, evidently convinced he had fulfilled his duty.

Next on Kosta's list was someone he had been curious to meet for some time — Brother Corhyn.

Kosta had to admit, Corhyn looked even stranger than he remembered from the game: shackles around his neck, his eyes obscured by a cloth bandage, raising the question of how he could see at all, barefoot, and dressed in filthy rags that seemed more fitting for an escaped convict.

Corhyn himself looked malnourished and painfully thin, giving the impression of a madman desperately in need of help. The priest's wide smile only worsened the effect, making him seem more unsettling than pious.

If Konstantin didn’t already know that Corhyn was a decent guy, he might have hesitated a hundred times before asking him for anything. But Kosta did have a request.

"What an honor!" Corhyn exclaimed. "A Tarnished who has gathered two Great Runes! Such a thing hasn’t been seen since Vyke!..."

The nervous laugh that followed, combined with the oppressive silence in the hold, made it clear this was not a topic to dwell on. Konstantin understood everyone's unease: Vyke, a cut, mangled character who still somehow made it onto the game's cover, wasn’t exactly a pleasant subject. And what became of him? Reduced to a minor boss most players could stumble upon without realizing who they’d killed. As for the fate of his Great Runes, players wouldn’t learn much of anything either. (1)

Thankfully, Corhyn quickly pivoted.

"I'm Corhyn, a man of the cloth. I teach incantations, the strength granted us by the Two Fingers, and explore the secrets of the Golden Order. So that one day, if a Tarnished of the Roundtable Hold should become Elden Lord, I might counsel them, ensuring order regains its proper form, righting rule over men. By the way, do you still see it? The guidance of grace."

Corhyn’s unexpected question, paired with his deranged smile, made Kosta blink in surprise.

He thought this was common knowledge by now.

Kosta noticed the weary Gideon rubbing his temples as he observed the exchange, clearly exasperated by the incompetence of freeloaders.

"Yes," Kosta replied.

"You do!" Corhyn clasped his hands in a prayerful gesture. " Wonderful news. Most Tarnished are blind to it these days. You are something of a rare breed. Well, what do you say?"

Corhyn’s smile suddenly became more slippery, like that of a street scammer about to con someone out of a handful of runes.

"Care to learn an incantation of the Two Fingers?"

Had Corhyn approached Konstantin before he accepted the casual nature of things, he might’ve regretted his offer. Fortunately, the current Konstantin had embraced his role as the unspoken casual overlord, so he took the priest’s suggestion in stride.

"Do you have healing prayers?"

He didn’t fully understand how prayers worked in this world, but he assumed it all tied back to casual energy. At least, that’s how it seemed in his case. Thankfully, he was no lore nerd obsessed with mechanics.

If it worked, it worked. Why overthink it?

"Of course!" Corhyn said with glee. "I—"

"I might need your help healing someone," Kosta interrupted.

Although Konstantin couldn’t see Corhyn’s eyes beneath the bandage, he was certain they lit up. Not in a bad way. (2)

"I’ll do everything I can! In that case, I’ll remain here in the hold until you’ve resolved your issues. Haha!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Kosta noticed Gideon’s scowl deepen. The Tarnished’s mood improved slightly.

A pleased Corhyn departed, presumably to settle into his assigned quarters.

Finally, the last person Kosta was waiting for appeared — Diallos, the knight. Although calling him a knight was rather generous.

"An honor to meet you, illustrious Konstantin! I... uh..."

Diallos seemed to be searching for a grand introduction, but he quickly realized that among the Tarnished, formalities were meaningless. Besides, Konstantin, despite his unassuming appearance, wielded two Great Runes and, more impressively, had single-handedly claimed not only Stormveil Castle but the entirety of Raya Lucaria Academy. As pitifully diminished as they were in this Age, Kosta’s accomplishments were undeniably significant.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, Kosta was either unaware of his influence or simply didn’t care. Why bother? Waifu quests and farming took priority. The rest could wait until the endgame.

"Call me Diallos," the knight finally introduced himself plainly. "The honor of one's house holds little import in these lands…"

Diallos sighed, visibly saddened.

