JohnnyZ

[Demons of NC] Chapter 57

I’d spent so much time, care, and effort weaving a web of lies for the two of us. A masterpiece of deceit, its intricate pattern hiding the dark pit of mistrust below. Now, I was staring at Lucy, trying to figure out how much she’d pieced together and, more importantly, how. My lips curved into an odd smile. It felt like a twisted game, and my opponent had just outmaneuvered one of my cleverest moves from a past round.

“Yeah. I pointed Faraday in your direction. Even scared him a bit,” I replied calmly, watching her reaction.

Lucy looked up at the sky, then down at her burning cigarette. She flicked it away with a sharp motion.

“How’d you figure it out?”

“I spent a long time thinking about how Faraday learned about my past,” she said, her tone oddly measured. “At first, I chalked it up to coincidence—something unrelated to you. We just happened to cross paths at the right time. But then…”

“What?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“I got to know you better. The way you think, plan, pull strings. You needed to zero out a very dangerous bitch, and you found a client for the job. You convinced Hansen to pay for something he already wanted done. You bait Nash with a lead on yourself and lured him into a trap. You hired a psycho just to kill him later. That’s your style, V. I’ve seen it enough to realize…” Her voice wavered. “In the end, I realized… it wasn’t a coincidence. Not with us. It was easier to believe you sold me out to Faraday yourself. You caught me and let me go. Why?”

Alright. So far, so good. We were still walking a tightrope, but neither of us seemed ready to jump off. That was the key.

“Why? I liked you. Wanted to get to know you.”

My words were confident, blunt, but not hostile.

Lucy smirked.
“Were you competing for the title of Night City’s biggest fucking pickup line? Did you win first place?” she asked with ironic bite.

“Could I have done it any other way?” I shot back in the same tone. “Hi, Lucy. Remember me? Yeah, that guy from Arasaka you hate, who almost turned your apartment into a war zone. Wanna grab a drink?” I paused, then continued without the sarcasm. “First impressions only happen once. You know that. But you can overwrite them with something stronger. So, I staged a show for you. From start to finish, you were never in any real danger. Faraday was outnumbered, and if the Tyger Claws had tried anything, my guys were waiting outside.”

"That, I believe. You’re good at security measures, backup plans," Lucy nodded, taking the bottle from me. "But your pickup line cost me a friend."

I shrugged and asked:
"Do you want the soft answer or the hard one?"

"Both. Hit me with both."

"No problem," I grinned. "Soft: Kiwi made her own choices. The only person I kicked in the balls was Faraday. He roped her in. If you’re gonna blame anyone, blame those two."

"And the hard one?" she slurred, leaning in conspiratorially. "Go on, put on the black mask and all."

"Don’t need it. Here goes… Hard: You should be thankful Kiwi stabbed you in the back during my show. Her knife was a prop, and the only blood spilled was Faraday’s. Now imagine the same stunt, but in a real fight. You think Faraday wouldn’t have set you both up? I didn’t cost you a friend; I exposed a rotting wound. Hurts like hell, but it’s better for you."

"Oh-ho! So I should thank you? And what, if you propose to someone, you gonna lock them in a basement for a month?"

"Who knows… Wanna find out?"

"You’re out of your fucking mind, V. And you don’t even realize how much."

"No more than this city. Or this goddamn world."

We stood in silence for a few seconds. The twilight of morning was giving way to thin beams of sunlight on the horizon, but gray, leaden clouds were rushing in from the north, ready to crush the light like riot control sent to reinstate the night’s reign.

"And now what?" I finally asked. "Just don’t tell me you’re walking out over this."

"Are you kidding?" she sounded surprised, which was oddly reassuring. "You’re a fucking devil with a plan. That bitch was guarded by all of Arasaka, and I didn’t believe we’d make it out alive for a second. Thought we’d crash into that skyscraper like moths on a lightbulb. But you—bam—took her down. Went up against some of the most dangerous people in Night City and won. And you even seem to have some principles left. For now."

"For now?" I feigned offense.

"V… I didn’t know about your second set of memories," Lucy admitted. "Sure, you came off older sometimes, but I see something else in you. It’s growing, and it’s not just that engram in your head."

"What do you mean?"

"You’re climbing higher and higher, but where do you stop? What’s the peak?" she asked, answering her own question. "There isn’t one. You’ll keep climbing until you die—or hit a ceiling. And it’s changing you."

A vision of Abernathy came to mind—how she started and how she ended. For a moment, it felt like we had some shared trajectory.

"You think I’ll end up like Susan?" I asked cautiously.

Lucy only smiled and lightly touched my cheek.

"No, sweetheart. Susan had a ceiling, she’d never break through it. Too much of a stubborn bitch. You’re different. You know how to win people over when you want to. Plus, you hate taking orders. You’ll never be a copy of her. Your ceiling’s higher."

Lucy turned away, gazing at the city now nearly engulfed by the storm clouds. A distant rumble of thunder echoed.

"Saburo, Hansen, Myers, Youngblood, and the rest. That’s who you could become. That’s what you’re aiming for, unless a bullet finds you first."

"And that’s… bad?" I frowned.

"Becoming one of those people everyone hates? It has its price. People stop being people to you. They’re assets. And you’ll get sucked into their games—the ones with rules we both know too well. You’ll have to play by them to stay on top."

She wasn’t wrong. Experiments like the one she lived through, Soulkiller, Cynosure, corporate wars, and countless smaller-scale horrors. Ruthless, bloody games where the powerful clawed at each other.

"I’ll be blunt, V: as long as we’re on the same path, I’m here. But when you build your empire, I won’t be around."

"That’s final?" I smirked. "You haven’t even seen my empire. No one has."

"I’ve seen enough of others," she replied firmly. "I like you, that’s the truth. But there’s a chasm between us. I dream of escaping this city, and you… you want to rule it."

The doubt was gone from her voice and eyes. She’d faced her darkness and come out intact. Her face now reflected both beauty and strength. Our beginning was steeped in shadows, but I’d given her time to recover, to be safe, surrounded by people she cared about. And yet, she still dreamed of leaving Night City.

There was no point arguing anymore. We valued things too differently. For now, it was better to let it rest. I was more concerned about the engram situation, but that wasn’t what troubled Lucy. Her worries lay elsewhere.

"I get why you didn’t tell me about this memory shit sooner," she added. "I don’t doubt you’re human, V. I can feel that. But the real question is: what kind of human are you? And who will you become when your dreams come true? Think about that, please."

I heard the sound of tires against pavement. A cab rolled up, honking a few times. She wanted to be alone—or for me to be. Probably the latter. She handed me the bottle of absinthe. About a third was left.

"Just promise you won’t disappear without warning," I said, pulling her into a side hug.

"I won’t. You’d come looking anyway. You’d find me," she replied, kissing my cheek before slipping out of my arms.

Thunder growled louder to the north. The clouds were heavy with lead, and the morning felt as dark as evening. I watched her go and stood alone at the edge of the overlook, watching the storm roll in over the city. A storm or maybe something worse.

I wondered, do storms here have names? Back in my world, we had Hurricane Katrina. Do they name bad weather here the same way? Hurricane Johnny? Earthquake Adam? That’d be poetic.

Lucy’s right about me. Empire might sound a little pretentious for now, but in a few months, I’ve managed to rake in a cool mil. That’s with sweet Sue doing her best to get in my way. Now? My hands are free, and they’re happily digging into other people’s pockets.

What’s next?

I’ll stack up cash and influence, let my threads—my tentacles—spread, fuse into the nerves of this city. Money pulls more money, power feeds more power. First, I’ll become a fixer. Then I’ll solidify things by starting a permanent outfit: a gang, a security firm, maybe even a private detective agency. Whatever suits my taste. The gigs will roll in, and the juiciest ones? Those come from corps. You start working for one against another, or try to dance between the giants’ interests. The bigger you get, the harder they press. Independence? Costs a hell of a lot, and more often than not, you’ll pay for it in blood.

Knocked off the top of Arasaka’s tower, I can push off from the bottom and climb higher than before—as long as I’m ready to step on a few skulls. I’ll claw my way up the pyramid, up to the very peak of this Babylonian ziggurat, its stairs and platforms forever slick with sacrificial blood.

Then came the words from an old song, unbidden:

A blazing flash will sear your mind,
Shatter submission’s chain,
The past will stir within your soul—
A new sin will be born again.

Blood on your hands, blood on the stones,
Through backs and spineless spines,
Of those who’d rather die as slaves,
You claw your way back to the shrine.

Hey, sky dwellers!
Who here’s never been below?
Without descending into hell,
There’s no heaven to build above.

Hey, bottom-dwellers!
Thunder laughs at your plight.
To stand with it as equals,
There’s only one way—climb!

There’s only one way—climb!

Но яркий луч вспыхнет в мозгу,

И покорность выбьет клином,

Прошлые дни в душе оживут —

Свершится новый грех.

Кровь на руках, кровь на камнях,

По телам и жалким спинам

Тех, кто готов сдохнуть в рабах,

Ты рвешься вновь наверх.

Хей, жители неба,

Кто на дне еще не был?

Не пройдя преисподни

Вам не выстроить рай!

Хей, жители дна,

Гром смеется над вами,

Чтобы быть с ним на равных,

Есть один путь — наверх!

Есть один путь — наверх!

The rumbling from the north grew louder, and the dark shroud stretched across nearly all the sky.

I took a slow sip of absinthe. It burned going down, but that pain was almost comforting—a small reminder that I was alive. Probably still human. At least partly.

Alright then.

The most important thing right now? Lucy doesn’t actually want to run—yet. The rest? We’ll figure it out. There’s time. And as for what I want out of this life…

That’s a tough one. Hell, it’s an interesting one.

Back when I was under Arasaka’s boot, it was clear—I wanted out. Then it was about dealing with the fallout of escaping. Cementing my freedom. I did that. So now what?

Lucy wants out. To live somewhere quiet, far from Night City. A place where bullets aren’t flying every day and corporate skyscrapers don’t loom over the streets. But me? What do I want on a grander scale? Sure, the idea of a peaceful life has its appeal—especially a rich, peaceful life. But Lucy’s got a point. I’ve got a real talent, and it’s not the kind you bury six feet under.

No.

This talent? It’s the kind that buries anyone standing in my way.

I looked out at the city, poised to meet the storm. Somewhere out there, my influence was already spreading, like invisible threads. Reaching from the grime of the streets to Dogtown, and from there, all the way to Arasaka’s counterintel office.

And, as if to confirm my growing reach, my phone rang.

“Yeah, I’m listening,” I answered, my voice a little slurred.

“Good evening…” came a nervous female voice. “Oh, uh, morning. My name’s… Paige O’Brien. You’re V, right?”

“Yeah, Paige,” if that’s even her name. “What’s this about?”

“I was referred to you. They said you’re good at handling… delicate situations. I’ve found myself in one.”

“And what kind of resolution are you looking for in this delicate situation? You got that figured out?”

“Yes. Y-yes. I need someone… gone. Someone who’s blackmailing me.”

“You think I’m just some fucking hitman⁈” My tone sharpened, but then I let it smooth into cold professionalism. “Well, yeah, that’s part of the package. Who’s the target? Name, job, who they work for.”

“I don’t know his real name,” her voice got shakier. “Goes by Zeitgeist. He’s a netrunner, a blackmailer. Probably works solo or with a small crew.”

Solo, most likely. Makes sense. From Faraday’s memory—and some scraps from Mauser’s—I knew this runner. Not exactly Major League, but he liked playing dirty and taking risks. Dug up dirt to blackmail mid-level corps, cops, up-and-coming celebs.

“Why not just pay him off? Or did he name a price too steep for you?”

“I paid him. Twice. But it’s like… he just wants to ruin me. Keeps adding new demands, like he’s toying with me.”

Not surprising. Zeitgeist had a reputation for that. Sometimes, he’d leak the dirt even after he got paid. Nasty habit. Hazardous to his health.

“How much?” I asked.

“I can offer you twelve thousand eddies.”

“Normally, I don’t take on jobs for pocket change like that, but lucky for you, I’ve got some free time. And I’m in the mood to kill.”

“Oh… thank you, thank you so much. Um… how long will it take?”

“Hour and a half, if he’s home. Longer if I have to track him down,” I said. “Relax. Take a bath. It’s already done.”

“Y-your confidence is… comforting,” she said, though her voice still trembled.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just an estimate of capability. You know the saying—using a cannon to shoot a sparrow?”

“No, but I get the gist.”

I downed another gulp of absinthe, feeling the first heavy raindrops hit my face.

“You just launched a nuclear missile at an ant.”

Too dramatic? Maybe. But I was buzzed and feeling pretty damn good about myself. Grabbing the bottle, I headed toward my rented ride, the rain cooling the back of my neck and my short, buzzed hair. My synthetic jacket did a decent job repelling water, though. In the car, I’d slip on a light vest under it.

I slid into the backseat, activated the autopilot, and let the music play. The car moved smoothly, the wheel spinning on its own like I was being chauffeured by some ghost. One of the countless restless spirits haunting Night City.

Zeitgeist. Pretty sure that translates to “Spirit of the Times” in German. What a load of pretentious crap. Was he drunk when he came up with it? Or just a fifteen-year-old trying to sound edgy?

The car sped toward Charter Hill, where this punk had holed up, ready to keep playing his games. The rain had eased for now, the pavement drying, but the clouds and wind said it was just the prelude.

“Just the warm-up…” I muttered to myself, glancing at the glowing Kiroshi ads outside the window.

The day after tomorrow, I’ve got a meeting about buying a club. Sure, it’ll bring its share of headaches, but stuff like that’s worth the hassle. At least, that’s how I see it.

The car pulled up next to some small factory. “Spirit of the Times” was holed up not far from here. The noise of the machinery and the incoming thunderstorm would cover any gunfire—if it even came to that.

I stepped out of the car, adjusting my gear. A dozen steps, and there it was: an unassuming door. Knock. Voices inside. The door slid open, and staring back at me were the red visors of a netrunner. Lots of chrome on him, but not the combat kind—mostly flashy or functional runner gear.

Apart from him, there was just some young Latino guy in a tacky T-shirt sitting in the office-like room. The netrunner himself favored black synthleather. Pretty damn pretentious.

“Lost, choom?” the runner asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.

“Nah. I’m right where I need to be. Zeitgeist, I assume? Mordellini had nothing but good things to say about you. Said you really helped him out with that recording of the badge bitch.”

All these details? Pulled them straight from Mauser’s and Faraday’s memories.

“Oh…” Zeitgeist nodded. “But, bro, for shit like this, I got email and a phone.”

His Latino buddy eyed me warily at first but started to relax as he listened to the conversation.

“It’s urgent, choom. And, y’know, with so many runners out there, I’m even writing shit down on paper these days. At least a note, you can eat it if it comes to that. Like I said: urgent. And I’ll make it worth your while. How’s five K upfront, cash? Can I come in?”

“With that kinda approach? Hell, I’ll even pour you a beer,” the netrunner said, stepping aside.

I’d already noticed he wasn’t packing heat right now, though his buddy had a revolver. Another piece—a Nue pistol—sat on the table next to a computer.

The door shut behind me. Time to get started. I shifted my shoulders, like I was about to take off my slightly damp jacket.

“So, who’s the target we’re brea—” Before the runner could finish, there was a quiet, sharp click.

That sweet, techy sound as cyberlimb fingers momentarily hit inhuman speeds and precision. The guys didn’t even register what had happened at first. Then the Latino started choking—a solid metal stiletto lodged deep in his throat. Clean hit.

For good measure, my right hand was already on my gun, but it wasn’t needed. The punch had enough force to pierce not just his neck but embed into his spine.

Zeitgeist hesitated for a fraction of a second, caught off guard, then started running quickhacks that wouldn’t do shit against me. Next, he lunged for the pistol, but a spectral blue flash intercepted his hand. White synthetic blood sprayed onto the table. His severed hand landed next to the gun. The cut? Perfect. Flawless, even. All that practice paid off.

“Never understood people who go for synthetic blood. Honestly,” I said, watching the white droplets drip from the translucent blade of my mono tanto. “But I’ve always been curious—when you’re bleeding fake blood, does it feel less scary than the real thing? And isn’t it gross, watching that white gunk spill out of you?” I asked, slotting a virus shard into the runner’s port. “Eh, don’t bother answering. I’ll figure it out myself.”

The Spirit of the Time passed out cold. His buddy was already dead. I dialed the client.

“It’s V. Gotta admit, I miscalculated the timeframe. Didn’t take even an hour. Wrapped up in fifty-three minutes.”

“You have no idea how much you’ve helped me!” came the nervous but noticeably relieved voice on the other end. “I know it’s wrong to celebrate someone’s death, but… he was a nasty, awful person.”

“Well, none of us are saints,” I chuckled. “So go ahead and celebrate. I’ll be waiting for the payment.”

Hanging up, I locked the door and looked at the unconscious runner. His head, computer, programs, potential hideouts, bank accounts, plans—it was all mine now. Another brick in the foundation of my future empire, assuming I still wanted to build one.

Daily Updates (23/12/24)

Stories

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 29

• Tier 2: Chapter 34

Prof. Umbridge

• Tier 1: Chapter 49

• Tier 2: Chapter 54

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 25

• Tier 2: Chapter 30

[Castling] Chapter 34

The boy stared at me in stunned silence for a good five minutes, barely even breathing.

“It can’t be,” he finally managed to say. “Are you sure, Ron? Do you think that’s why Dobby didn’t want me to come back to school? Did he know I could… hurt the other students?” Harry’s words came in a rush, then he froze.