"Your deeds inspire me, Konstantin! I’m honored to meet such a noble warrior!"

Kosta felt an itch to scratch his nose.

Diallos shook his head dramatically, as if rehearsing a scene from a play.

Konstantin quickly realized this was just a prelude to what truly interested the knight.

"By the way, have you met a young woman named Lanya on your travels? She's my servant, but fickle as the wind. Take your eyes off her for but a moment and she's good as gone.  If you find her, please be sure to tell me. I will be eternally grateful. Though… Perhaps your retainers could..."

Gideon, who had been watching, placed a hand on Diallos’ shoulder. The knight snapped out of his rambling and quickly backtracked.

"Ah, yes, apologies... I must continue my search. It was a pleasure meeting you..."

Diallos hurried off.

Kosta watched the disoriented knight leave, feeling a twinge of pity. While Melina wasn’t the best example, if she had suddenly disappeared and he later found her corpse, he wouldn’t even know how to feel.

Rolling through the culprits wouldn’t be enough to settle the score.

He strongly doubted Diallos’ servant was still alive but decided he could at least try to fulfill the request.

"Don’t mind him," Gideon remarked with a wry smile. "He’s a poor excuse for a knight."

"I believe he simply hasn’t found his calling yet," a timid voice interjected.

Roderika’s words made Gideon glance at the girl in the red hood. His smile grew even more strained.

"Perhaps. Well, I must be going. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Konstantin."

The worst part was that Gideon genuinely seemed pleased.

"Where’s Nepheli?" Kosta asked.

Gideon raised his bushy gray eyebrows.

"Somewhere on the lower floors. How disgraceful, she didn’t even come to congratulate you."

Gideon seemed lost in thought for a moment.

"A determined plebian is more wicked than an Omen horn, quite frankly. I suspect... that's just what the Queen wants (3). A dose of ambition, to incite the Tarnished. Ah! Don’t forget to meet with Enia and the Two Fingers."

It was incredibly hard for Konstantin to stop himself from rolling right then and there. Only the realization that he would have to deal with the consequences of his actions later gave him the strength to hold back. Unfortunately, few would understand if he suddenly decided to attack their dubious yet undeniably effective leader, who had managed to unite them under a single banner.

Apparently satisfied that he had said everything he wanted to, Gideon left, leaving Konstantin alone with Roderika.

"Your feats both inspire and terrify me, Konstantin," Roderika sighed deeply, still dwelling on how Fia had... congratulated him. "Thank the heavens you're okay..."

Kosta could see how uneasy Roderika was. It seemed like every time she saw him, she felt smaller and more insignificant. A worthless coward.

It was physically difficult for her to stand in the presence of someone who, wearing nothing but a loincloth in battle, had nonchalantly taken down an enormous Castle, an entire Academy, and acquired two Great Runes on top of that.

Could a poor commoner ever feel comfortable standing before such an influential noble? Roderika felt something similar standing near Konstantin.

A noble who loved stripping down in battle, but hey, everyone had their quirks. His strength allowed him to do things others simply couldn’t.

And truth be told, Roderika wouldn’t have minded if Konstantin decided to strip down even outside of battle...

Her face suddenly flushed to match the crimson of her hood.

"You still haven’t found your calling?" Kosta asked gently, noticing the far-off look on her face.

Clearly, it was time to nudge her questline forward.

"No..." she answered hesitantly, snapping back to reality. His reminder brought her back to a grim, depressive mindset. "But I won’t give up!"

Roderika clenched her fists. However, the trembling in her hands made it clear that she was close to giving up entirely.

She had no talent for wielding weapons, no aptitude for sorcery, and even prayers eluded her. It was as if the Greater Will had decided to make her a completely, irredeemably hopeless Tarnished.

"You have a gift," Konstantin said firmly. "You just need to keep trying and not give up. Maybe stop by the blacksmith later. I think he can help you."

Roderika blinked in surprise.

The blacksmith? Help her?

"I... I’ll try... I-I think I should go now... It was nice seeing you, Konstantin..."

She hurried off, leaving Kosta alone by the massive convergence of grace.

Naturally, his business in the stronghold wasn’t finished yet. Konstantin had grown far more comfortable dealing with people who weren’t actively trying to kill him. Well, mostly.

First, Konstantin headed to the blacksmith.

"Well, look who it is—bearer of two Great Runes," Hewg muttered, glancing up. "Not that it really matters. Go on, hand over your weapon."

Konstantin blinked.

"I already gave you a sword."

The blacksmith blinked back.

"Right. That rings a bell..."

Deciding not to push the topic, Konstantin silently pulled out a sizeable pile of smithing stones from somewhere known only to him. Not just one or two—he dumped them in a heap before Hewg.

Kosta didn’t fully understand how weapon upgrades worked in this world, so he figured it was better to over-farm materials and let the blacksmith sort it out.

"Well, I’ll be damned..." Hewg muttered, genuinely surprised. "Where did you find all these?"

Smithing stones weren’t just junk lying around. They possessed supernatural properties, carefully and deliberately crafted, created specifically to grant even mundane weapons the ability to harm spiritual beings.

They were so valuable that slaves were often forced to mine them endlessly.

"Any experienced Souls player knows to comb through an entire area to find one useless feather and feel completely satisfied."

Of course, Kosta had spent some time exploring caves where they were mined. Even though, unlike the game, these caves were eerily empty, he always managed to find veins of ore.

Meli-Meli was often shocked by how easily he stumbled across these forgotten caves, as if they weren’t procedurally generated locations meant to waste an hour of his life but ancient treasure troves lost in the wake of the demigods’ wars and the subsequent apocalypse. (4)

Obviously, Konstantin wasn’t too fond of caves. But he still needed a reliable weapon.

For now, he relied on “consumables” like increasingly fragile swords, clubs, and, as recent experience had shown, hammers that couldn’t withstand his growing strength. But that couldn’t last forever—if his hammer had broken before he managed to demonstrate Radagon’s moveset to Rennala, he’d never have forgiven himself.

He was determined to reach the endgame, even without upgrading his weapons, but having alternatives wouldn’t hurt. After all, challenges shouldn’t interfere with helping waifus. The waifu’s light came first—everything else was secondary.

Kosta’s serious, confident answer left Hewg scratching his head. The blacksmith didn’t fully understand what he’d just heard.

In any case, where they came from didn’t matter anymore.

"Madman," Hewn declared, chewing on his lip. "Got it. I’ll take care of it."

The blacksmith was about to turn away, assuming their conversation was over, but Konstantin had come for more than just upgrades.

"What do you think of Roderika?" he asked.

The surprised blacksmith raised an eyebrow.

"She’s despondent and barely knows how to swing a sword, but she’s got a knack for strengthening spirits. I’ve seen her kind before, long ago. They’ve got the same eyes."

Konstantin nodded thoughtfully, realizing he could safely move the quest chain forward. Roderika had gained a little fame and left a positive impression as a diligent—if not particularly skilled—waifu.

“Can you help her?”

Hewg practically jumped.

“Are you out of your mind? Who’d stay with an ugly brute who only knows smithing? Nonsense,” the blacksmith grumbled, hunching further—if that was even possible. “Besides, she’d never agree to such a thing…”

It was clear the smith wanted to help the poor girl but couldn’t overcome himself.

“In that case, if she comes to you on her own, will you agree?”

Hewg frowned.

“Comes to me on her own? I refuse to believe that.”

Konstantin shrugged.

He’d done all he could. Now, it was up to the waifu herself.

Next, Konstantin descended to the lower levels of the fortress in search of Nepheli. Due to the sheer size of the structure, this wasn’t an easy task. But fortunately, he eventually found her.

As usual, the real challenge for a Soulslike player wasn’t defeating the boss but navigating the location itself.

Nepheli sat against the wall, staring into the void. Naturally, she noticed Konstantin.

“I heard you’ve acquired the Second Rune…”

Konstantin shrugged indifferently.

“You could say that.”