“So… does this mean I’m the Heir of Slytherin? Am I…?”

“Oi, slow down,” I interrupted before he could spiral into full-blown panic. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves or we’ll end up blaming Merlin next. We don’t even know if the monster’s awake. All we heard was the entrance opening, not the beast itself. Maybe it’s just the lair’s password activating in Parseltongue. Nothing bad’s happened yet. You’ve read Hogwarts: A History—the monster only acts on the Heir’s orders.” I added that last bit more to calm him down than because I believed it. His panic was getting to me. “You didn’t touch or read anything else in there, did you?”

“No, of course not!” Harry said quickly. “So what do we do now?” He still sounded unsure, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of losing it.

“First, we head to the library,” I said. “We’ll look up what kind of giant snake it could be. Best to know what we’re dealing with.”

“And when we find it?” Harry asked, curiosity sparking again. “Why are you so sure it’s huge?”

“Do you remember that pipe we ran past?” I asked. “The one on the right, near the exit? That wasn’t a pipe—it was a shed snakeskin.”

“No way,” Harry gasped. “But it was… it was at least twenty feet long!”

“Well, it’s not called a monster for nothing,” I pointed out. “And who knows, maybe it shed that skin ages ago—could be twice the size now. Come on, let’s grab some dinner and head to the library first thing in the morning.”

Neither of us was in much of a mood for conversation. After dinner, we went back to the empty common room and, without a word, worked on a couple of essays for homework. Then we went to bed early. Neither of us felt like discussing the unknown monster, but it was all I could think about. I slept terribly and woke up ridiculously early. So did Harry, by the looks of it.

“Ron, maybe we should wait for Hermione,” Harry suggested on the way to the library. “She’s better at finding things in books. She’d figure it out faster than us.”

“Oh sure,” I said sarcastically. “Let’s tell her about the monster so she can start jumping at every shadow.”

“Fair point,” Harry admitted after a moment’s thought.

“Besides,” I added, “what’s there to figure out? We’ll grab a couple of Bestiaries. Salazar lived a thousand years ago—modern books won’t cut it. Doubt Hogwarts has much on mythical creatures.”

I was right. The librarian, bleary-eyed and clearly annoyed at having visitors so early, handed over three ancient tomes that looked like they were as old as Slytherin himself. The creatures inside were absolutely vile—pure nightmare fuel. Plenty of snakes, all long extinct, of course.

There was the Spotted Winged Serpent, which spat acid five metres.
The “Breath of Death,” a ten-foot-long serpent that exhaled poison capable of dissolving flesh.
A Water Serpent that poisoned entire ponds before hunting.
And the Fire Wyrm, which not only spat venom that liquefied its prey but also left trails of fire just from moving across the ground.

All of them had been bred by wizards and later wiped out—probably because they started eating their creators.

“Er… Ron, I think I’ve found it,” Harry said, interrupting my reading as he held out a massive book. “Look—Basilisk. It kills with a single look. And remember how Myrtle said the last thing she saw was big yellow eyes? Sounds about right, doesn’t it?”

Bingo, Harry, I thought, eyeing the diagram of the creature—a huge snake with a crown-like horned crest on its triangular head, hatched from a chicken egg incubated by a toad.

“It says here spiders are terrified of it,” Harry pointed out, jabbing his finger at a paragraph. “And it obeys only the one who created it—or their descendants—who can speak Parseltongue. But I haven’t ordered it to do anything yet. That means the students are safe, doesn’t it?” He sounded almost hopeful.

“Not necessarily,” I said, dragging him back to reality. “We’ve no clue what instructions the original owner left in case the snake woke up. Last time, a girl was killed. What if it’s still set to target Muggle-borns? But that’s only if it’s actually awake,” I added quickly when Harry went pale. “Let’s keep an eye on the spiders. If they start scarpering, or you hear that voice again, we’ll go straight to Dumbledore.”

“But…” Harry started to protest.

“Harry, let’s be real. Say the snake is awake. Maybe it’ll slither around quietly in the dungeons. But we’ve no idea how the doors and passages to its lair are enchanted. We got in without hissing, and the entrance closed behind us. If the locks are all Parseltongue-based, what’s stopping the snake from hissing them open and leaving? Might not come straight to the Great Hall, sure, but what if someone else is poking about, exploring the castle? What about Filch, trying to cut through a shortcut? Anyway, if the spiders bolt and you start hearing voices, we go straight to the Headmaster. Agreed?”

“Fine,” Harry muttered, trailing after me, looking miserable.

“Oi, what’s with the long face?” I asked, catching up to him. “Worried they’ll expel you? You’re not at fault. The castle’s meant to be explored. We didn’t break any rules, so we’re not in trouble. The staff’ll call in specialists to deal with the snake. End of story.”

“It’s not that,” Harry grumbled. “It’s just… can you imagine what’ll happen at school? People already give me funny looks, wondering how I killed a powerful wizard as a baby. And if they find out I can talk to snakes? They’ll run for the hills. They’ll start calling me the Dark Lord, I just know it. You said yourself Parseltongue’s a rare gift. He’s the only other wizard who had it. Why do I have to be such a bloody freak, always in the middle of things?” He punched the wall in frustration.

"Don’t mope; there’s still a chance the snake’s long gone and croaked ages ago," I said, giving Harry a reassuring clap on the shoulder.

"Yeah, right, not with my luck," he muttered, though he did seem to cheer up a bit.

By the next evening, the castle was back to its usual hustle and bustle as the students returned. Two days of idleness later, the holidays ended, and we fell back into the familiar routine of school life.

Harry hadn’t heard anything odd since, nobody had been Petrified, and the castle was still crawling with spiders—not literally, though; it was winter, and most of them were hiding from the cold. The one in our dorm didn’t seem inclined to scarper, either. Even Dobby hadn’t made another appearance. Gradually, we let ourselves relax.

Gryffindor smashed it in the last two Quidditch matches, practically guaranteeing the House Cup, which put McGonagall in a cracking mood.

Snape, of course, still kept an eye on us, but nothing too over the top—more like he was just waiting for us to slip up. Judging by his expression, he wasn’t entirely convinced we weren’t up to no good, but he didn’t have proof. After the whole Chamber incident, we’d been keeping our heads down. Even Harry had started knuckling down with his studies. Hermione was in full-on drill sergeant mode—she’d whipped up a revision schedule for exams ages in advance. Even Neville got dragged into it. She worked him as hard as us, bless her, and the poor bloke didn’t have it in him to say no. She’d make a right terror of a teacher one day.

I barely had time to keep tabs on Harry myself, what with Flitwick piling on the coursework and me running interference for Luna every other day when her stuff got nicked. Then, in the spring, Mrs. Norris was Petrified.

It happened a couple of weeks before Easter hols. At first, the cat just went missing. Filch spent a solid week wandering the castle with bits of ham, calling for her like a madman. He even ignored Peeves’ antics, which had to be a record, and didn’t snap at a single student. But Mrs. Norris didn’t turn up.

Now, I wasn’t exactly Filch’s biggest fan, what with his knack for being an outright git, but the look on his face when he realised she wasn’t coming back—it was rough. We Gryffindors actually teamed up with the Hufflepuffs that weekend to help look for her. I considered using the Way to have a proper search, but honestly? I didn’t fancy running into the Basilisk. No way was I risking it for Filch’s cat.

The teachers offered their condolences and then just carried on, suggesting he get another cat. Even Dumbledore, after a polite word of concern, seemed ready to leave it at that. He and Snape had just stepped outside for some air when Filch cornered them, still clutching his scraps of ham.

Oddly enough, it was Snape who showed a bit of humanity. He suggested they try summoning the cat in case she was injured somewhere. Of course, he made it sound like he was doing everyone a huge favour, but still—he tried.

Anyway, Snape cast some charm that looked a derivative from Carpe Retractum, and after a few minutes, Mrs. Norris’ stiff, frozen body came flying in from the direction of the forest. I thought Filch was going to keel over then and there, the way he started wailing.

Dumbledore suddenly seemed interested. He cast a couple of spells on the cat, frowned, and whisked her and Filch off to the castle. Snape followed, tossing me one of his patented “I’m watching you” looks before stalking off dramatically.

By the time I turned back around, Harry had vanished. He skipped dinner, too. Hermione and I searched everywhere for him. We couldn’t risk using the Way, so it was a wild goose chase. Just when I was about to go get McGonagall involved, Harry turned up.

Hermione tore into him like a Howler, delivering a lecture that must’ve gone on for twenty minutes. Honestly, she’d lost some steam by the end—probably too relieved to stay properly angry. After she was sure he was alright, she stomped off to bed.

That left me to give Harry the third degree. He looked knackered and a bit miserable, but he’d been acting off for a while—distracted and broody. Any time I asked what was up, he’d just say he was fine. I figured it was Hermione grinding him down with revision schedules. Poor Neville looked just as fed up.

"Look, Harry," I said, getting straight to the point, "we’re going to Dumbledore first thing tomorrow. No more mucking about."

"But what if it was a mistake?" Harry said uncertainly. "What if it didn’t mean to Petrify Mrs. Norris? If it wanted to kill her, wouldn’t it have eaten her straight off?"

"Who’s ‘it’? The snake?" I asked, a bit confused. "Mate, I don’t claim to be an expert on Basilisks, but I couldn’t care less why it went after the cat. The point is, it’s awake, and people could get hurt. We’re going to Dumbledore. You agreed."

Harry opened his mouth like he wanted to argue but then thought better of it. He clamped his mouth shut, nodded, and said, "Alright. You’re right, Ron. We can’t let anyone else get hurt. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go."

He even managed a tired smile before heading up the stairs to bed. And I thought that was the end of it. But when I woke up the next morning, Harry was gone.

All I found was a note.

That idiot had written that he’d try sorting the problem himself first, and if he wasn’t back by breakfast, then I should go straight to the Headmaster and spill the beans about the basilisk. Ever the optimist, he reckoned everything would be fine—he’d thought it all through, and the risk was “minimal.” And he’d explain everything in detail afterwards—if he came back, of course.

At that moment, I hated the brat more than ever.

It was obvious he’d gone after the basilisk alone—you didn’t need Trelawney’s crystal ball to see that. Judging by the barely rumpled bed, he’d snuck off in the middle of the night. Potter was a proper Gryffindor nutter—no brakes, no limits. Once he got an idea into his thick skull, neither logic nor reason could stop him. I’d learnt that well enough during the business with Snape and the Philosopher’s Stone.

My first instinct was to leg it straight to Dumbledore. But as I fumbled about in the dark for my clothes, I reconsidered. There was still an hour till breakfast. Either Harry was still alive and fine, or the basilisk had already eaten him—and in that case, rushing wouldn’t help much. Either way, there was no point in panicking.

That hour was the longest of my life. The minute hand on the clock in the common room barely seemed to move. The lads woke up, came downstairs, and headed off to breakfast. Hermione popped in but dashed off again to swap a book with someone in Ravenclaw, saying she’d meet us in the Great Hall. Before long, the common room was empty, leaving me alone with the silence.

And then Harry burst in, making a racket. He nearly tripped over the carpet and sent a suit of armour crashing to the floor when he grabbed it for balance. His eyes were blazing with excitement, and there was a triumphant smirk plastered across his face. He looked chuffed to bits—at least until he caught sight of my cold, deadpan glare.

“Er… Ron,” he started, hesitating as I slowly stood up. Oh, he knew what was coming. Dead men don’t get told off, but the living? Fair game. “You’re angry, aren’t you? Of course you are…” He began babbling nervously, trying to justify himself under my withering stare as he edged closer. “But it worked! I’m alive, see? Everything’s fine. I sorted it—I’ve dealt with the basilisk.”

I didn’t say a word. Just stood up and smacked him right in the nose. Then, as he grabbed his face, I landed another blow to his side.

“That’s for lying, Potter,” I snarled, standing over him as he doubled over, clutching his ribs. “And for Hermione—I owed you that one.”

Harry winced but managed to sit up on the sofa, dabbing at the trickle of blood under his nose with a handkerchief. I hadn’t hit him too hard—just enough to make a point. When he finally looked up, he met my glare with a steady, calm gaze.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he said, sounding far too composed for someone who’d just been clocked. “Yes, I didn’t tell you, but I sorted it the way I thought best—without putting anyone else in danger. I learnt that lesson after what happened to Hermione. But can’t I decide what to do with my own life without needing permission?”

“Permission?” I snapped, narrowing my eyes. “We agreed—after we spoke to Myrtle—that if anything happened, we’d go straight to the Headmaster. And then you went and cooked up this harebrained scheme without so much as mentioning it to me. What do I get? A bloody note. Is that your idea of friendship, Harry? Friendship’s a team game, not you playing solo Seeker while the rest of us cover for you.”

“You wouldn’t have agreed,” Harry shot back stubbornly.

“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But you didn’t even give me the chance to try. You didn’t share your plan—you just went off on your own. And for the record, I still think the simplest, smartest thing to do was to tell the staff.”

“They’d have killed the basilisk!” Harry exclaimed, springing to his feet. “They wouldn’t have listened—they’d just kill her outright. And Zara didn’t mean to petrify Mrs Norris!”

“Zara?” I choked out.

“Well, yeah,” Harry mumbled, looking sheepish. “She’s a girl, see? So I thought, like, Salazar—Zara…”

“Oh, well, that explains everything,” I said sarcastically. “Don’t you try and wriggle out of this, hero.”

“Don’t be cross, Ron,” Harry said imploringly, scooting closer and giving me a light nudge with his shoulder. “I was wrong to leave you a note instead of talking to you. I won’t do it again, I promise. But you’ve got to let me handle things my way sometimes. Isn’t that the team game  you wanted?” he added cheekily, looking me straight in the eyes.

“You’re right,” I conceded reluctantly. “I’m not your nanny. But no more sneaking about behind my back, got it?”

“Deal,” Harry beamed. “And now I’ve got loads to tell you! Oh, and—you don’t fancy meeting the basilisk, do you?”

[Prof. Umbridge] Chapter 54

TN: short one today

______________________________________

"Looks like we have no clues," summarized Marina Nikolaevna after visiting the hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey had only thrown up her hands, explaining she hadn't had time to do anything. All she’d heard was the phoenix's song and seen a glow. By the time she reached Dumbledore’s bed, he had vanished without a trace.

"Yeah, that’s no Apparition—you can’t track it," muttered Berkley, habitually tracing his scar with the tip of his index finger. "And now, where the old man might pop up is anyone's guess. Alright, Williamson’s been warned, and he’ll inform Fudge."

"I’ve already written to the Minister," Marina nodded, carefully omitting the fact that Fudge's response had been a string of unprintable curses.

Worse yet, Williamson had sent back a note littered with ink blots—likely from laughing too hard to hold the quill properly—informing her that Fudge had gone fully rogue. He’d extended house arrest for a significant portion of the Wizengamot’s primary members and even swapped house arrest for full imprisonment for some who’d dared show up at sessions. Their duties had been delegated to deputies or appointees, and overall, Fudge was installing military discipline with the clear assistance of Williamson and his band of troublemakers.

"The worst part is that Dumbledore might not go to Fudge or Voldemort," added O’Leary, who was also part of their war council, "but come back here. For the boy."

"The boy’s already under round-the-clock surveillance," said Berkley. "We can’t exactly lock him in a bunker! Not that it’d help—damn phoenix could slip in anywhere. Honestly, Madam Headmistress, you should’ve confiscated that bird!"

"And how exactly was I supposed to do that?" Marina asked grimly. "It’s a familiar; it listens only to Dumbledore. Even locking it up in a fireproof cage wouldn’t work."

"Lovely. We’ve got an inside threat, one with a loose grip on sanity. So, here’s what I’m saying," Berkley, now in the loop on their plan, leaned forward. "Hurry up with your scheme. If needed, my men can pin the kid down, dunk him into the Pensieve, and finish him off. Trust me, Madam, it’ll be quicker and more reliable that way."

"Yes, but it won’t leave him with even the faintest desire to sacrifice himself," Marina quipped. "Which is, supposedly, the point."

"That’s Dumbledore’s version of events," Berkley countered. "But in reality, the boy might just end up wanting to survive and get revenge on whoever tried to 'handle' him. Either way, you’d best act quickly. The longer we wait, the worse this gets."

"Any news on Voldemort?" asked O’Leary.

"He’s nearby," Marina sighed. "But exactly where? That’s unclear. He’s unlikely to be hiding in the Forbidden Forest; the centaurs would’ve alerted us. You’ve already searched Hogsmeade top to bottom…"

"Maybe he’s holed up in the mountains," Berkley speculated. "Or maybe he’s built up enough strength that… involved individuals can feel him from a distance. If he’s at the Malfoys’ estate, though…" He calculated something mentally. "That’s a bit far off."

"It's the same whether the owl hits the stump or the stump hits the owl!" (1) O’Leary said cheerily. "We hold the line, stay sharp, and hope for the best. Who knows? Maybe Voldemort will make his move by Christmas, and we’ll celebrate properly!"

"You and your jokes…" Marina shook her head. "Alright, gentlemen. You handle your end. I have my own tasks to see to."

She headed off to find Ingebjorg to hear how the session had gone.

As it turned out, the session had gone terribly. Potter flat-out refused to believe what he saw in the Pensieve, calling it a vile lie, a distortion of facts, and induced hallucinations. He declared such things could never have happened. At least, that’s what Marina gathered from his reaction, no matter the exact wording.

"I warned you this was a pointless endeavor," said Snape when he heard about it. "If Dumbledore had shown him, then maybe Potter would’ve believed… possibly. But coming from someone else? No chance. It’s a miracle," he added, "that I don’t have to deal with Potter in my classes anymore. I’d have no idea how to shield the room from his… emotional outbursts."

"Well, you still see him in the Great Hall," Marina replied grimly, "and he’s constantly trying to hide behind someone bigger just to avoid catching your eye."

"Yes, and is glaring at you from a distance," Ingebjorg added. "I’d bet he’s working up the nerve to come ask you if what he saw was true."

"Spare me!" Snape exclaimed with genuine horror. "He’d probably have the gall to do it in public! Or drag Weasley or Granger along for moral support…"

"That won’t happen," Ingebjorg reminded him. "We made him swear not to tell them anything about what he saw."

"But that vow won’t stop him from asking me questions in front of witnesses," Snape insisted. "And I highly doubt he’ll risk coming to my office alone!"

"Oh, Severus," Ingebjorg smiled. "You really don’t understand teenagers, do you? Which is odd, considering…"

"Considering what?"

"Like attracts like," she said. "With your temperament and immaturity, you should know all about a restless young soul."

Marina choked on her tea, feigning a cough to cover her laughter at the blunt comment.

"Mocking me, are you?" Snape sighed. "Fine. Let’s see who’s right."

"Severus," Ingebjorg said seriously, "I’m three times your age, and I don’t even need my gift to see this: Potter’s already torn up by uncertainty. That little… how did you put it, Dolores?"

"A movie session," Marina supplied.

"Yes, that session has shaken his faith in the almighty, all-knowing Dumbledore. And, believe it or not, it’s also cracked his hatred for you. That much is clear."

"Really?" Snape narrowed his eyes.

"Really. It’s more obvious from the outside. And yes, you’re fortunate not to meet him in class anymore. Otherwise, you’d have provoked him with another sharp remark, and he’d have exploded again…" Ingebjorg spread her hands. "As we say: same song, second verse."

"Two peas in a pod," Marina added.

"More like two hotheads," Ingebjorg corrected. "One old, one young."

"You just said I’m immature," Snape reminded her.

"Emotionally immature," Ingebjorg clarified seriously. "Physically…"

She glanced at Marina, who suddenly found the view out the window very interesting.

"Well, aging is a flexible concept," Ingebjorg concluded. "To me, you’re as much a teenager as Potter is to you. Though admittedly smarter—but that’s innate, not earned. Intelligence aside, you’re no better at applying life experience than he is."

"Just like Potter," Marina said. "He never seems to learn anything from life either."

‘Two witches,’ Snape’s expression seemed to say. ‘Why on earth did I ever involve myself with you?’

"Fine," he said aloud. "I’m leaving. Who knows how deep your armchair psychoanalysis might dig if I stay? And don’t give me that look, Dolores—I know what psychoanalysis is."

"Classic teenager," Ingebjorg sighed as the door closed behind him. "More tea, Dolores?"

"Yes, please," she said. "You’re right… As they say: 'He grew up, but he didn’t wise up.'"

"Don't judge him too harshly. You act as if you don’t know what kind of grim life he’s had. Even if some of it he brought upon himself..."

“You’ve looked into the Pensieve, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Ingebjorg admitted honestly. “How else could I show the boy without knowing what poison our mutual acquaintance poured out? What I saw will never leave me, Dolores, and I won’t share these memories with you. If Severus wants to tell you, he will. If not, well, that’s his choice.”

“Like doctor-patient confidentiality?” Marina Nikolaevna asked seriously.

“You could put it that way.”

“Fair enough. I can guess what those memories involve,” she nodded. “You’re right. If he wants to, he’ll tell us. But honestly, I doubt it. People like him usually keep everything bottled up, not trusting even their closest allies with such secrets. Maybe they’re right to do so…”

“Or maybe not,” Ingebjorg sighed, and Marina Nikolaevna silently agreed.

__________________________

• “что совой об пень, что пнем по сове — всё сове плохо” - a Russian proverb that means the outcome stays the same no matter who takes action. "Whether the owl hits the stump or the stump hits the owl, it's bad for the owl either way".

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 30

Everything was so complicated and twisted that it wasn’t easy to untangle the mess of schemes that had unraveled recently. While I was sick, a lot of interesting details came to light. So, as I lay there powerless and recovering, I tried piecing together all the bits of information I had gathered—before, during, and after my conversations with Kobo-san and Kushina-san—into something coherent and digestible.

It turned out that Kobo-san’s real name was Uchiha Shisui, and he was a master of an advanced Sharingan technique, the Mangekyo. This meant that even the “ultimate moon illusion” Minato had mentioned couldn’t faze him. 

Shisui had joined the daimyo’s service at thirteen, earning the trust of both the ruler and Madam Shijimi. He survived the chaos thanks to his heightened instincts—apparently, I had made him suspicious—and his unparalleled skills in deception. No one had ever seen his real face. Using combat illusions, he tricked Asuma into believing he was dead by leaving behind a convincing corpse dressed in his clothes, allowing him to escape to Konoha undetected.

To Shisui’s horror, he discovered that his clan was aiding traitors in extracting the biju from the current Hokage—Kushina-san—and using a sinister genjutsu to manipulate the shinobi village. But he located them, strangely enough, thanks to spotting me! I never thought I’d end up being an unintentional beacon for reinforcements.

Shisui witnessed a tragedy unfold. His cousin, Uchiha Itachi, tried to save Naruto and Kushina, his godmother, from their clan. But he failed. The others captured Itachi, and shortly after…

In one swift moment, the Uchiha clan ceased to exist.

Minato used his teleportation technique to kill every Uchiha involved in the conspiracy. Itachi, who was forced to watch his parents die, was then sealed into a toad by an accomplice—a clan traitor aiding Minato. 

Shisui recounted that when Itachi was released, he wasn’t himself anymore. He was broken. The second masked man then used some kind of space-time ninjutsu to pull Itachi into a strange dimension. Shisui suspected they had brainwashed Itachi into believing he had slaughtered the entire clan years ago. This was plausible because, using his special eyes, Shisui glimpsed fragments of Itachi’s twisted memories—filled with hatred for Naruto, anguish over Kushina’s supposed twelve-year absence, and the belief that the Uchiha clan had been annihilated long ago during Hiruzen’s failed coup attempt.

Minato had a plan. He intended to return to Konoha claiming he’d been displaced into a parallel world or time loop by the Nine-Tails. He would accuse Hiruzen of orchestrating the Uchiha massacre. The daimyo, eager to rid himself of the old Hokage, would not only force Hiruzen into retirement but possibly execute him. Minato even ordered his accomplice to spare Itachi’s younger brother, Sasuke, keeping him as both a hostage and a witness. The Sharingan of the deceased Uchiha would also be distributed as promised to certain parties. 

While listening to this, I had odd flashes of something yet to happen and realized that Sasuke, Naruto’s friend, was the last surviving Uchiha. The masked man had absorbed the bodies of all the others, just as he did with Itachi.

Kushina-san pitied Shisui for the impossible choices he had to make. He couldn’t reach the civilian population in the Uchiha district in time, especially since the masked man had teleported there after releasing the Nine-Tails from its statue. Shisui, plagued by guilt, knew his hesitation led to Naruto becoming the new jinchuriki of the Nine-Tails. According to him, the fox offered little resistance, appearing tired and battered despite its massive size. 

When Minato began the sealing process, Shisui witnessed something strange: Minato sealed the beast inside his son and then collapsed, lifeless. Kushina later explained that Minato likely didn’t know the consequences of using that particular forbidden fuinjutsu—his soul was the price demanded by the Shinigami.

What a nightmare. That’s what happens when you use untested scrolls! Despite his cunning, it seemed Hiruzen had outmaneuvered Minato in their bizarre game of shadows. It was like one of those action flicks where “everyone dies.” I sometimes have odd bursts of knowledge I can’t trace back to any source, but whatever—I’ll figure that out later.

After everything went down, Kushina-san managed to free herself. That’s when the worst of it came to light: she had also been under the influence of the genjutsu cast over the entire village. She couldn’t even approach her own son. Imagine loving someone so deeply but being filled with such hatred that you couldn’t touch them. Shisui comforted her, saying that without reinforcement, the illusion would weaken over time and her love would eventually overcome it. He sensed someone approaching and whisked Kushina—who was carrying my half-dead self—away from the sealing site, hiding us in a genjutsu.

Hiruzen arrived with a small ANBU squad and took Naruto, who was still unconscious, back to the village. He also sealed Minato’s body in a scroll and carried it off.

It turned out there was an Uzumaki refuge hidden in the Forest of Death—a sanctuary created long ago by Uzumaki Mito, the wife of the First Hokage. Shisui and Kushina went there to lay low. Kushina was completely drained, running on sheer willpower and her indomitable spirit. As for me… I was in a coma then. Shisui, from what I gathered, took care of us both. He couldn’t even remove the suppression seal Minato had placed on Kushina-san.

Kushina woke up just hours before I did. I don’t know if she was the one singing to me, but I was glad to have survived. Apparently, things would fall apart without me!

As I recovered over the next week, Shisui made a few trips to Konoha for reconnaissance. He discovered that Minato had chosen the Autumn Equinox festival for his plans—a time when the entire village gathered to celebrate in the streets at night. Anyone who didn’t “remember the correct version” of events was quietly eliminated.

Shisui also mentioned that those who had cared for Kushina and Naruto would suffer emotionally due to the genjutsu. They would feel pain without understanding why.

On one of his trips, Shisui learned that Senju Tsunade and Shizune had left the village. Jiraiya, who had visited his godson during the festival, didn’t stick around either. Shisui reassured us that strong shinobi like them wouldn’t hold onto the false memories for long. Perhaps within six months—or even sooner—they would shed the negative feelings toward Naruto. Strong-willed individuals weren’t as easily influenced by collective opinions or illusions. The weaker the shinobi—or, worse, civilians without chakra—the harder it would be to break the conditioning. Kushina’s extreme reaction to Naruto seemed to stem from the suppression seal layered onto her.

It was a lot to process. But one thing was clear: things were far from over.

One of the first decrees issued by the reinstated Third Hokage was that Naruto must never be told about his parents or the fact that he was a jinchūriki. Shisui speculated that Hiruzen feared the powerful chakra of the Nine-Tails might somehow help Naruto recover his memories, especially if someone triggered them with reminders.

Again, I was struck by strange visions, as though the situation was painfully familiar. Shisui, likely trying not to upset Kushina-san, painted a rather softened picture of Naruto’s current life. But I couldn’t shake the images of angry, twisted faces and the haunting dreams of a sad, slightly hunched blonde boy sitting alone on the swings at the park near the Academy. From what I understood, Hiruzen frequently visited Naruto, bringing him food since he couldn’t buy anything at the market without being cursed at and chased away. The Hokage was practically the only adult who didn’t treat him like some kind of plague victim, using those visits to worm his way into the trust of the new jinchūriki.

Meanwhile, I worked on recovering, forcing chakra through my channels and eating whatever I could stomach. Often, the food didn’t stay down, but I was determined to heal quickly so I could find my little chick and comfort him.

Thankfully, Shisui understood my resolve and occasionally took me outside the hideout, suggesting I eat certain plants, similar to what cats do when they’re sick. I didn’t know anything about eating grass, but yesterday, a tree caught my attention with its scent. Instinct urged me to claw at the bark to get to the sap inside, but the wood was too tough for me in my weakened state. Thank the feline gods, Shisui figured out what I was after and used a kunai to peel back the bark. The sap tasted oddly familiar—similar to something I’d eaten back with the Inuzuka clan. Though I suspect it was prepared differently then, it didn’t matter. I licked up the sap, and almost immediately, I started feeling better. By evening, I managed to eat some strange meat that looked like it might’ve once been a centipede roaming the Forest of Death. This time, my stomach held it down without complaint, finally seeming bigger than a thimble.

And this morning, I woke up feeling completely healthy!

“Tora-chan, are you trying to go outside?” Shisui asked as I purposefully headed for the hideout’s door. I nodded.

“You’re already better?” Kushina-san asked. During our time lying low, Shisui had apparently told her that I was far smarter than your average cat.

I nodded again.

“Naruto! I want to go to him!” I declared. Humans don’t usually understand me, but Shisui surprises me sometimes with how quick he is to catch on.

“Are you heading to Konoha?” the young man asked, clearly focused on my intent. Again, I nodded.

“Tora-chan might be able to be with Naruto! Maybe even deliver a letter from me!” Kushina exclaimed, her hope shining briefly.

“Yes, but it’s not that simple. He’s being watched closely,” Shisui cautioned. “Even with all my skills, I haven’t been able to get near him. He’s always under surveillance and rarely leaves the house. A letter could risk exposing our little spy here and draw unnecessary attention. Besides, Kushina-san, imagine the chaos if it’s discovered you’re alive. You wouldn’t be able to reach Naruto—who would undoubtedly want to see his mother—nor could you fight back if ANBU or the Hokage found us.”

“You’re right,” Kushina said, wiping her eyes. “You’re right, but it’s so hard to accept.”

“I think we need to come up with a solid plan,” Shisui said, his tone serious as he glanced at me. “All of us together, factoring in Tora-san’s unique capabilities.”

I jumped onto the table, sitting upright to show I was listening intently.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 23

Was Queen Rennala of the Full Moon a waifu? A silly question. Of course, she was. But it was important to understand that waifus came in many forms, and one's attitude toward them could vary greatly. Where Kosta had pitied Irina, he admired Ranni. Or take Melina—she could evoke both pity as a burned girl without a fleshed-out story and admiration for her selflessness.

If he wanted, Kosta could describe every waifu in detail, and Rennala was no exception. Her story was deeply tragic and, in some ways, pathetic. She hadn’t been defeated in combat but through a cruel betrayal. As if that wasn’t enough, her daughter was "dead," one of her sons had turned into some grotesque snake-like abomination, and another had fallen victim to the schemes of a nasty little boy who wanted to make him his consort.

Kosta sympathized with the queen, reasonably considering her fate utterly dreadful, and wanted to help her at least a little, even though she was the queen of casuals. Yet, even with this sympathy…

He couldn’t say he felt the same warmth toward her as, for instance, Melina. Perhaps it was because Rennala was the mother of one of the best waifus, and Kosta simply didn’t want to make an already strange situation even stranger.

Socially, Kosta, despite his recently boosted perception, was still hopelessly awkward. And most importantly, he knew it.

The only thing that usually saved him was that the social aspect of the current Age wasn’t all that important. Instead of thousands of words, there would be thousands of rolls. Perhaps a few parries with a shield and disrupted casts. When the time came—real parries. And maybe a few words thrown in for good measure: after all, since arriving in the Lands Between, Kosta had managed to allocate a few points into Charisma through sheer practice.

A charisma he needed to muster right now.

The sizeable palace was desolate but surprisingly clean. Clearly, the sorcerers minimally maintained the mad queen’s quarters, which didn’t justify them much, of course.

Then again, much of what the Tarnished did was hard to justify, but thankfully, everything could be resolved through rolling and breaking the concentration of dissenters.

As Konstantin strolled through the empty halls, he noticed many portraits, including those of the royal family. He was quite taken aback to see a painting of the Carian family in its entirety.

With some effort, the Tarnished could recognize them all.

Rennala sat on her throne, smiling happily beneath her signature tall crown.

Radagon, with his red hair, stood beside her, his expression cold and indifferent. For some reason, his torso was bare. Naturally, Konstantin nodded respectfully—clearly, this great warrior also believed in carefully managing equipment weight.

Radhan, a mountain of muscle, whose eyes still gleamed with intelligence.

Rykard, looking disheveled, with overgrown red hair and a scruffy beard, unaware that he would one day allow himself to be consumed by a dubious snake for questionable power.

And finally, the not-yet-ethereal waifu. Like the rest of her family, her hair was a fiery red, and even in the painting, she appeared comparatively petite (1). However, it was all relative—the entire family was over two meters tall, and that wasn’t even their limit. Had Kosta been on the painting, he’d have looked like a small child in comparison.

Then again, the size disparity suited Kosta just fine: the smaller he was compared to his opponents, the easier it was to dodge their attacks. Any experienced Soulslike player knew that the larger the boss, the easier it was to defeat them. Conversely, the smaller and more humanoid they were, the harder they were to beat. A rule with exceptions, but one that worked reliably enough. The Orphan of Kos (2) could attest to that, not to mention… someone else, much closer to home.

Any tryhard knew that at some point, you became the living embodiment of this rule, making previously tough enemies hear boss music when you showed up. (3)

Interestingly, the two gloomiest figures in the painting seemed to Konstantin to be Ranni and Radagon. It appeared they had always been the most reclusive and unsociable of the family.

“These little details were sorely missing in the game,” Kosta remarked as he continued onward.

Soon, he reached massive doors. The faint sound of singing drifted to Konstantin’s ears. The atmosphere had subtly shifted.

It had grown much darker, more oppressive. Not crushing, but filled with an ineffable madness—pure despair that soaked into the palace walls.

Unfortunately (in every sense), Konstantin had played Bloodborne more than once. Unless it was some kind of endgame or a waifu’s tragic questline, he immersed himself in atmospheres of madness and despair like rolling through a swamp: familiar and heartwarming, though it somehow still filled the poison meter and slowly drained his HP, and he’d run out of consumables.