“I couldn’t bring myself to congratulate you, Konstantin…” Nepheli sighed. “I’m sorry, but… please, leave me alone. I know that…”

“Gideon drove you out.”

Nepheli flinched.

No one was supposed to know that yet, but apparently, no one had told Konstantin.

“So you know already, do you?” she exhaled deeply. “Right. It's true. My father cast me out. For indulging my emotions. Forgetting the mission. Punishment for offing his pawns…”

She had sought justice, answers. But instead, her father—no, Lord Gideon—simply and unceremoniously disowned her. She had served him for as long as she could remember.

Now, with the arrival of the Tarnished, whose appearance had already become a symbol of sudden and sweeping changes, her story took an equally unexpected turn.

She bore no grudge against the Tarnished. She couldn’t. Living on in blind ignorance would have been far worse. Sooner or later, she would have faced the truth—though perhaps in a far more horrific way.

Still, knowing the truth didn’t make it any easier.

“Father...rather, Lord Gideon has offered me guidance all my life. I would have done anything for him, to place him on the throne of Elden Lord. And yet I... Though it was not my intent... I betrayed him...”

“You didn’t betray him,” Konstantin disagreed. “Your only fault was letting yourself be used. You’ve realized that, and now you can move forward.”

Konstantin understood Nepheli: waifus unexpectedly turning into real women also hurt the heart of a waifu fan. Whether it was heightened perception or simply that he had woken up enough to adapt to reality, he noticed how the women tried to lead him down their own paths.

Be it Melina, Ranni, Sellen, or even Fia—he obviously knew their actions had motives. Not ones that would end badly for him, but if he fully followed their lead, one or all of the waifus would eventually suffer.

To get his own ending, the tryhard Tarnished had to undertake the hardest challenge of his life: aligning the waifus’ goals, whether they wanted it or not. Making them agree—or at least avoid open conflict.

Their personal desires, as much as it pained Kosta to think so, were secondary.

At times, the Tarnished felt it would be easier to do a no-walking Soulslike run (5) than to get the waifus to consider each other’s interests.

Nepheli remained silent for a while. Of course, the Tarnished’s confident, supportive, and strangely understanding voice sparked a faint hope in the warrior’s heart.

“…I need to think…”

Konstantin nodded sternly.

He decided not to rush the quest and truly give the warrior-waifu time to think. He knew how to finish the quest properly.

Finally, he visited the Finger Reader and the Fingers themselves.

“Well, well… I had my doubts, but...my, look at you.,” Enia chuckled quietly. “Only once before have I seen two Great Runes together. Look there. The Fingers shudder with exuberance.”

Konstantin could indeed see them trembling. He was increasingly convinced they just wanted someone to scratch them.

However, Enia interpreted the Fingers’ movements differently:

“Fine work, brave Tarnished. The Greater Will is pleased. You have earned the right to become Elden Lord. Now, seek the Erdtree, and an audience with Queen Marika. To become Elden Lord, and restore the Golden Order. The Fingers expect… As much from you as they do young Gide—WHAT?”

Enia stared, stunned, as Konstantin handed her a spiked club.

“Scratch them.”

“What are you…”

The Fingers trembled even more violently, as if begging for relief. Enia’s mouth hung open as she wordlessly accepted the club.

The atmosphere grew awkward in an instant. The Fingers shook like never before, demanding someone finally scratch them. Enia cleared her throat.

“Go now. Claim the power of the Ring.”

Shrugging, Konstantin headed for the exit.

He still needed to gain the priest’s support, visit Stormveil Castle, and then…

Well, he decided to play it by ear. A full encounter with the waifus awaited him after obtaining the Second Rune, and he didn’t like how reluctant they seemed to make contact.

His instincts told him that while he focused on the main storyline, the world was preparing trials that no Soulslike player could ever be ready for.

And yet, progressing without, well, walking somehow felt easier…

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(1) Initially, Vyke was planned to have a separate chain of quests. Apparently, FromSoftware later realized that they did not have time for that, and cut out all the quests related to him. Thus  leaving in the game only bits and pieces that create serious plot holes in the existing lore, which can only be connected through incomprehensible jumps in logic and giant assumptions.