For a true Soulslike player, however, that only added a special spice. Everyone knew real hardcore players fell in love with swamps through deep-seated hatred.

Much like the games themselves.

Placing his hands on the massive doors, Kosta felt their resistance. It would have been much faster to use casual energy, but Kosta preferred to honor every door and gate opened in all FromSoftware games. They would forever hold a place in his heart.

The faint whispers and barely audible singing grew louder. The sight before the Tarnished was breathtaking: a mesmerizing library filled with stacks of books. At its center, enveloped in golden light, a towering woman hovered in the air.

Clutching an amber egg, she murmured something incomprehensible.

Below her, young women with identical faces crawled on the floor, laughing as if they couldn’t stand. Copies of one another. The worst part was how beautifully and appropriately the reused assets were presented. Condemned to death and rebirth, they lacked full consciousness.

But that didn’t stop them from noticing the intruder.

Turning sharply toward the sound, the wide-grinning young women with identical faces crawled toward the unflinching, half-naked Tarnished, stopping directly in front of him, staring up into his face.

Their smiles widened even further.

“Warm, warm, hehe…”
“So warm, so warm! Do you want to play? Play?!”
“Hehehe…”
“…hehehe…”
“Hehehe!!”

Their high-pitched laughter echoed through the library, making the already unfriendly, dark place feel especially eerie and unnatural.

Kosta, as if oblivious to it all, carefully made his way toward the golden-lit queen, avoiding the crawling figures. The laughing girls reached for his legs, their giggles never ceasing, but the man ignored their attempts.

Could it be that the casuals hadn’t intervened when he won, thinking the queen herself would stop him?

Kosta didn’t want to fight a waifu—especially not the mother of one of the best waifus. This was one of those rare cases where a true Soulslike player wanted to skip a boss entirely.

“Hush, little culver.”

A soft, deep, surprisingly gentle and loving voice echoed from the queen. It calmed Kosta, soothing him like a mother’s embrace.

“I'll soon birth thee anew, a sweeting fresh and pure...”

From all sides, identical copies began crawling toward Konstantin, loudly and cheerfully, yet eerily monotonously chanting:

“Sleep tight, child, swaddled in Mother’s amber… Sleep tight, child, in Mother’s shadow you shall rise… Sleep tight, child, swaddled in Mother’s amber… Sleep tight, child, in Mother’s shadow you shall rise…”

Kosta coughed into his fist uncertainly. Normally, by force of habit, he’d already be breaking faces, but this time, he had to improvise and step out of his comfort zone.

“I want to talk.”

The laughter grew louder. Rennala finally turned her attention to him, her gaze lowering slowly.

“Do you wish to be reborn, dear one?” (4)

She didn’t seem surprised to see the half-naked man standing there. Her voice remained tender, deep, and soothing.

“Maybe later,” Kosta replied flatly. “I—”

He reflexively dodged a book that nearly hit his head. Then another. And another. And another…

Konstantin caught one of the flying books and sent it back at its source. The giggling girl who got hit staggered, then collapsed with a foolish expression on her face.

At best, she’d only suffered a concussion.

“My child…”

Rennala’s whisper, dreamlike and detached, seemed to signal the others. They started singing again, and books began to rise into the air—dozens of them.

Kosta, seeing the incoming area-wide attack, realized the situation was escalating far too quickly.

The symbol of casual authority—a staff—appeared in his hand. With a chilling dzzing that sent shivers down the spines of tryhards, beams of golden energy formed behind him and shot toward the singing girls.

Konstantin, knowing the treachery of area attacks, immediately dashed backward, seeking cover behind countless columns and stacks of books.

Every Soulslike player had heard the legends of how Miyazaki designed area attacks. One popular tale claimed that the genius game designer was inspired by the unpredictable movements of his father’s belt during childhood. These attacks supposedly bypassed textures and invincibility frames, reducing even the most hardened tryhard to a helpless child staring at the red YOU DIED screen and screaming at the injustice.

Luckily, the world around Konstantin was occasionally fairer.

Most of the countless books, now speeding through the air, collided with physical obstacles, failing to reach the nimble Kosta. Some he dodged outright, a few he rolled away from, and others he swatted aside with his staff, as though shooing away pesky flies.

As he fended off the last few books, the earlier ones began rising again. The girls’ chanting grew louder, clearly displeased that more of their sisters had been knocked out by casual energy.

Konstantin understood what the world demanded of him. He understood—and immediately did what he did best.

The staff, freed from gameplay limitations, became a makeshift club, landing with satisfying thunks on the heads of the girls. The unholy dzzing of spells transformed into painful thuds, sending the oohing and ahhing copies into a deep slumber.

No worries—they’d be reborn later anyway.

The previously oppressive atmosphere turned into an absurd theater: Konstantin, dodging, rolling, and evading the endless books thrown by giggling girls, dashed across the library, teaching them an alternative application of magic.

Even his new club broke. Time to farm more smithing stones.

All the while, Rennala hovered above, cradling her amber egg, watching the chaos with a detached, dreamy gaze. She took no action, her eyes clouded, her voice still singing.

Konstantin had never considered himself a particularly good person—he wasn’t—but the surreal wrongness of the situation made him want to end it as quickly as possible. Maybe even apologize. To everyone.

Striking the last grinning copy was especially hard. As she pelted enchanted books at him, she smiled innocently, as if merely playing. Unfortunately, Kosta didn’t appreciate her game.

Thunk!

The final girl slumped to the ground, joining the eerie, absurd pile of unconscious (only unconscious, right?...) bodies. But the man had no time to catch his breath—the queen’s barrier shattered.

Unlike the game, her magic wasn’t slowly undone. It broke entirely, and Rennala didn’t gently descend—she fell. Kosta nearly went gray on the spot, sprinting with all his might toward the woman.

If he dropped a waifu—the waifu, mother of one of the best waifus—then…

The Celestial Dew might not help. He’d never forgive himself.

Thankfully, he caught up in time, barely managing to catch the enormous woman, nearly toppling over under her weight. Konstantin, once again underestimating Rennala’s size, almost choked.

This wasn’t the kind of trial he wanted, dammit! This wasn’t even the right kind of trial! His head barely reached her waist!!!

Rennala’s hazy gaze swept over her surroundings, as if oblivious to the bodies of her “daughters.”

“My dears, it’s time to be reborn… my dears…”

She seemed utterly unconcerned that she was being held by a small, half-naked Tarnished who had knocked out dozens of her creations.

Kosta gently laid the queen’s body on the floor, exhaling deeply.

He had to act quickly. He had an idea of how to reach the mind of the maddened queen.

“The Ring. The Dark Moon Ring. It’s here, isn’t it?”

It felt like he’d spoken a magic phrase. The queen, who until now hadn’t even noticed Kosta, froze for a moment.

“The Ring of the Dark Moon? Why would you need it, dear?”

“For a creatively reimagined best ending,” Kosta replied sternly.

Konstantin had a hunch why Ranni hid her... survival from her mother. Perhaps it was justified back then—or maybe not; who could say for sure? The Tarnished wasn’t a lore expert. But now, there wasn’t much sense in hiding anymore.

Most likely, the lunar demigoddess was simply afraid of meeting her mother in person. It was understandable—had Ranni extended a hand, even a puppet one, during Renalla's time of need, the queen might not have been so consumed by grief. But her daughter had chosen not to, ensuring everyone believed she was out of the picture.

“The best ending?” Renalla clutched the amber egg in her hands. “I don’t understand… I…”

Her gaze began to flit about nervously. The mention of the ring belonging to her daughter seemed to ignite a much-needed spark in the heart of the hollowed, abandoned mother and queen.

No one could comprehend just how desperately Renalla needed hope.

She turned her eyes to the side. Among the countless books was an unassuming chest. With so much clutter in the library, it would’ve taken Kosta hours to find it on his own. There were literally dozens of similar chests scattered around!

Konstantin nodded resolutely and headed toward the chest.

He couldn’t open it just yet; it required a key. A key that could only be obtained when the lunar demigoddess herself provided guidance. But that didn’t stop Kosta from doing something else.

Placing his hand on the chest, he sent it, along with all the other junk before it, to one specific place he knew well.

He wasn’t bound by game mechanics.

Renalla stared in shock at the chest that had suddenly vanished.

“The ring… the ring belongs to my little Ranni…”

She was so stunned that, for a brief moment, her localization improved. Or was that a term of endearment? Who could say...

“That’s exactly why I need it.”

Kosta’s firm, unwavering response caused the queen’s heart to skip a beat. She realized what the Tarnished was trying to convey: her little girl—she might still exist in their world. Intact.

Tears streamed down Renalla’s face as she clutched the amber egg containing the Great Rune as tightly as she could.

From the egg, darkness began to seep out. More and more of it—a thick, impenetrable void that seemed like the very embodiment of the cosmos, a starry night illuminated by a radiant, mesmerizing Moon.

Renalla, captivated by the sight, whispered:
“Oh, little Ranni, my daughter. Weave your night into the fabric of existence…”

“Second phase?” Kosta blinked. “But…”

The answer came to him on its own.

A voice spoke, unmistakably belonging to Ranni, who had decided to intervene. And the reason for her actions was vastly different from what had occurred in the game.

“A soul so bold and presumptuous.”

Kosta could swear his waifu currently sounded like a sulking, offended little girl.

“What grand tale will you spin after your death? Of the last queen of Caria, Renalla Full Moon. Of the grandeur of her sorcerous night. And of how you dared covet my ring without asking! Prove you have the right to such audacity!”

The darkness consumed the library entirely, transforming the surroundings beyond recognition. An illusion so terrifyingly vivid it was indistinguishable from reality.

Naturally, both Melina and Sellen couldn’t help but watch what was happening. The false Finger Maiden and the illusion of the exiled sorceress exchanged bemused glances at the pouting lunar demigoddess beside them, neither daring to say a word.

Her eyes blazed with righteous fury, wounded pride, and barely concealed embarrassment.

Melina frowned, beginning to suspect the true significance of the ring.

She decided she wouldn’t intervene to help the Tarnished. Not a chance. He wanted a tough opponent? Let him choke on it!

Sellen, enchanted by the terrifying spellwork bordering on divine intervention, chuckled mischievously.
“What a dramatic bunch!”

Konstantin, meanwhile, now stood face-to-face with not the sorrowful, deranged, abandoned mother and queen but a true monarch—the Headmistress of mad astrologers, sorcerers who studied living stars, willing to go to any lengths for their research and power.

Towering above him, Renalla gazed at the Tarnished with calm and confidence—the same calm and confidence one might have when squashing an annoying insect.

Konstantin glanced around, sensing that if he wanted, he might be able to break the illusion. Something whispered to him that it was possible. After all, he had over-leveled a bit.

But what Soulslike player would pass up such an opportunity? Words couldn’t describe how thrilled Konstantin was by his waifu’s actions! He hadn’t dared to dream of battling the real Renalla!

And the man knew exactly how he wanted to defeat her.

Astrologers were practically the ultimate class in the game. Most bosses couldn’t do much against properly stat-distributed casuals, letting themselves be sniped from a distance. Casuals were terrifying, and unfortunately, that was an undeniable fact.

But there were rare exceptions where even casuals struggled to progress.

Renalla had almost complete resistance to magic. Moreover, like any casual, she was a ranged combatant, leaving little room for victory in an honest fight without spirit summons: her spells obliterated them faster than they could act.

Konstantin remembered the pain casuals endured when they encountered Renalla. They got to experience a tenth of what every true Soulslike player went through, bringing them a step closer to God. And the man knew this to be true.

After all, he himself had once delved into casual play.

With a wave of his staff, Konstantin bowed deeply to the queen. Startled by the unexpectedly noble gesture from the half-naked Tarnished, she nodded briefly, acknowledging the madman as her opponent.

“Does he intend to defeat the queen with sorcery?” Melina whispered, shocked.

Sellen could barely contain herself, her eyes alight with curiosity. Ranni huffed, puffing herself up even more, though it seemed impossible to get any puffier.

The queen had no intention of starting with a polite exchange of minor spells. Her staff flared to life, conjuring a terrifying spell. A spell that scared little tryhards, bragged about by casuals on forums, recounting how they easily defeated most bosses where regular mortals struggled.

The Comet Azur.

An energy beam powerful enough to bore a hole through the Tarnished’s body shot from the queen’s staff toward Konstantin.

As though in slow motion, Kosta watched the horror of the Lands Between hurtling toward him and did what he did best—well, apart from parrying.

A roll.

The illusion of the true queen tilted her head in surprise. Her spell was fast, but that didn’t stop the man from dodging it. Most who stood in the Head of the Academy of Raya Lucaria’s way would have ceased their miserable existence by this point.

For some reason, Konstantin was certain that if the queen were to meet her younger sister, she’d probably say something like, “Too slow, sister.” (5)

Not that it mattered much right now.

Konstantin, like a mirror of the queen, mimicked her staff movements—just as fluidly, just as precisely, as if he’d performed them thousands of times before.

The queen, realizing what the Tarnished was about to do, widened her eyes in surprise and leapt backward. Rightfully so: a gigantic beam of golden energy, like an unstoppable force of nature, obliterated the spot she had just been standing in.

The Comet Azur, somehow imbued with the power of the Sun. A legendary spell, one only the most elite sorcerers—casuals of the highest caliber—could wield. And Konstantin cast it as though he’d just scratched himself with the staff moments earlier.

To say that the women watching were stunned would be an understatement. The man who had all this time portrayed himself as the ultimate warrior suddenly demonstrated mastery over magic that only the strongest and most skilled mages could dream of.

The Tarnished’s combat potential was already terrifying. In close combat, he was a machine, an unstoppable force of destruction. Even his skill with a bow and simple throwing knives was enough to frighten.

But now it was clear: their Tarnished, if he so desired, could instantly transform into a fearsome mage of immense power.

What would happen if he began combining his skills as both a sorcerer and a warrior?

Who—may the Greater Will and Queen Marika the Eternal preserve them all—had this madman been before?

It was obvious that Konstantin had come from some distant place. Yet that didn’t stop him from knowing and mastering so much, as if he’d scoured the entirety of the Lands Between a dozen times over, personally getting to know every being of any interest.

This wasn’t something mortal, no matter how talented or powerful, should be capable of. Add in the man’s other absurd talents—his faith, the aura of raw power radiating from his spells—and any doubts would only linger in the minds of the most brainless of undead:

Konstantin the Tarnished was a vessel for the will of an Outer God. A God the Lands Between had never encountered before.

“The Sun,” Melina whispered.

And they had yet to grasp what that would mean for them. The arrival of Outer Gods had never been accompanied by anything good. They all waged war for dominance over this world through mortals, and it was always catastrophic.

Ranni raised her gaze to the Moon, now the foundation of the illusion.

The situation was growing more complex, and it was unclear what the Tarnished would ultimately become for them—a blessing or the most terrible of curses.

The duel between Rennala and Kosta was only beginning. Spells swirled around the man and woman like mad things. Cold blue clashed against warm gold, annihilating one another.

They exchanged spells as though they were participants in some strange ritualistic dance. The queen’s illusion moved as if gliding over water, her every motion imbued with the grace and power of a mighty sovereign.

Konstantin, as if playing along, responded with equal elegance. Patience was the reward of sorcerers: one could not simply fire off spells recklessly—well, unless they were absurdly over-leveled. Most of the Tarnished’s stats had been invested in his body, and only recently had he begun compensating with casual sorcery talents, which meant he couldn’t afford to overwhelm her with magic alone. Not against Rennala.

He only cast a spell after dodging the queen’s powerful magic. Similarly, the queen herself avoided his attacks, refusing to be hit. Their duel was mesmerizing, fully showcasing the mastery of both combatants.

But all things must end.

“Come forth, Oathsworn Giant!”

The queen struck her staff upon the ground, summoning the energy of spirit ashes. Before them loomed a giant, once enslaved by the queen, who had never found release even in death.

Kosta extended his hand, and a Spirit Calling Bell materialized.

He had no regrets about accepting it.

With a resonant chime, a spectral albinauric woman appeared before him, seated on the ground.

“I’ve been waiting for your call, Konstantin.”

Kosta shrugged and, unconstrained by game mechanics, rang the bell again. A haunting wolf’s howl echoed as the spirits gifted to him by Ranni made their return.

The man had no doubt that Latenna had grown bored inside the bell. Sadly, the mechanics of the real world prevented him from forgetting about someone.

The astonished woman, surrounded by spectral wolves, climbed onto one of them. While it was far smaller than her “other half,” these spiritual beings could easily bear the albinauric’s weight.

Now fully battle-ready, the huntress wasted no time, firing enchanted arrows into the pained giant, who growled in rage.

She was ready to make this a glorious hunt.

Konstantin and Rennala once again faced one another.

“Summoning the spirits drained much of my casual energy,” Konstantin said calmly. “I could try to defeat you with magic alone, but then I wouldn’t be able to show you something. My apologies.”

Even his slight over-leveling wasn’t enough yet. Unfortunately, to truly reach his ending, Kosta would need to grow much stronger. He understood that and was prepared to offer this world an unspeakable sacrifice to over-level himself.

Rennala’s illusion said nothing. She was connected to the true, broken queen, who saw the events unfolding as if she herself were battling the Tarnished.

Words weren’t necessary: any experienced Souls player knew this better than anyone else. In the real world, however, that concept was apparently foreign, and dialogue was constantly demanded of the poor tryhard.

The staff vanished from Kosta’s hands. Replacing it…

Was a hammer.