(2) The Flame of Ruin, (TN: I assume that’s the flame the Author was talking about, I couldn’t determine if I translated this correctly just through wiki) the main enemy of the Erd Tree, appeared to Corhyn. Fortunately, the priest was able to resist its influence.

(3) Gideon hints that their path is some kind of plan of Marika, and Nepheli is a part of it. However, Gideon's real thoughts, of course, are completely different.

(4) It's easy to confuse one cave with another, in the game they are basically copies of one another. As you pass through each cave, you will either think that you have already explored it five times.

(5) This is not a random example, such unhinged challenge runs really exist. Note: https://youtu.be/watch?v=hIA4KYiHHlU

[Life is Good] Chapter 24

The funeral was rough on everyone. Sandy had been a lively, sociable girl, someone people liked and gravitated toward. Tears flowed freely as they said their goodbyes. The little kids bawled their eyes out, and honestly, the teens and adults weren’t far behind. Storm, who’d practically treated Sandy like her personal protege, stood off to the side, utterly deflated.

And me? I felt guilty. Really guilty. And I wasn’t alone in that—most of the adults carried a similar weight. You could see it in the awkwardness, the stiffness as they bid farewell to the girl. Me, though… after that dream, I couldn’t shake the irrational fear that Sandy would suddenly look at me and say something. I knew it wasn’t going to happen, but the thought still made my skin crawl.

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The next few days were a mix of heavy thinking, intense training, and the occasional chat with Xavier. Once McCoy had organized her workspace, I was subjected to lab tests as well. Final exams had been postponed until the following week, so my preparation was more of a “review it so I don’t forget” situation. I didn’t exactly abandon socializing, but I cut back a lot. I stuck to the basics: breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the girls, and a couple of hours hanging out after the last meal.

Logan seemed almost impressed during training. He even joked—or maybe not, who knows with that face of his—“Kid, you should’ve shaved your head ages ago. Don’t know how, but it looks like it added a couple of brain cells.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking; his perpetually stoic mug made it impossible to figure out.

Kristi was an absolute rock through all of it. I wasn’t exactly spiraling into depression, but my thoughts were far from cheerful. Meanwhile, my little demoness was like a walking, talking generator of good vibes. Not fiery and wild like Jubes, but sweet, gentle, and full of care.

On the second day, Yuriko unexpectedly joined the training sessions. Unlike Logan, who split his attention among everyone, she focused solely on me.

Yuriko was a mystery. Always nearby, but almost unnoticeable. Silent, with an expression that screamed “I couldn’t care less.” I used to think Wolverine and Sabretooth were the reigning champions of resting bitch face, but Oyama left them in the dust. Her face looked like it was carved out of stone, as if her facial muscles had simply given up on existing.

Talking to her was like a game of charades, except with less excitement. A series of nods, a shake of the head here and there, maybe two words at most, and then she’d just stop acknowledging your existence altogether. Even Jubilee, the queen of endless enthusiasm, had her spirit crushed after a “conversation” with Yuriko. Jubes spent half an hour after that encounter wandering around like a deflated balloon.

Yuriko didn’t hold back during training. Sparring with her was like stepping into a meat grinder. She’d knock me flat, offer a short, concise explanation of where I’d screwed up, and then we’d go again—rinse and repeat for hours. She took over my striking drills too, correcting even the tiniest mistakes I made. On top of my usual strength and flexibility exercises, she added a couple dozen brutal new routines. Honestly, I wouldn’t have survived that regimen without my enhanced abilities.

Through trial and error, we discovered something interesting: if I got completely wiped out, practically on the verge of collapse, then “recharged,” I’d feel significantly better as my energy reserve filled back up. Within a few minutes, my energy levels would rebound to almost normal, though it drained about a sixth of my full reserve.

That breakthrough, combined with the upgrades to my thermal manipulation and energy vision, had leveled me up across the board. My kinetic shield now held up better against Colossus’ hits, with noticeably less sensitivity—probably down by about a third. I could hold my breath for 18 minutes straight now. Hell, I even suspected I could go longer without food since my power fed energy directly into my body, though McCoy advised against testing that. Energy is great, she said, but your body still needs raw materials to work with.

My energy reserve had tripled, judging by recharge times, but I wasn’t satisfied. I ran recharge-drain cycles as often as possible, constantly pushing myself. Every session, I’d fill my reserve until I felt the uncomfortable buzz of oversaturation. The idea of pushing it through the limit crossed my mind, but McCoy talked me out of it.

Experimenting with Beast also revealed an interesting aspect of my thermokinesis: I had two modes. One heated the immediate area, while the other focused on a specific object or person. This explained the burning punches and explosive hits I’d been landing. When I wanted to punch a hole through someone, the heat acted like a laser cutter or a lightsaber. But if I wanted an explosion, the surrounding area would heat up instantly, causing steam explosions from rapid liquid evaporation.

This led McCoy and me to theorize that I might be able to manipulate energy at a distance. With her guidance, I started working on refining my thermokinesis.

Mutant abilities aren’t always easy to control. For most of us, it’s a simple on-off switch—like Colossus, Kitty Pryde, or Quicksilver. Others have abilities that are always active, like regenerative healing, Cyclops’ optic blasts, or Rogue’s life-draining touch. Then there are those whose powers operate on instinct, like Toad, Wind Dancer, or Beast.

But the most dangerous mutants? They’re the ones who have mastery. The Xaviers, the Storms, the Magnetos.

It’s not just their power—it’s the precision they wield it with. Take Professor X, for example. He could confuse you, erase your memories, control your actions, or pull some Lelouch-level “obey me” stunt. Just thinking about telepaths that strong is enough to make my butt cheeks clench like a car crusher. Thank God my abilities make my mind off-limits to their shenanigans.

My goal was to reach that level of control—not just understanding what I could do but knowing exactly how to do it. It’s like learning which specific muscle to flex so you don’t fart but instead create, say, a plane of superheated air a meter away. Or a makeshift lightsaber equivalent.

I wasn’t quite at the “holy shit, that’s amazing” level yet, but I was getting somewhere. For instance, I learned to sustain a high-temperature field. At first, I needed a physical object to anchor the effect, but once it was established, I could maintain it with ease. I also figured out how to control the heat flow. Imagine a sphere with an internal temperature of 1,000 degrees, but the air right outside it feels normal.

Not groundbreaking yet, but it was progress. I could maintain these heat fields up to 11 meters away— at the limit of my current “energy vision” range. Any farther, and the heat would just dissipate.

Alongside playing with heat, I somehow managed to release electricity. And guess what helped me figure it out? Not physics textbooks, which I had tried to bury myself in, nor Hank McCoy’s meticulous explanations about the nature of electricity. Nope, it was Star Wars and Emperor Palpatine. Frustrated as hell after repeated failures at "rational understanding," I jumped out of my chair, chucked the book into the corner, and screamed, "YAFUUUCK! FUCK THIS SHIT!" All while imagining the iconic Sith blasting force lightning from his outstretched hands.

Did I achieve a dramatic cascade of lightning bolts from my fingers? Of course not. Instead, I ended up covered in sparks that fizzled out into the metallic floor. Thankfully, I was in one of Hank’s specially prepped rooms, so no one got hurt. After a few more attempts, I managed to replicate the result, but I still couldn’t control the electricity.

Hank, however, was over the moon about our experiments. Her theories about energy transformation were confirmed: my power apparently absorbed any kind of energy, converted it into some neutral, universal form, and stored it in my "battery." Then, I could transform it back into specific types of energy as needed. She suspected that my "kinetic shield" was a constant energy layer emitted by my body. Before the Stryker facility ordeal, it must have been running on autopilot, likely influenced by my subconscious desire for comfort and safety. That same desire kept the shield from becoming absolute—after all, living life unable to feel, hear, or see anything would be hellishly inconvenient.