Rusty, old—clearly once the possession of one of the countless fallen warriors of the Lands Between. It wouldn’t last long; it could break from any stray strike.

Luckily, it would suffice.

At the sight of the hammer, the queen’s eyes widened. Her entire body flinched, and she took a step back. The slight figure of the Tarnished before her changed subtly. His body language grew rougher, colder. Even his gaze hardened, a stark reminder that, above all, he was a warrior, not a sorcerer.

And, most importantly, the previously half-naked man now had pants. Though his chest remained bare.

The image was complete.

For a fleeting fraction of a second, the thought flashed through the queen’s frenzied mind: it was as if Radagon himself had appeared before her once again.

“Why?”

Ranni’s whisper made Melina flinch. She turned her head toward the brooding demigoddess, roughly imagining the emotions of a daughter abandoned by her father alongside her mother.

But the answer came quickly—for all of them.

Kosta, gripping the hammer in his hands, began advancing toward the queen—slowly, inexorably. The illusion tied to the original queen, feeling the fear rise from the depths of its soul, struck the staff against the ground once more.

“Come forth, Oathsworn Dragon! Come forth, Oathsworn Beasts!”

Ignoring the summoned spirits, the man gradually picked up speed. When the dragon spewed a torrent of fire at him and the beasts lunged to attack…

Konstantin executed a single, flawless roll, effectively ignoring the spirits, and then leaped higher than any human could. As he rose, he swung the rusty hammer, now glowing with the radiance of the Sun—a radiance that could destroy the weapon at any moment.

Rennala could not mistake what she saw for anything else. Whether she wanted to or not, tears began streaming from the queen’s eyes.

The outcome was inevitable.

The image of the Tarnished suspended mid-air, with the Sunlit hammer poised above him, became the final sight for the unwilling spectators and the queen’s illusion before the hammer struck the ground, obliterating the entire illusory domain.

BOOM!

Soon, the Lands Between would face yet another upheaval.

Footnotes:

(1) Images of a living Ranni, except for the model of her charred corpse that players can find when completing her questline, do not exist in the game. This, however, doesn’t stop players from making assumptions.

(2) The Orphan of Kos is considered one of the most difficult bosses in Bloodborne.

(3) Boss battles are accompanied by musical scores, background music specifically tied to them or the encounter. There’s a belief that sufficiently sweaty tryhard players have their own BGM that is audible to anyone who encounters them.

(4) The original dialogue from the game is “Is it thy wish to be born anew?”. I rephrased it a little bit to be in line with the rest of the dialogue that doesn’t exist in the game. (I might be wrong though but wiki didn’t have any)

(5) Rellana—a boss from the DLC, who ventured into the Shadow Realm and, according to the lore, is Rennala’s younger sister and DLC equivalent of Malenia.

Daily Updates (21/12/24)

Stories:

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 51

• Tier 2: Chapter 56

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 18

• Tier 2: Chapter 23

Elden Ring: My Ending

DELAYED! The chapter is a bit beefier than usual so I need more time, I'll post it tomorrow.

[Life is Good] Chapter 23

The day after my “liberation,” things got wild. Seeing myself on TV, I forgot the most crucial detail—my moms watch TV too. So, there we were, chatting about the news with the gang when Mystique storms in, eyes wide, holding her phone. Now, believe it or not, I’m smart… sometimes. I could tell what was up just from Raven’s guilty-as-hell expression. She almost always used her “Misty” form at the school, just like when we first met, so her face said it all. And I knew exactly who was on the other end of that call—my mom, Judy, in full-on MOMMA HULK MODE.

Let me tell you, Stryker got off easy. I just burned her alive. My mom? I don’t even want to imagine what she’d have done—Khornites would run screaming in terror. Just thinking about my mom’s reaction made me wish I could kill that swine of a colonel all over again. Maybe twice. Then toss the corpse into a pen with a giant necrophiliac, xenophiliac, cannibalistic rhino for some “recycling.”

Resigned to my fate, I grabbed the phone. And boy, did it start:
“What torture, Mom? What are you talking about?! It just looked bad; it was nothing! … I got dizzy, that’s all, and fell! … No, Mom, I’m fine. Calm down, will you?! And if I puked, it was from seeing those… underwear! Did you see those monstrosities?!”

“Mom, I swear, the scariest thing in that place was those loincloths! … I’m not lying, Mom! Seriously! They even fed us! … Milk porridge or something. It was tasty! I didn’t even notice when I ate it.”

“What? No, the school food is fine! I didn’t notice because we’d been traveling for ages—I was hungry. … Ugh, Moooom!”

And on it went for a solid half hour. Mom doesn’t need to stress—she’s had enough of that lately because of me. A real man doesn’t make his women worry without a damn good reason. At least, that’s how I see it.

In the end, we talked it out. Even with the circumstances, hearing Mom’s voice lifted my spirits. She told me about G, about Betty’s mom, and how they missed me, how they couldn’t wait for their son and brother to come home. It was nice. Made me realize how much I missed them too.

No time for reflection, though—Anna-Marie dragged me off to see Charlene in the “therapy room.” Honestly, I’m starting to think she’s Charlene’s personal aide when it comes to “escort Tobias here and there” duties. Or maybe they’re just trying to ship us. We chatted a bit on the way—Rogue lucked out in the complex; they didn’t drag her into any experiments. She sympathized with me, cursed “those bastards,” and invited me to a nearby cafe over the weekend. Of course, I said yes. Why not? First, I’m neer say no when it comes to tasty food. Second, a cafe isn’t exactly a wedding chapel. And third, I actually wanted to hang out with her—she’s fun and relatively sane.

So, I walk into the “therapy room,” and it’s all set up: cozy couch, tea on the table, a warm, inviting atmosphere. Charlene’s there, all smiles, sitting by the table in her wheelchair. Two options came to mind—it’s either therapy time or she’ll be asking for money. I’m broke, so therapy it is. Yay.

And I was right. Two hours of mental gymnastics. Honestly, though? I needed it. I’m not a Terminator, and battles and bloody kills leave marks on a person’s psyche. So far, I’m coping, but that’s probably because the full weight hasn’t hit me yet. Charlene’s a good therapist. Talking to her calmed me down a bit. There’s not much to retell—I vented about my fears, how eerily calm I feel when I recall those events. I didn’t break down, even though I wouldn’t call myself “steel-hearted.”

The biggest thing? I admitted to myself—and Charlene—that I’m terrified I’m either already a psycho or on my way there. I don’t want to become a moral void who sees no value in human life. You know, that whole “the ends justify the means” BS, like mass murder over… let’s say, a new apartment. Killing dozens for something like that shouldn’t ever be okay with me.

In that situation, I still think I did the right thing. I couldn’t have known help was already on the way. If I hadn’t charged at the colonel, she might’ve escaped and kept up her horrors. So yeah, I stand by my actions. But my feelings about killing worry me. Charlene “cheered me up,” saying that I might face a delayed emotional backlash and that she’s there to help if it happens.

I left the session deep in thought. I needed to keep busy. Training was canceled today—everyone was told to rest and recover. Beast wasn’t available either; McCoy was too busy sorting out her trashed lab. Poor woman got the short end of the stick—her place looked like a bunch of orcs ransacked it, smashing everything metallic. On top of that, Stryker had interrogated her extensively, using all kinds of nasty methods. To her credit, though, she only took yesterday and last night off. Today, she was back in action, full throttle. I respect her—not just a good person but passionate about her work without overstepping boundaries.

I decided to chill upstairs. The school has these terrace-like spots that look like medieval towers with decorative battlements. Found a seat between two battlements—chilly for the butt, but my bald head got a nice breeze. Speaking of baldness, I have to do something about my hair with my powers. Sure, being hairless is manageable, but rocking the full Saitama look—no brows, no lashes? Total nightmare. And what about all those women who used to love ruffling my hair? Now they’ll just slap my head like a baby’s bottom. No thanks!

And my powers? Gotta figure those out too. If I could instinctively handle thermal energy, maybe, with effort, I can branch out into other types. For example, I’d love to cosplay Palpatine and shoot lightning while yelling, “UNLIMITED POWERRR!” A fifteen-year-old can dream, right? 

Even if that doesn’t work, I need to master what I already have. Life’s made it clear—peace isn’t in the cards for me. My power has serious potential, and if I don’t join Xavier’s team or the Sisterhood, other players will come knocking. SHIELD, Hydra, The Hand, you name it. Marvel’s crawling with these types. I need to think hard about who I align myself with. Mutants will always see me as “one of them,” and burning bridges with them by teaming up with antagonists? Bad move. Besides, the mutants have done so much for me. I owe them at least that much.

Stealing power-ups to boost my own game? Genius plan. SHIELD could hook me up with that Eternity Serum—longevity, super strength, killer reflexes. Kamartaj? Magic galore! Portals! Imagine grabbing a shawarma mid-battle via a portal. Past-life dream achieved. And let’s not forget martial arts—my thermal punches and shield are begging for some moves like Flaming Dragon Kick That Sets the Sky on Fire. A must-have.

Caught up in these totally productive thoughts, Kristi found me and dragged me off to somewhere cozier. On the way, we passed the lounge, and then I heard something that made my skin crawl—every hair follicle I didn’t have shivered in unison. Jubilee. Giving a speech.

Jubilee. Sharing stories.
With the full force of her skill, Explosive Enthusiasm, cranked to max.

I gently stopped Kristi and edged closer to the gathering, curiosity getting the better of me. Jubilee’s voice rang out:

“...and then I hear gunshots! I peek out the window, and oh my god, it’s madness! Eight big, scary women shooting at Tobias like crazy, but he doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps walking towards them, all badass and bulletproof, with this predatory smirk on his face and those wild eyes of his! He stops right in front of them. They stop shooting—like, they don’t even know what’s happening! Then he says—get this—‘Now it’s my turn, bitches.’ And he goes HAM. 

“Blood everywhere—intestines, brains, limbs flying! And he’s laughing, yelling, ‘Mess with me now, idiots!’ He straight-up popped one woman’s head like a watermelon! The last three tried to run, but oh no, not with him. He chases them down, shouting, ‘You’re not escaping, sluts!’ Then he tears off all their legs, stands over them like a demon, and—wait for it—rips out their hearts. AND EATS THEM. All three! After that, he looks up at me, puts his finger to his lips like, ‘Shh, don’t tell.’ Girls, I swear, I nearly melted in my panties. Kristi better act fast, or I’m wife material before she even blinks.”

I stood there, fighting every urge to facepalm. Some of the girls in the group started looking past Jubilee, wide grins forming as they spotted me and Kristi. Jubilee caught on, turned around, and oh boy—Kristi was not amused.

I always thought my little demoness couldn’t get mad. Turns out, I was wrong. Her narrowed eyes, furrowed brows, flaring nostrils, that twitching tail, and that absolutely wicked smile? Chef’s kiss. What a masterpiece. I’m 100% ready to provoke her on purpose for more of this. Meanwhile, I stayed calm, letting Kristi’s brewing fury work its magic. Jubilee’s gonna get spanked, and I don’t even have to lift a finger. Win-win.

Jubilee, of course, exaggerated for fun—she’s always been like this: hyper, bubbly, and utterly incorrigible. I didn’t stop Kristi as she delivered some well-deserved under-the-table justice—literally. Jubilee yelped after a couple of well-placed kicks and a smack upside the head, all while Kristi moved with elegance. Damn, she’s graceful. My admiration must’ve been obvious because Kristi blushed a shade of violet that had me grinning like an idiot.

She grabbed my hand—no resistance from me—and whisked me off somewhere more private. There, we melted into each other, exchanging endless kisses and warm embraces. She murmured sweet nothings in German, her tail coiling around my leg, and I basked in it all. Dinner? Skipped. Couldn’t care less. Kristi’s attention was addictive.

Though we didn’t cross any major lines, and honestly? A bit of a bummer for me. Still, I think the intensity came from everything she’d been through. After such a terrifying ordeal, emotions run high, and here I was—safe and sound, reassuring her. It was beautiful, raw, and perfect.

Of course, Mystique eventually found us, dragging us to the dining hall. She even gave Kristi a sly thumbs-up and winked at me. Approval from mom? Check. Guess I’m in her good graces.

The evening ended with a late dinner, some teasing from Pyro and Iceman about my new look. I promised to recruit Kitty for a nighttime raid to shave their heads in retaliation, earning a pillow to the face.

Despite the laughs, there was a lingering weight. Tomorrow, we’d bury Sandi, one of the kids who didn’t survive the Striker compound. The image of her lifeless body on that cold table haunted me. Every time it came back, anger surged.

I just wanted to enjoy life. But could I, knowing that somewhere, another twisted monster was torturing a helpless child? I couldn’t save everyone. That’s the cruel truth. Still, the guilt was suffocating.

For now, I forced the thoughts aside. Tomorrow’s grief would come soon enough.

I was in the morgue, staring at Sandi’s small, pale body. She lay on the table, still and silent, covered by a thin sheet. At my feet, a corpse twitched weakly—a woman whose face I’d burned beyond recognition. She rasped horribly, trying to cling to life. Irritated, I nudged her with my foot, muttering for her to shut up. Her head caved in under the pressure, spraying bone and brain matter. Quiet again, but not peaceful.

“You’re late.”

A soft, cold, emotionless voice broke the silence. Sandi turned her head toward me, her dead eyes locking onto mine.

“You didn’t hurry to save me, Tobias. If you hadn’t gone to sleep after getting your powers, I might still be alive. Then you wouldn’t have to attend my funeral tomorrow.”

She tugged the sheet down, running a small finger along the gaping incision on her chest.

“They took my heart, Tobias. How am I supposed to live without a heart?”

I stared into her lifeless eyes, tears silently streaming down my face. Bitterness choked my throat, shame weighed heavy on my chest, and anger—blistering anger at my own hesitation—burned through my lungs.

“They took everything from me,” her pale blue lips whispered. “They stole my life, the youth I was supposed to live. They took my first kiss—one that should’ve been waiting for me in the future. A future that will never come. I’ll never see the sun again. I won’t play with my friends or hug my mom. I’ll never meet my love or have children. I’ll lie in the ground, Tobias. In a wooden box, rotting, being devoured by worms, stinking to high heaven.”

She pulled the sheet back over herself, her dead gaze drifting back to the ceiling as she returned her head to its original position.

“Go, Tobias,” she said softly. “Just leave me here. Leave me to freeze on this iron table under this thin sheet... without my heart.”

Late at night… I lay there, my pillow damp with tears, my blanket soaked with cold sweat. Logically, I understood—I couldn’t have made it to her in that state. Resting wasn’t a mistake. But in that moment… if only I’d been able to use my powers sooner. If I’d been stronger. If I’d taken things seriously from the start.

My smug little “positive selfishness” that I used to be so proud of, my flippant attitude toward life, my ‘whatever, not my problem’ philosophy… all of it had kept me from saving that girl.

I’m not saying her death was solely my fault. If you go down that rabbit hole, you could pin the blame on anyone. Xavier’s team for failing to protect us. The Sisterhood for not getting there in time. The U.S. president for allowing such atrocities. SHIELD, Hydra—hell, everyone. But that’s a dead-end road, a pointless waste of time and energy. What matters now is learning from this and moving forward.

And the lesson is simple: “Not my problem” doesn’t cut it anymore.

I don’t want dreams like this haunting me. I’ve been given a second life, and maybe it’s time I grew the hell up. Time to take responsibility and act before circumstances force me to.

This world—it’s real. My reality. It’s beautiful, but it’s brutal. It worships strength and ignores the weak.

If I want the people I care about to be okay, if I want them safe and happy, then sweet little Tobias needs to step it up. I need to be truly strong—strong enough that at the mere thought of messing with me, any would-be enemy starts shitting bricks.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 56

Here’s how it probably went down: the NCPD planted someone in the casino or flipped an employee. The snitch had some device sending out constant signals, and when we cut communications here, the cops got tipped off. Now they were here—at the absolute worst time.

Falko sent me a photo showing three patrol cars and one SWAT van. A bunch of cops were already spilling out. How many? At least twenty, probably more than the Claws they were planning to raid.

"V, we’ll grab what we can from the accounts and bounce," Lucy suggested.

Damn it. We were so close to the vault—just a few more meters, crack the lock, and the loot would be ours.

"Let’s grab the pick and crack it," I said, moving toward the vault. "They’ll have to bust down the doors anyway."

Then an explosion rocked the building. Looked like the cops were busy dealing with the barricaded door. How long would that buy us? Who the hell knew. The clock was ticking—seconds, not minutes.

"You done yet? Delta the fuck out of there!" Falko’s voice crackled over the emergency channel.

He wasn’t wrong.

This little escapade was my own dumb idea, and diving into a suicide mission wasn’t worth it. We didn’t have some psycho fixer breathing down our necks. It was supposed to be a chill safari for the two of us. But there was no way I could’ve anticipated a snitch in the casino crew. We didn’t even set up external surveillance. For once, the cops played it smart. Now, we had no choice but to pull back instead of going out in a blaze of glory.

"We’re leaving," I announced reluctantly.

Lucy nodded, and we bolted back toward the tunnel. Behind us, another explosion echoed, followed by gunfire. The cops had broken into the casino. Either the remaining Claws were putting up a fight, or the cops were firing warning shots. Cops in Night City could do that kind of thing.

We moved fast—past the cut-open grates, the graffiti masterpiece by the Tyger Claws, another grate. The humid heat from the steam pipes hit us as we got closer to the thermal system, but then—

Lucy froze. She gestured for me to stop. Shit. The cops knew about the tunnel too?