Regarding my "energy vision," there were two theories on the table. One was that it was my “sixth sense” that worked as long as I was conscious, while the other was that it worked like an "energy sonar," sending out impulses in short intervals, similar to how bats navigate. Hank leaned toward the first theory but hadn’t ruled out the second.

By Friday evening, Hank wrapped up the lab sessions, promising we’d resume on Monday. She also requested to be left alone over the weekend because she was visiting her husband. Wait for it… Frederick J. Dukes. Yep, Blob. I walked out of the lab feeling like someone had smacked me over the head with a dusty sack of bricks. That pudgy connoisseur of all things furry—married to Hank? Talk about plot twists. What a canon development! I had vaguely heard rumors about him dating outside the usual roster of misfits like Toad, but details were scarce. And here I thought Jubilee would’ve spilled the tea ages ago. Guess not even she can crack the enigmatic silence of Sabretooth’s squad.

Dinner that Friday was, as usual, a pleasant affair with the girls. Post-meal? Kisses and cuddles with Kristi. Saturday brought a visit from my parents and Ginger. After lunch, they all arrived for a few hours, and it was pure bliss. Mom Judy clung to me, ignoring my protests about being fifteen. G screamed like a banshee as she jumped on me, and Mom Betty wrapped things up with some heartfelt maternal hugs. Absolute serotonin overdose. I gave them a quick tour, introduced my new friends, and formally presented Kristi as my girlfriend. Surprisingly, they didn’t grill her like they did Penny. Maybe it was just the time constraint. Mom Betty gave me a curious look, though, and Mom Judy told the "blue one" to keep an eye on me.

My new shaved-head look drew mixed reactions: awe and gasps from the moms and outright cackling from Gigi. Little menace. I’ll get my revenge later. Penny, it seemed, had been worried after the news broadcast, and Mom mentioned she’d be visiting soon with Sophie. We’d finally get to catch up.

I reassured them all that I’d likely get communication devices soon. Since Stryker’s debacle, the mansion’s defenses had significantly improved, and my location was no longer a secret. Soon, I’d be able to stay in touch with family and friends, including Penny. The adults were still deliberating, but Charlene had hinted in our last chat that the decision would likely be favorable. By evening, my family left, leaving me basking in a warm glow of nostalgia.

Later, while lounging in the common room, I was floored yet again. A news segment showed Spider-Girl—in the classic red-and-blue costume—capturing some criminals.

There I sat, eyes wide and jaw practically smashing through the floor. The most intelligent thing I managed to say? "Holy shit! What the fuck!" Jubilee, ever the nosy one, tried to pry details from me, but I brushed her off and staggered to my room. Sleepy time was close anyway, and I was too stunned to discuss it rationally with anyone. Was it Parker, bitten who knows how, or where, or when? Or Gwen Stacy? Or some random nobody? Damn it, Tzeentch, you trickster god—this has your fingerprints all over it.

Shaking my head, I grabbed my textbooks. No use speculating with so little information.

Sunday rolled around, bringing a casual morning of stretches, breakfast, and training. By mid-afternoon, Rogue and I had plans for a date. Kristi had shrugged off the news earlier that week with an amused comment: "Anna-Marie doesn’t have any other candidates, anyway. Who else would survive the first kiss?" She even hinted that she’d be happy if I pursued something romantic with Rogue. However, she firmly declined a group date, nervously fiddling with her tail and mumbling about not wanting to scare people or ruin the mood with the public’s reactions.

So, here we were—Rogue and I walking to a small cafe near a bank. The stares directed at my bald head were annoying as hell. A group of one dude and three giggling girls even made some snide remarks, making me fantasize about introducing them to the Emperor-approved art of public roasting. Rogue calmed me down with a gentle squeeze of my hand, which quelled the fire in my soul.

I was on a date with a lovely girl, about to eat some good food. Screw everyone else… for now. Once I fully embrace the Dark Side, though, the whole city’s going bald! Ku-ku-ku-ku!

Settling into the cafe, we ordered food and… proceeded to actively not talk. We’d already had a somewhat awkward conversation on the way over, mostly about training and the week’s events. Now, things just went silent.