We crept forward, ears straining for any sound. The pipes groaned with steam, but further ahead, I caught a faint whisper. Too quiet to make out words, but someone was definitely lying in wait.

Estimating the distance, I pulled an EMP grenade from my rig. The ambush was about fifteen meters ahead. The tunnel curved just enough to keep us out of sight for now. I switched the grenade to my cyberlimb and activated a basic trajectory-calculating program.

The grenade clanged off the wall, bounced along the floor, and then—

"Freeze! NCPD—" barked a commanding voice before cutting off mid-shout. "Ah, fuck..."

Blue light from the EMP flash drowned out their flashlights, plunging the tunnel into darkness.

I rounded the corner to find three cops still reeling from the EMP. I hit the furthest one with an overload quickhack, jabbed the closest in the neck with my cyberlimb’s needle, and watched as Lucy took out the third. A kick to the solar plexus, followed by a hack, and he was down for the count.

One more cop waited topside by the manhole. Instead of climbing up immediately, I tossed a frag grenade. Once it went off, I pulled myself up and fired three suppressing shots to keep the guy pinned behind cover. He responded with a flashbang, but Lucy and I were already slipping away behind a nearby building.

Falko’s car screeched up to the corner, and we dove in.

"So that’s it? We’re just bailing?" Rebecca asked from the front passenger seat, clearly annoyed.

"Going toe-to-toe with cops ain’t worth it," I replied. "Keep at it long enough, and you’ll end up dealing with MaxTac. Lucy, what’s the haul?"

"About twenty grand," she said, scanning the data from the accounts we siphoned.

"Decent catch," Falko nodded.

"Decent, my ass," Rebecca grumbled. "That psycho Jack got hundreds of thousands."

"Funny how quick you forgot borrowing two or three grand from me," Falko shot back.

"Pull over for a sec," I said, turning to Lucy. "You didn’t wipe the casino’s system yet, did you?"

"Nope. It’s a simple little bug, won’t lead back to us."

"Think we can tap into their security cameras from here?"

"Need to set up a bridge. There’s a city network relay across the street. Why? Wanna watch the cops scarfing donuts and bitching about pay?"

"Exactly. Haven’t watched a cop drama in ages," I said, though my real motives were different.

For the next half hour, I monitored the Night City Police Department at work.

By 5 a.m., Officer Eugene Scott finally returned home. The door to his rented apartment slid open to reveal a tall, dark-skinned cop with a worn government-issued cybernetic implant gleaming dully in his head.

"Laura!" he called out hoarsely.

No response. Cursing under his breath, Eugene shut the door, balancing a paper bag of groceries in one hand.

"Drunk again, huh?" he muttered, dropping the bag next to a few pairs of synthetic sneakers by the entryway. "Laura, you useless bitch! Your goddamn husband’s home!"

He kicked off his boots, slid on some rubber slippers, and stormed into the kitchen to confront his wife. Laura—a hefty Latina—was slumped over the table, head resting on her arms. Eugene quickly realized something was off. She wasn’t just drunk; she was completely out.

"Laura! Goddammit, don’t tell me you OD’d... Hang on—"

"Relax, no OD," I interrupted, aiming my pistol at him. "The dose was measured perfectly. She’ll wake up in six hours. Don’t believe me? Check her pulse—unless your implant has thermal imaging."

The cop instinctively reached for his gun but stopped, realizing how badly outmatched he was. I stood to his side, weapon ready, face hidden behind a pitch-black mask.

"You working for Hideo?" he asked immediately.

"No."

"Zbyszko?"

"Let’s skip the guessing game," I said, my voice distorted beyond recognition, a smirk curling under the mask. "Half an hour ago, you pocketed something at work. A certain device. Put it on the table."

“Ah…” The cop nodded slowly, his expression sour. “So, you’re the ones who hit the casino.”

“I need the device, officer, not your detective insights. I’m being quite lenient with you here. Put the device on the table and then take that pill over there—next to your wife’s head.”

The officer let out a heavy, irritated sigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I could see the anger simmering inside him. He was probably already counting the payday he’d imagined from fencing the corp tool he’d swiped. Sucks to be him. Guess what? I wasn’t exactly thrilled when the cops crashed the casino we were halfway to raiding. But I dealt with my frustration.

"People like you always think the law doesn’t apply to you and everyone else is a dumbass," he growled through clenched teeth, carefully placing a bundle containing the corp tool on the table. "But life’ll screw you over in the end. You’ll get what’s coming."

I barely stifled a laugh. Pocketed evidence, now preaching about justice. Typical. No doubt Officer Scott had a laundry list of reasons justifying his behavior—crap pay, asshole bosses, everyone’s doing it. Sure, the system’s rotten.

And yeah, he wasn’t entirely wrong. The system’s a mess. It acts like a magnifying glass, amplifying and focusing humanity’s flaws into a searing, corrosive beam. But the locals haven’t come up with anything better, so whining about it is pointless.

The cop picked up the pill, rolling it between his dark fingers, flaring his nostrils.

“Take it,” I said, giving a small flick of my Apparition. "Trust me, I wanted to tear into your lot earlier tonight, but I decided to be reasonable. No unnecessary bodies. Let’s keep it that way, yeah?"

He shot me one more venomous glare, then popped the pill and washed it down with warm beer from an open bottle on the table.

“Good. Now, we wait a little,” I said, still keeping my aim steady.

"I don’t know who you bastards are, but we’ll find you," Scott promised, sitting heavily on the bed. “You reek of Afterlife, buddy. Think that old hag Rogue’s gonna cover your ass? Think you, you chrome-fuck—” His words slurred as his tongue started to tangle. “Chro… chrro… hrnn…”

Yeah, I wasn’t worried about him causing problems. He wasn’t about to file a report about stolen evidence he’d nabbed himself. And even if he spun some story, good luck tracking us. The virus had already wiped the casino’s surveillance records. We hadn’t even killed any cops, and Night City’s lazy-ass justice system wasn’t going to bother us over a couple of roughed-up officers. They’ve got bigger fires to half-assedly put out.

I waited until Scott was fully out, checked his implants for recordings, wiped everything clean, and left his apartment with the loot. The hard part was yet to come—talking to Lucy. She was waiting downstairs in the car. Falco and Becca were already home. No more fights ahead. Time to drink, unload some stress, and, maybe, scrape a little weight off my shoulders.

I made my way down, pulled my mask off in the narrow gap between the building and some industrial lot, and got back to the car. Lucy was slouched in the passenger seat, her legs propped up on the dashboard. Everything looked the same, yet it wasn’t.

“Let’s blow off some steam,” I suggested. “Drive out to the dam’s overlook, have a drink.”

“Sure,” Lucy agreed, but her tone carried the weight of someone heading for a terminal diagnosis instead of a casual hangout.

The car rolled forward—another rented ride. I’d thought about buying my own, but I guess I wasn’t a nomad at heart. Cars were tools to me, disposable. In our line of work, you had to swap them out constantly.

“I got the corp key,” I bragged. “Didn’t put my faith in the cops’ ‘honesty’ for nothing. They’d already skimmed half the vault before the detective showed up. Bet he’ll pocket the rest.”

“Great,” she muttered, her tone flat.

"Tequila? Or whiskey?"

“I brought absinthe.”

“Bold choice. Enough for me too?”

“Plenty for both of us.”

The car sped through the predawn haze. A faint mist blurred the streets. Night City never really slept, but around six or seven in the morning, it seemed to drift off a little. A short, restless, junkie’s sleep, filled with nightmares. But by noon, the city would gulp down some California sun, munch on a crunchy handful of shattered dreams, and drag itself to another night of madness.

The ride to the overlook was quiet. We passed the absinthe back and forth, its buzz dulling the sharp edges of our thoughts. My head felt heavy and warm, my body detached—ironic for someone like me.

I stared out the window, trying to imagine Night City as a person. A deranged but calculating psychopath, obsessed with blood, fame, and the wreckage of other people’s dreams. It looked like Jack Mauser. Or maybe David Martinez, torn between a quiet dinner at home and a slaughter at work, tearing heads off for Arasaka’s eddies. Or maybe… it looked like me.

When we stepped out at the overlook, the cool breeze cut through the absinthe fog just a little.

“I wanted to talk.”

The words felt like a boundary crossed.

“We need to talk,” Lucy agreed, leaning against the dam railing, gazing at the city below.

I could feel the weight between us. Lies and unspoken truths hung in the air like a toxic haze.

“You start, or should I?” she asked.

“I’ll go. Remember when we talked about this thing in my head?”

Lucy nodded.

“It’s… more complicated than what I said before.”

“I figured as much.”

“Okay… How about you tell me your version first? Just curious.”

“That thing’s growing,” Lucy said, taking a long pull from the bottle before tossing her words at me like a punch. “It’s becoming you, and you’re becoming it. And—” She paused for another drink before throwing the next blow. “And you’re not even trying to fight it.”

“Well… makes sense,” I admitted. “But the truth is even crazier. You know what an engram is, right?”

“Yeah. A memory snapshot. Arasaka’s pushing that immortality BS to the rich. Digital forever and all that.”

“Right. Do you believe in digital immortality?”

“No. It’s not life. Engrams are just recordings. Fancy virtual tombstones.”

“It’s a bit more than that, Lucy. The AI they plugged me into—it was built off the engram of a dead person.”

The girl’s face shifted, her expression turning serious, almost like she sobered up instantly.
“You’re… serious?”

“Yeah. I’ve got two sets of memories. In one, I’m Vincent Price. In the other, I’m a completely different guy who lived about thirty years, then died from lung problems. And it’s not just raw data, Lucy. Not some dry facts stored on a shelf. Emotions, desires, pain—all of it came with him.”

I paused for a moment, taking a sip of absinthe, and wrapped it up with:
“I died alone… a long, long time ago.”

The line practically mirrored a verse from “The Man Who Sold The World.”

Ten long seconds of silence followed. The wind and the distant hum of a waking city filled the gap. Night City’s uneasy slumber was giving way to its painful awakening. Like ants scurrying over the skin of a giant, the city's inhabitants rushed off to whatever grind awaited them.

“I figured I’d hear some shit from you tonight…” Lucy finally spoke. “But this…” For a brief moment, a crooked smirk twitched on her lips. “This sounds like a fucking ghost story or a horror flick, but I believe you. You’ve got no reason to make up something like this.”

“Just don’t hit me with something like, ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’” I sighed, setting the half-empty bottle on the stone railing. “This sounds insane. Like a one-way ticket to a padded cell or some Corpo lab. I can’t even say how old I really am. Twenty? Fifty? Maybe older. That engram didn’t become an AI overnight, and it spent a long time in limbo.”

“Wait…” Lucy’s face lit up with realization. “The Russian language… That’s why you know it?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Lucy exhaled deeply and pulled out a cigarette.

“I should’ve guessed,” she said. “You once told me the Corps didn’t know about your second language. I thought it was weird back then but didn’t dig into it. Young Corpo hotshots always try to show off to their bosses, and here you were, sitting on a whole-ass language like it was nothing.”

“Exactly. That other me lived in Moscow. Studied, worked, and then… I remember the thoughts he had as he died. All that regret, anger, envy, and missed chances. It’s like a soul-deep hunger. Like withdrawal, but worse. That’s why I really left Arasaka. I’d already wasted one life chasing an illusion of success. I’m not giving up this one so easily. I want to live. To enjoy it. To be free.”

Another stretch of silence. Lucy was clearly processing the first batch of my confessions. Not that I was serving her the pure, unfiltered truth. This was still a mixed drink—just stronger than the sweet lies I’d been pouring before.

“That thing in my head can’t take me over. It is me. What I became, once upon a time. And the other me? You never knew him.”

“Maybe I didn’t…” Lucy replied bitterly. “Or maybe I thought I did. I need an answer, V. To one question.”

The way she said it made it clear this was make-or-break. Our lives and this conversation hung on her next words. I braced myself for some deep existential query: Am I human or AI? Or maybe about Abernathy’s death and my secret deal. But her question blindsided me, like a cold, calculated shot in the dark.

“V, tell me… our second meeting. At the Ho-Oh Club. Was it you who fed Kiwi or Faraday info about me?”

Daily Updates (20/12/24)

Stories:

Prof Umbridge

• Tier 1: Chapter 48

• Tier 2 Chapter 53

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 28

• Tier 2: Chapter 33

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 24

• Tier 2: Chapter 29

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 29

The hope that had lit up in me flickered out the moment Minato stood and sneered at Kushina-san.

“The ‘one clan genjutsu can’t touch!’? You’re talking about the Uchiha, aren’t you?” His voice dripped with mockery. “Who do you think helped unleash the demon from you? Or have you never wondered why not a single one of our red-eyed ‘friends’ was with us that night you gave birth? You thought they were following Hiruzen’s orders, didn’t you? The old monkey might be playing his sly political games, but he won’t outmaneuver me.”

Minato formed a sequence of hand seals, then pressed his palm to Kushina’s stomach. A greenish ripple of energy spread across her body.

“Recognize your suppression seal?” he asked with a dark chuckle. “I improved it. Now, you’re weaker than a common villager. Despite your quick recovery and ridiculous resilience, I’ve made sure you’re powerless. Did you really think I didn’t notice your feeble attempts at resistance? But I have important matters to attend to now. I’ll be back later, and we’ll continue this little conversation.”

“How are you planning to seal the Nine-Tails into Naruto?” Kushina rasped, her body trembling as she slumped onto her side. Whatever Minato had done was clearly taking its toll. “I never told you how to seal a biju. You don’t know the fuinjutsu!”

“I didn’t need you to tell me,” Minato replied nonchalantly. “Hiruzen shared the technique with me while you were giving birth. ‘Reaper Death Seal.’ Quite the poetic name, don’t you think?”

Kushina let out a strange, broken sob. Judging by the sharp change in her scent and aura, whatever Minato had sealed her with was truly brutal. But she was alive—barely. Damn it! Just leave already, Minato, you bastard! I’ll save her while everyone’s distracted. I’ll chew through the ropes binding her ankles and wrists. But what the hell? Why is she tied up so tightly? These knots go all the way up her arms and legs! Then again, she is a shinobi—they probably used extra precautions to prevent her from escaping.

Finally, Minato left, and it was just Kushina and me again. I darted toward her, biting down on the ropes, which were thin but frustratingly strong.

“Tora-chan?” she whispered softly. Whatever Minato had done to her must have been agonizing. I could feel the spasms radiating off her, her body trembling as she stifled quiet sobs. But she didn’t give up. She twisted and shifted, trying to make it easier for me to gnaw through the bindings. I focused, channeling the scraps of chakra I had left into my teeth to make them sharper. It helped, but the ropes still cut into her skin, drawing blood.

“It’s okay, Tora-chan,” she murmured, her voice filled with encouragement. “You’re doing great. Keep going. I can take it. Come on, little one, just a bit more!”

Her composure in such a dire situation amazed me. I didn’t know how long I kept biting. My jaw throbbed with pain, my head spun from the metallic tang of blood, and the ropes tasted bitter, as if soaked in some foul substance. I chewed and chewed, feeling like I’d been at it forever. My teeth ached, my tongue was numb, and I was starting to lose hope. But finally, the ropes gave way, and her hands were free. Relief and bitterness swirled in me.

And then… darkness.

I must’ve blacked out. The idea that someone had gouged out my eyes felt absurd, yet I couldn’t shake the sensation. Distantly, like the faint hum of a mosquito, I heard someone calling me.

And they called me something strange… Gregory.

I knew it was supposed to be my name, but it didn’t feel like mine. Who was Gregory? And what kind of ridiculous last name is Pestretsov? It sounded so foreign, almost laughable. No, that couldn’t be right. That wasn’t my name. But what was it? The answer hovered just out of reach, a frustrating void. Who am I?

Then, the darkness began to fill with light—pinpricks that sparkled like stars. Except… they weren’t stars. They looked more like glowing eyes, scattered and unblinking. Some blinked occasionally, but most were pale green. And there were more and more of them, all watching. The silence was oppressive, like a vacuum pressing in on my ears, yet at the same time, it was full of whispers. A silent cacophony of “shu-shu-shu,” as if a million voices murmured without sound. It was madness. Where was I? What was this strange starry world? Is “starry-eye-land” even a word?

Among the sea of green, I noticed one—red. Why? What made it stand out? Ah, curiosity. It killed the cat… Wait! That’s it! I’m a cat! More precisely, I’m a tomcat! I remembered! Oh, how wonderful it was to have something to hold onto. Waking up in an unfamiliar place without any sense of self is terrifying. Huh… why does this feel oddly familiar?

It was strange not having a body, yet I could see and feel everything. A new mystery? No matter! I “ran” toward the red star. Somehow, despite lacking legs, I could move. The star got closer, its crimson glow reminiscent of Kushina-san’s hair. Of course! I have a mistress! That’s right! Having no owner is the worst—no one to feed you or scratch your belly or behind your ears. Ah, those were the best… And there was a boy too! He smelled of milk and peonies. Weird combination, but I liked it. His name was… something silly… Ryota? Nura? No, that’s not it. Ugh, my memory is awful for a cat!

That endless “shu-shu-shu” was grating now. Why were they silently arguing? I wanted to listen too! Oh, no… I take it back. Be careful what you wish for, right? If I had ears, they’d be curled back in discomfort. The sound was overwhelming, a furious debate crashing down on me.

“One life!”
“Only one!”
“He exchanged it for a human life!”
“That’s unacceptable!”
“But he was granted it!”
“A proper cat life includes nine lives—everyone knows that!”
“But he was given just one!”
“It counts!”
“It doesn’t count!”
“One!”
“Nine!”
“Did he deserve it? Don’t make me laugh!”
“One means one, not nine!”
“Can’t you count?”
“His life ended!”
“But he traded a human life for a cat’s!”
“Yes, he gave it up just now!”
“Should that be considered?!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“One!”

“Stop! I’ve changed my mind! I don’t want to hear this!” I interjected, and the cacophony returned to its subdued whispering.

Honestly, it’s the same everywhere. No peace, no consensus. Great, now I’m a feline philosopher and pacifist. The red star still blinked, pulling me toward it. Naruto! That was the boy’s name! My little chick—a skinny, blue-eyed bundle of fluff with spiky blond hair. I loved burying my nose in it. But… something felt wrong. What had happened to him? Why did it hurt so much to think about him? Where were my paws? My whiskers? My tail?!

The red star vibrated, sending strange waves my way. Sound waves? Wow, I’m smart! How do I even know about stuff like that? But why couldn’t I hear them? I wanted to listen!

Summer Star, Why are you so red.

Because, I had a sad dream last night.

My eyes are red from the tears I've shed.

Swollen as I cried.

Summer Star, Why've you lost your way?

I'm searching for a child whose gone afar.

He can't be found, though I've searched all day.

My sad dreams come once more.

Summer Star, Why are you so red.

Because, I had a sad dream last night.

My eyes are red from the tears I've shed.

Swollen as I cried.

Summer Star, Why've you lost your way?

I'm searching for a child whose gone afar.

He can't be found, though I've searched all day.

My sad dreams come once more. (1)

A soft, haunting melody began to echo, familiar and bittersweet. Was Kushina-san singing? Her voice… it called out, but to where? The red star pulsed again, and the song grew clearer, closer. A warm wave swept over me, like a gentle caress. A hot droplet landed on my nose, and an unbearable itch made me sneeze.

“Tora-chan! You’re alive!” someone exclaimed.

Oh, right! My name is Tora! Phew, for a moment there, I was worried the memory loss was permanent. Okay, systems check. Tail? Still there. Paws? I can feel them. Claws? Extendable. Ears? Yep, they’re twitching. Wait, I’m forgetting something. Oh, right—eyes. Let’s open them!

Holy… Whoa. Uh, wow. I might be a cat, but something feels… off. Also, I think I died. Why else would I be staring into two red eyes and a face I recognize, even though I’ve only seen it once before? But the scent—it’s unmistakable. Yes, it’s him! I know it! Though… where have I seen him before? From my owner’s lap? Wait, do I have an owner?

“Tora-chan, we thought you weren’t going to make it. That rope was laced with poison,” a woman’s voice said softly above me.

Kushina-san! I tried to get up but couldn’t. What is going on?

“Don’t move, don’t move, sweetheart. You’ve been very sick. You were in a coma for three whole days. I… I thought I lost you…” My owner sniffled.

So, all that darkness with the “star-eyes” was just a fever dream?

“The ropes they used to bind you were coated in snake venom. A neurotoxin,” Kobo-san explained, his voice firm yet concerned. “It was applied specifically to neutralize anyone who tried to chew through them. Even if a cat like you avoided the venom entirely, gum injuries would still be unavoidable. But for someone your size… that dosage was lethal.”

Wait. Kobo-san? No way. He’s alive?!

I couldn’t even muster the energy to be relieved because, once again, the world tilted, and I fell back into darkness.

Thankfully, no creepy “star-eyes” this time. Just a dream. In it, there was a pig and a busty woman whose chest was oddly comforting to knead. And there was my little chick, Naruto, sitting all alone on a swing, crying.

Don’t worry, little chick. Your Tora-san will get better and come back to you…

________________________________________________

• Natsuhiboshi (夏母子, literally meaning: Summer Mother and Child) is the title of the song that both Sumaru and Natsuhi sang in the Star Guard Mission. It is a lullaby Natsuhi sang to her son when he was an infant. He usually sings the lullaby whenever he remembers his deceased mother.

[Castling] Chapter 33

During Christmas, most people went home, but the castle still felt festive. With Hermione away, Harry and I decided to skive off studying and amuse ourselves however we could.

Every day, we visited Hagrid. He even took us into the Forbidden Forest to see unicorns and introduced us to a little tame thestral he’d rescued. Oddly enough, we could see the baby clearly and even fed it some meat. With Hagrid leading the way in broad daylight, the forest wasn’t the least bit scary. In fact, it was brilliant jumping through snowdrifts, trying to land in his massive footprints so we wouldn’t sink waist-deep.

We spent ages flying—racing, catching the Snitch, and playing impromptu Quidditch matches with whoever stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays.

Then there were the snowball fights. We buried each other in drifts, built snow creatures with the other lads, and brought them to life with spells to make them fight one another.

We teased the girls too. They acted all aloof, refusing to join in, but they’d squeal like mad if a snow-laden branch dumped on their heads or a bewitched snowball nicked their hats. The best was when a snow figure chased them right up to the castle doors, broomstick in hand. They’d be too flustered to think of magic until the thing dissolved into slush at the threshold. Afterward, they’d huff and scold us, but honestly, it was worth it.

Even Filch wasn’t spared. He absolutely lost it when he saw what Harry and I had made—a menacing snowman with a coal-toothed grin, a bucket for a hat, and a broomstick at the ready. He screamed like a first-year and bolted, cursing us all the while. Well, what can you do? Boys will be boys.

One of the best bits was building massive ice fortresses with magic, no hands required, then pelting each other with enchanted snowballs from behind the walls. It was miles better than regular snowball fights.

We split into teams later, enchanted our boots for sliding, and played a sort of dodgeball on the frozen edges of the Black Lake. The aim? Shove someone as close to the open water as possible without actually dunking them. The older students helped by casting protective wards around the lake so no one fell in. Still, every time you slid toward the icy water, your heart raced, especially if the Giant Squid’s tentacles decided to surface for a stretch.

The older kids didn’t bother with any safeguards. Their game was more brutal—knocking each other into the water outright, relying on mates or magic to haul them back before they froze. Didn’t know Hogwarts could be so lively during the holidays.

The rest of the time, we explored the castle. At first, it was just idle wandering, but soon we got it into our heads to revisit the Beast Room and see if the troll was still down there.

Turns out, no troll—but I did find rolls of its skin stashed away. Very distinctive, all lumpy and rough. Harry didn’t mention it, probably to avoid upsetting me, but it’s no secret wizards see magical creatures as little more than potion ingredients. Bit grim, really.

The Beast Room itself was fuller than ever—loads of snakes and toads crammed into aquariums. There was even some weird creature in a tank, all wiry fingers and a human-like face. We didn’t stick around to study it, though. For all we knew, it could talk and land us in trouble.

Exploring the dungeons turned up all sorts of oddities. One dusty old lab caught my interest. It had charts of human and horse anatomy and notes on compatibility—proper intriguing stuff. Meanwhile, Harry was busy poking at weird contraptions.

Another room looked like a museum, full of skeletons and jars of preserved… bits. Definitely not human, but still creepy. Shame Dean, Seamus, and Neville weren’t with us. Well, maybe not Neville—this wasn’t his sort of thing.

We also stumbled upon a decrepit theatre. It had this ancient curtain half falling down and a wardrobe stuffed with old costumes and props. We mucked about, throwing on cloaks and pretending to duel until we were sneezing from the dust. Harry really outdid himself, though—he threw on a wig, a lady’s hat, and pranced about like Professor Vector. I nearly wet myself laughing.

Then there was a ritual room—pentagram on the floor, melted candles everywhere. When the candles flickered to life as we entered, we bolted without a second thought. Last thing we needed was to summon some demon by mistake.

The creepiest find? A spotless cell right next to the Beast Room, complete with polished chains on the walls. Judging by the birch rods soaking in a tub nearby, it was Filch’s personal domain. Bloke’s a proper nutter. We peeked inside the isolation chamber, too—stone walls, a grimy cot, and a barred door. Makes you wonder what punishments were like in the old days. Creepy stuff.

On the bright side, we discovered an old dueling hall. It was massive and mostly empty, though a bit damp and mossy. We thought that was the highlight—until we stumbled across a huge pool in the middle. Probably used for something, but who knows what?

"Maybe it’s some kind of ancient sports hall?" Harry suggested, his quiet words echoing against the stone walls. "You know, like fencing, wrestling, running, or something like that. I’ll have a look over there, Ron."

"Alright," I agreed, "but don’t touch anything—you never know."

"Got it," he replied, disappearing into the shadows.

On my side, near the pool, it was a bit brighter. The water below seemed to have its own faint glow, though it was murky and silted, or maybe it was the stone itself emitting a dim light. It lit up about two metres around me with a cold, eerie gleam. I couldn’t help but think about radiation or something worse.

One of the nearest pillars stretched high into the darkness above, its surface covered in golden runes, accented with glinting bits of coloured stone that shimmered faintly under my Lumos. When I stepped closer and poked at one of the "runes," I realised they weren’t runes at all but carvings of snakes or lizards intertwined in an intricate pattern, their gemstone eyes glinting menacingly. If this was a duelling or training hall, it was definitely designed for Slytherins. That thought barely crossed my mind before something distracted me.

"Ron, give me a hand. Light it up, right there," Harry called.

I followed his voice and the faint glow of his wand. He was standing by a heap of jagged stones.

"Up there—I saw an opening or a cave. I want to check it out," Harry explained, pointing. "See it? It’s glowing a bit. Keep your wand lit for me."

He stuffed his wand into his pocket, rolled up his sleeves, and started climbing the rocks. Sure enough, about six metres above the floor, there was a dark hole, faintly illuminated around the edges like the pool below. Harry climbed nimbly and quickly disappeared into the gap, though he reappeared almost immediately.

"Nothing there," he grumbled, clearly annoyed. "Just a niche and a wall, that’s it. Waste of time."

With his Lumos on, he paced the small ledge a bit, peering at the walls. That’s when I saw it—a stone eye.

"What the bloody hell?" I muttered, my stomach tightening. "Harry, get down from there! I don’t like this."

"Alright, alright," he called back, preparing to climb down. "Wait a sec—there’s something written here," he added, squinting at the wall.

"What does it say?" I asked automatically, though every instinct I had was screaming to leg it.

"Hold on," Harry said, pressing closer to the wall, just out of sight. Then I froze—he was hissing. It took me a moment to realise it was Harry. The acoustics in the hall were perfect, and the hissing seemed to echo from everywhere, like every snake carved on the columns had suddenly come to life. Then it hit me.

My blood ran cold. "Lumos Maxima!" I bellowed. Bright light flooded the hall, revealing the heap of stones for what it really was: a massive statue of an old man. Harry was standing on its lower lip, which was twisted in a frozen scream.

"Have you lost your mind, Ron?" Harry snapped, shielding his eyes. "Nearly blinded me!"

"Get down here! Now!" I yelled, my voice breaking. Harry got the message—he’d never seen me this spooked. Without arguing, he began scrambling down.

But he wasn’t even halfway when a grinding noise echoed through the hall.

"Move it, Harry!" I shouted, panicking, and he leapt the last four metres, landing awkwardly. I managed to cushion his fall slightly with a weak shield charm, but now we were in pitch blackness.

Harry groaned as he rolled off the shield and hit the floor, winded. Meanwhile, I focused on the Path, willing it to take us somewhere safe.

A faint, ghostly light appeared on the stone floor, leading away from the hall. I grabbed Harry’s arm, not giving him a chance to recover, and we bolted.

Behind us, the grinding noise grew louder, followed by a dragging sound, like a heavy sack being hauled across the floor. We didn’t stick around to investigate. We ran through the hall, then through a dark maze of tunnels, until we stumbled into a brightly lit room, clutching our sides and gasping for air.

The sudden light blinded us, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the entrance we’d come through sealing shut.

"Hey! This is the girls’ bathroom!" an indignant, high-pitched voice shrieked, startling us out of our wits. The ghost of a plain-looking girl, maybe thirteen or fifteen, floated out of a stall. "What are you two doing here?"

"Er… we wanted to meet you," I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. My brain wasn’t working after the fright. "You’re Myrtle, right? Hermione told me about you. Thought we’d wish you a Merry Christmas."

"Really?" The ghost seemed to blush—well, darken a little. "That’s… sweet."

"Yeah," I nodded, forcing a grin. "I’m Ron, and this is Harry."

"I’m Elizabeth," she said shyly. "Well, Merry Christmas to you too, boys."

"Merry Christmas," we chorused, inching towards the door.

"You’re leaving already?" she pouted, fiddling with a phantom spot on her chin. "I thought we could have a chat."

"Er… sure," I relented, plopping down on the floor and signalling Harry to do the same. Myrtle brightened—literally—and settled a few inches above the ground.

"Why don’t you tell us how you… you know, died?" I asked. Harry’s jaw dropped, but Myrtle perked up.

"Oh, you really want to know?" she gushed. "It was horrid. I was hiding in that stall from Olivia—she was mocking my new glasses," she added, giving Harry a pointed look that made him squirm. "Anyway, I was crying when I heard someone talking, but it was strange, like another language. I didn’t understand it, but one of them was definitely a boy. I came out to tell him to shove off and stop spying on the girls, and then… that’s it."

“Did it kill you?” Harry asked, horrified, as Myrtle flushed faintly again.

“Not exactly,” she admitted. “All I remember are these two massive, yellow eyes. Then it felt like I was being yanked and pulled along, almost like travelling by Floo. Next thing I knew, I was here.”

“Blimey,” I muttered, genuinely impressed. “That’s one heck of an adventure. But didn’t you see a light or something like that?”

“Oh, I did,” Myrtle nodded. “But I wanted to make that Hornby cow regret mocking my glasses. And… oh, she certainly did. I made sure of it.”

“Do you still see the light?” I asked curiously. It genuinely fascinated me, considering I’d never seen anything like that. One moment, I’d just… found myself in this body. Guess the afterlife’s different for everyone.

“Sometimes,” the ghost replied, looking a bit downcast. “But I try not to focus on it—it’s so… bright, if you get what I mean.”

“Well, that’s got to be a good sign, hasn’t it? Means there’s something wonderful waiting for you on the other side. Maybe now that you’ve sorted your unfinished business—got your revenge—you could give it a go? Who knows? Your family might be waiting for you. Or maybe a boyfriend. You’re a pretty girl, Myrtle, and let’s be honest, there aren’t exactly many young or good-looking ghosts around here to chat with—or go on dates or, I dunno, take a stroll with. Must get awfully dull.”

I couldn’t help but think, grimly, that if the war ever came, the castle might just end up with a fair few more young ghosts, much as it pained me to imagine.

“That’s true,” she admitted, her form darkening slightly, clearly upset. “It does get terribly lonely. But… I’m still too scared to leave. You’ll come back to visit me, though, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I promised easily. “Although, you know how it is with schoolwork—barely any time to breathe, let alone visit. And we’re not here forever, either. Just a few more years, then we’ll graduate. Anyway, thanks for the story, Myrtle. You’re a cracking storyteller. Take care, yeah? And if you ever decide to leave, call us—we’ll see you off.”

“You’ve lost the plot,” Harry blurted out as we headed back to the tower to change for dinner. “Why are you encouraging that miserable ghost?”

“Because,” I said matter-of-factly, “I think we’ve just stumbled onto the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. You know, the one Dobby mentioned? And Myrtle… well, I reckon she’s the poor victim that monster killed all those years ago.”

Harry stopped dead in his tracks, going pale as chalk. He stayed silent the rest of the way, shooting me increasingly worried looks.

“So, what do we do now?” he asked nervously after we’d changed and settled by the common room fire.

“No idea,” I admitted. “But you can tell me what exactly you were hissing back there by the statue.”

“Hissing?” Harry repeated, looking more alarmed by the second. “I wasn’t hissing!”

“You were,” I said firmly. “Don’t argue—I know what I heard.”

“How could I be hissing without realising it?” he said, utterly bewildered.

“It’s called Parseltongue—the snake language,” I explained. “Not everyone can understand it, you know. You were speaking it and clearly understood it yourself, but to me? Just sounded like hissing.”

“Snakes, really?” Harry looked puzzled for a moment before it hit him. “Oh… well, that makes sense, I guess. I did talk to a boa constrictor at the zoo once.”

“Exactly,” I said. “You hiss like a snake, and those carvings—snakes everywhere, from the walls to that pool. I reckon the monster in the Chamber is a bloody great ancient snake. So, what did you read?”

“Not much,” Harry stammered, clearly still rattled. “‘Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.’”

“Brilliant, Harry,” I said with a shaky laugh. “I think we just woke up the monster.”

[Prof. Umbridge] Chapter 53

Ingebjorg awaited them, as usual, with steaming herbal tea.

“Well, then,” she said as her guests settled into their chairs, “just a little longer until the finale, isn’t it?”

“Did you... hmm... see that, or are you just making conversation?” Snape immediately asked.

“There’s no need to be a Seer to understand that there are only two ways this can go. Either your Voldemort, after receiving a rather humiliating slap on the nose—”

“He doesn’t have a nose.”

“Severus, kindly keep quiet,” Marina Nikolaevna interjected.