After a couple of minutes, Rogue cracked. In a hesitant, stumbling voice, she started pouring out her life story—childhood, family, her best friend, and that boy. It seemed like she just needed to let it all out. Her words spilled out in a flood of memories, hopes, and heartbreaks. She ended by cursing her powers, confessing her fear of a lifetime of loneliness.

She looked at me, eyes like a kicked puppy, tears threatening to spill.

"Anna," I sighed, "first of all—you’re not going to be alone. I know it sounds cheesy, but you’ve got friends and family. Us—mutants. We love you, we’re your friends, and we need you. That’s just the truth." I smiled at her, a bit sheepishly, and spread my hands. "Now, look. Until recently, all I could do was absorb energy and protect myself from hits. Now I’m manipulating heat and even dabbling in electricity. Our abilities—while not always—can often be developed and controlled. You’re still young, and your powers are new. You just haven’t learned how to rein them in yet."

I paused to let her absorb that. "It’s hard, yeah. Sometimes, it’s just luck; other times, it takes a lot of effort or stress to figure out how to control them. But I believe in you." I gave her a little grin. "I know, it sounds straight out of some teenage drama, but it’s true. And, since both of us decided to get all honest with each other, can I ask you an inappropriate question?"

Judging by her expression, she seemed a little reassured, but she was still stuck in her fears. After hesitating for a couple of seconds, she nodded.

“So, tell me honestly—do you like me?” For me, this was a genuinely important question. I felt sympathy for Rogue, sure, but I didn’t have the same kind of pull toward her that I had for Kristi. She was beautiful and sweet, but nothing beyond that. And I was positive she’d learn to control her powers eventually. If the canon timeline was full of holes and wild inaccuracies about the order of events, at least the powers themselves mostly lined up. But exploiting the fact that I was currently the only guy who wouldn’t drop dead from her hugs? Yeah, that felt scummy. It wouldn’t sit right with me as a person, and even basic logic said it was a bad move. What, I’d tie her to me now when she was cornered and depressed, only for her to leave when she finally mastered her abilities? And what if I got attached by then?

“Toby…” She faltered, avoiding my gaze. “Honestly… you do. But more like a friend. You’re sweet, funny, but, um… too feminine.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why does that word still get under my skin?

She kept going. “It’s just, I thought… you know… if I never have anyone else…”

“Hold up,” I interrupted, raising a hand. “I get where you’re coming from, and here’s what I’m going to suggest. Let’s stay friends—you’re right, I’m still kind of young for serious relationships anyway. And later, when I’ve grown up and we’ve gotten to know each other better, we can revisit this conversation. I’ll be honest with you too—you’re a very attractive, sweet girl, totally my type. I love hanging out with you, especially when you’re not moping around all sad. I get why that happens, and I don’t judge you for it. So let’s be friends for now, and in the future, we’ll figure out what’s what. And I’ll just put it out there—I wouldn’t say no if we decided to go all grown-up romance mode.”

Then, grinning like Naruto and waggling my nonexistent eyebrows with my shiny bald head, I added, “What do you say?”

She burst into laughter at the ridiculous sight, nodding in agreement. After that… things finally felt normal. We had a relaxed, healthy conversation between two young people. We chatted about all sorts of stuff, cracked jokes (some of which were definitely not PG-rated), and even gossiped about Logan and his never-ending spats with Victoria Creed.

About an hour later, our little hangout session was interrupted by a call on Rogue’s phone. Jean Grey was demanding her immediate return to the school—apparently, Hulk was in town, and Hulk was smashing.

Unfortunately, the call came a bit too late. The moment we stepped out of the cafe, something landed in front of us with that classic superhero landing—knees bent, fist to the ground, dramatic pose and all.

It was a massive, green-skinned woman. With equally massive TITTIES. No Hulk-style purple pants censorship here though, she stood there blinding everyone with her melons and a muffin. Hulk was buck-naked, Hulk was furious, and Hulk was staring straight at us with murder in her eyes.

“Oh, fuck me,” I thought, as she took a step toward us.