“Anyway, either he retreats to regroup and rally more fighters under his banner—”

“There’s no one left to rally,” Snape interrupted again, ignoring her earlier plea. “The strongest of the Death Eaters have been captured or killed, and the rest are demoralized. Sure, there’s still the riffraff, but that’s exactly what they are—riffraff who’d scatter at the first sign of trouble. As for the werewolves...” He took a breath and continued, “In human form, they’re hardly dangerous; few of them can manage even basic magic. In wolf form... well, even Muggle bullets are enough for them. The giants have been neutralized. All that’s left for the Dark Lord is to seek support on the continent, which could take years.”

“Especially since they remember Grindelwald and his delightful little theories,” Marina muttered, “which he was so keen on putting into practice.”

“There you have it,” Ingebjorg said calmly. “Retreating and rebuilding his army is a possibility, but it’s a long-term one, and Voldemort has surely exhausted his patience after existing in a bodiless form for so long.”

“Not that he ever had much patience to begin with,” Snape remarked darkly. “Although he could just barely keep himself in check.”

“Exactly barely,” Ingebjorg smirked. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have acted on the prophecy without even knowing it in full. So that leaves him with only one option: to throw all his remaining forces into one desperate push to achieve his goal.”

“You mean taking Hogwarts and killing Potter?” Marina Nikolaevna asked. “That seems rather petty for someone supposedly bent on world domination.”

“It’s an obsession,” Ingebjorg shrugged. “Until Voldemort fulfills it, he won’t find peace. He believes the boy is the sole obstacle between him and ultimate power. Remove Potter, and Voldemort thinks he’ll be unstoppable—no one else will stand in his way.”

“You know the full prophecy,” Marina reminded her.

“I only know the first part,” Snape interjected. “What Dumbledore said—those were just his words. The part I know says: ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’”

“Yes, and it continues: ‘And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives,’” Ingebjorg added. “And here we return to the question of properly interpreting such prophecies. Dolores and I have discussed this before, but I’ll repeat it for your benefit, Severus: when Voldemort chose Harry Potter and marked him as his equal—without knowing the full text of the prophecy—he set an irreversible chain of events into motion.”

“So you’re saying Dumbledore was right? That Potter will have to sacrifice himself to destroy the Dark Lord?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she said. “Let me explain...”

As Ingebjorg recounted what she and Marina Nikolaevna had already discussed, Snape’s expression grew darker.

“So Dumbledore wasn’t lying about everything,” he concluded. “And all of this... was for nothing.”

“Not entirely,” the Seer said thoughtfully. “They’ve molded Potter into the perfect sacrifice. And that, I must say, reflects rather... specifically on Dumbledore.”

“In what way?”

“Not the most flattering one,” Ingebjorg replied, clearly softening her words. “Believe me, Severus, I’ve lived a long time and encountered similar situations—never identical, but close enough. Certain circumstances lead someone to sacrifice themselves for their family, or even a single person. But they knew. They always knew.”

“And could refuse?”

“Yes, though they understood the consequences of their cowardice. It was a conscious choice. Besides,” she added, “they always had a chance to fight—whether against a living opponent or fate itself. Such a person was prepared for that battle—ready to die if necessary, but not as a silent, passive victim. They would take as many enemies with them as they could. And no one would send a boy—still a child, not yet a man—into such a fight...”

She paused before continuing: “It hasn’t happened in a long time. The age of legendary heroes is over. But even in our tales, I can’t recall anyone who would go quietly to their death without at least a dagger up their sleeve. If they couldn’t rely on strength, they used cunning—and sometimes they won.”

“Your stories likely only mention the victors,” Snape said stubbornly. “The ones who vanished without a trace aren’t remembered—like always.”

“Not at all,” Ingebjorg said, her lips thinning and her eyes darkening. “There are plenty of tales about those who hesitated in the final moment, or whose fear cost lives. But they knew what they were facing and why. And they paid for their cowardice—not just with their lives, but far more. Yet no one kept such a person in the dark for years about their destiny or the reason behind it.”

“But that assumes the prophecy was interpreted correctly,” Snape countered, clearly in a contrarian mood.

“Yes, you’re right,” she nodded. “Mistakes happen—we’re only human, and even the gods err. But even if the interpretation was wrong, even if the Seer pointed to the wrong person, they still tried to prepare them for the battle—both physically and spiritually. Throwing someone into the deep end to see if they’ll swim... well, that’s—”

“Very British?” Marina Nikolaevna suggested.

“Not exclusively British,” Ingebjorg replied seriously. “Every nation has its heroes and its failures. It often comes down to upbringing—or the lack thereof.”

“Let’s not waste time on this,” Snape said grimly. “We all know Potter’s upbringing was far from ideal—neither in his aunt’s house, nor at school, nor with his godfather, who...” He trailed off awkwardly. “Who was... rudely excluded when he tried to intervene.”

“Black told you that?” Marina Nikolaevna asked, surprised.

“Yes, the last time I was at Grimmauld Place. He phrased it rather crudely, but the gist was: if they wouldn’t let him raise Potter, they should have done it themselves. Why he told me instead of Minerva, Dumbledore, or even Molly Weasley, I’ll never understand...”

“Perhaps he’d be too scared to grab them by the collar and pin them against the wall? Out of his weight class?”

“Very funny,” Snape grumbled, though the next moment he seemed to imagine Black cornering Mrs. Weasley (or maybe twisting Dumbledore’s beard around his hand) and gave a crooked smirk. “But let’s get to the point already. How much longer are we going to beat around the bush? Did Dumbledore bite you or something...?”

“Severus, please, I’m begging you, stop joking,” Marina Nikolaevna implored once again. “If you don’t know how, just don’t bother!”

“Should I start saying that to first-years in class?” he inquired with mock politeness. “Why not? Just think of how many troubles could be avoided!”

“You don’t teach first-years anymore,” she reminded him with a sweet smile.

“No matter; I can say it to the fifth-years,” Snape assured her, his unyielding glare making it clear he was entirely serious. And he’d keep saying it until even the slowest ones got the message.

“Now you’re the one straying off topic,” Ingebjorg said sharply, setting her cup on the table with a thud. “Enough chatter, you two; I’ve got a class to teach soon. To the point.”

“I’ve been waiting for just that,” Snape muttered, unable to help himself. “For half an hour, at least.”

“Twenty-seven minutes,” Marina Nikolaevna corrected pedantically. “Yes, Ingebjorg, my apologies.”

“No harm done. Let’s return to the prophecy,” Ingebjorg continued as if nothing had happened. 

“As you recall, there’s a rather notable phrase: ‘and either must die at the hand of the other .’ But does that mean that one of them must necessarily kill the other?”

Marina Nikolaevna exchanged a glance with Snape.

“Prophecies,” Ingebjorg said, “can be fulfilled in extremely intricate ways, as we’ve already seen. Moreover, at certain moments, events can be steered in the desired direction...”

“What are you implying?” Snape frowned.

“Tell me, Severus, could you be considered Voldemort’s right hand? Or at least his left?”

“In theory, yes,” Snape muttered. “I was certainly more useful than those Azkaban inmates... Wait! What are you getting at?”

Ingebjorg said nothing, her silence eloquent.

“Ah, so you want to interpret the prophecy not literally but figuratively? Brilliant!” he squinted. 

“So, I wasn’t destined to kill Dumbledore, as he wished, but according to your... uh... feminine cunning, I’m still meant to be a killer?”

“Severus, could you at least hear the plan out?” Marina Nikolaevna tried to reason with him, but to no avail.

“No, thank you,” Snape said quietly. “Although... if I refuse, you’ve got another ‘hand’ within arm’s reach, don’t you? Draco Malfoy! Even if he’s just a pathetic imitation of a left hand, he’ll do to finish off Potter, won’t he? After all, this isn’t Dumbledore; it’s much simpler!”

Ingebjorg’s expression was the picture of “What am I supposed to do with him?”

“You might as well have mentioned Pettigrew,” Marina Nikolaevna said grimly, “whom you’ve got stashed somewhere. And, incidentally, he also has Voldemort’s hand!”

“Damn...” Snape said after a long pause. “I’d forgotten about him!”

“He’s not dead yet, is he? In that cage of yours?” she asked with exaggerated care.

“No, I mean I forgot about the hand...”

“Well, as you can see now, even just a few words can be interpreted quite broadly,” Ingebjorg smiled. “And don’t think worse of us than we deserve, Severus. Believe me, we don’t want to kill the boy any more than you do—whether with our hands or someone else’s. Unfortunately, circumstances are such that it can’t be avoided. And it’s better if you do it, rather than a terrified Draco Malfoy—or worse, that... rat.”

“One Dumbledore wasn’t enough for me...”

“You idiot, don’t you understand? We’re trying to save Potter, and you can’t even sit still and listen to the end!” Marina Nikolaevna snapped. “Do I need to silence you with a spell so you can keep your tongue in check for five minutes?!”

“Calm now?” Ingebjorg asked after a short pause. “Good. Let’s continue. As we know, Harry Potter must die—not just because Voldemort wants it, but because that half-witted excuse for a wizard not only left a Horcrux in the boy but also took his blood during his resurrection! And while there might’ve been simpler ways before, now...”

“In the end, there can be only one,” Marina Nikolaevna said grimly.

“Exactly. And a Horcrux in a living host can only be destroyed by killing that host—unfortunately, not just in any manner.”

“Ingebjorg, I’ve been meaning to ask: Potter was bitten by a basilisk, wasn’t he?” Marina Nikolaevna recalled. “So why didn’t the Horcrux...”

“But the boy didn’t die,” the seer replied gravely. “The phoenix, as I understand from your stories, neutralized the venom and healed the wound before Harry Potter could succumb.”

“Shame. It would’ve saved us so much trouble,” Snape muttered, still bristling with contrariety.

“And that brings us back to our insane but still achievable plan,” Ingebjorg said calmly. “You’ll have to kill Harry Potter, Severus. But not to death.

“Hmm... and how do you imagine that?” he frowned. “If you’re thinking about a dose of Draught of Living Death, let me tell you right away—that won’t work. Properly brewed, it won’t lead to true death; improperly brewed... might as well just give him poison.”

“Ingebjorg means we must avoid biological death,” Marina Nikolaevna clarified. “There’s a chance that during clinical death, the Horcrux will be destroyed, and we’ll be able to bring Potter back to life.”

“One-in-a-million chance?” Snape said after a pause.

“Better odds than that, I think,” the seer sighed. “Do you have any alternative suggestions?”

“No. But do you have any way to tell if the Horcrux is destroyed?”

“If, during Potter’s clinical death, the snake and Voldemort are also killed, I think it will become abundantly clear.”

“Are you joking? If I recall correctly, clinical death lasts two to three, at most five minutes. After that, irreversible brain damage begins. And even if we manage to resuscitate the body, Potter could end up a vegetable. And don’t remind me he’s already an idiot! At least he’s not a vegetable...”

“Hypothermia should help, Severus,” Marina Nikolaevna said, nodding toward Ingebjorg, “along with some other measures. He can be kept in that state for... a while. But to pull this off, we’ll need to lure Voldemort out of hiding first!”

“He’ll come,” Ingebjorg smirked. “By that time, everything must be ready.”

“And how do you plan to neutralize basilisk venom?” Snape inquired. “I doubt we can just grab Fawkes and squeeze him over the poor child... I don’t even know if phoenix tears are shed voluntarily or on Dumbledore’s command! And I certainly don’t have a supply of them—such a rare substance, it costs a fortune,” he added darkly. “I don’t have that kind of money. Even then, a trusted supplier would take ages to find them, and there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t cheat me.”

“Do phoenix tears act selectively?” Marina Nikolaevna asked.

“There’s such a theory. If used on someone other than the one they cried over, they might not work. But verifying that is, as you can imagine, impossible.”

“Which is why we’ll have to rely on the traditional method,” said Ingebjorg. “I don’t think the Horcrux cares how the physical vessel dies. Severus, can you do it? Or should we really consider asking Draco Malfoy?”

“Leave him out of this,” Snape said quietly. “I’ll do it. At least that way, there’s some faint hope left, even if it’s a slim one. But how do you intend to convince Potter?”

“I believe we’ll have to show him your memories,” said Marina Nikolaevna. She caught Snape’s glare and added, “There’s no other way, Severus. He won’t believe me, and he certainly won’t believe you, not without proof. The Headmaster, meanwhile, is… well, let’s just say he’s not in any condition to help. And you know as well as I do that he never explains things directly.”

“As if it matters now…” Snape said after a long pause. “Take them. Take it all. I’ve never truly belonged to myself, so…”

“And stop pitying yourself in front of an audience!” Marina Nikolaevna snapped. “Honestly, you’re worse than a child. At least Potter stays quiet.”

“Potter stays quiet?! You should hear the things Black used to repeat to me! Quiet, my foot. He runs his mouth just like his father—no filter whatsoever!”

“Dolores, save the arguments for when you’re alone,” Ingebjorg interrupted, clearly holding back laughter. “Now, the memories, Severus?”

“Will a mug do?” Snape asked grimly, pulling out his wand. “Here…”

Silvery strands began flowing from his temple. There were so many, an unending stream of memories unwound like thread on a spindle. One could almost feel the weight of them—the life, 

the mistakes, the regrets—unspooling into plain view for someone else to watch, to judge.

“This should suffice,” Snape said, handing the now-full mug to Ingebjorg. “I trust that no one else will see this.”

“You don’t need to remind me, Severus,” she replied seriously. “Only the boy will see what’s meant for him. And I sincerely hope that the poison you’ve gathered over the years doesn’t harm him worse than a Basilisk’s bite.”

There was silence.

“Give it back,” Snape said at last, his tone steady but brittle. “Give it back. I forgot something.”

More silver threads appeared, and Marina Nikolaevna could almost imagine what they contained: sunlight and summer, a young girl’s laughter, the faint memory of a friendship lost. Then another boy—a boy who survived.

“I hope that’s enough,” he finally said. “You’ll decide how and when to show it to Potter. I trust you don’t need me for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I…”

“Madam! Headmistress!” Trinky the house-elf burst in. “Trouble! Dumbledore is gone!”

“What do you mean, gone?” Marina Nikolaevna half-rose from her chair. “Where did he go?”

“Trinky doesn’t know! Trinky was watching the map like he was told, but Dumbledore suddenly disappeared!” the elf squeaked.

“Where’s Potter?” Snape asked sharply.

“I told Letty to stay with him. Trinky?”

“Harry Potter is still here, ma’am! But Dumbledore is gone…”

“Fawkes!” Snape muttered, slapping his forehead. “The phoenix can take him anywhere—no barriers can stop it!”

“So he doesn’t even show on the map?”

“Maybe Trinky and Dixie didn’t notice the bird,” the elf admitted, ears drooping. “Mr. Berkley told us to watch the grounds. Trinky only realized Dumbledore was gone by chance…”

“Well, at least Potter hasn’t vanished,” Marina Nikolaevna sighed in relief.

“Where could Dumbledore have gone?” Ingebjorg mused aloud. “And why?”

“I have no idea,” Snape admitted. “Especially after everything that’s happened… Perhaps to meet Voldemort? Or somewhere else entirely…”

“Well, that means we have even less time,” Marina Nikolaevna said firmly. “Who knows what Dumbledore might do next? Ingebjorg, I’ll send Potter to you for detention. Show him… everything.”

“Of course,” Ingebjorg nodded. “The technical arrangements will be Hrafn’s responsibility. Dvergar know this craft well.”

“Maybe we should call someone from St. Mungo’s?” Marina Nikolaevna suggested.

“It’d take too long to explain. Better to involve some retired Aurors,” Snape interjected.

“Don’t you hate them?”

“There’s a lot of people I don’t like…”

“Let’s go,” Marina Nikolaevna said. “Maybe Dumbledore left some clues. You know how he loves riddles—he might’ve left us one now.”

“Yes, let’s,” Snape agreed. “Ingebjorg, you…”

“No one else will see your memories,” she assured him. “Only the one they’re meant for. Now go!”

Out in the corridor, Marina Nikolaevna glanced at Snape and sighed. He looked dreadful.

“You don’t have another lesson today, do you?” she asked.

“No.”

“And neither do I…” A long pause followed, until she finally added, “That was a hint.”

“Let’s not bother with hints, all right?” Snape said wearily. “I’m too far gone for them.”

“Fine, no hints…” She glanced at the clock. “An hour and a half before my first class, and three hours for you. Need more details?”

“No, but your quarters are closer,” he said immediately, and then smirked. “You know, Dumbledore also fits the prophecy.”

“How so?”

“His birthday’s at the end of July or early August—he’s not even sure himself. There’s your ‘seventh month.’ And his hand… If we shoved that cursed, Voldemort-afflicted hand down the Dark Lord’s throat, it’d do the job nicely.”

“Except over a hundred years ago, when Dumbledore was born, no one had even heard of Voldemort,” Marina Nikolaevna sighed. “And his parents couldn’t have defied someone who didn’t exist.”

“Pity,” Snape replied with absolute seriousness.

Daily Updates (19/12/24)

Stories

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 50

• Tier 2: Chapter 55

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 17

• Tier 2: Chapter 22

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 17

• Tier 2: Chapter 22

[Life is Good] Chapter 22

Elizabeth. Lieutenant of Police. Mama-Betty.

Today, there was a change of leadership at the station. Mrs. Gordon retired to her well-earned pension, and former Lieutenant—now Captain—Julia Stacy took her place. The station buzzed with speculation about Betty's reaction. Some had even bet she’d take the promotion herself. Instead, Betty greeted the news with complete indifference.

Elizabeth treated her police work with a calm practicality. It wasn’t that she wasn’t good at her job—her performance was impeccable—but a career in law enforcement wasn’t exactly at the top of her priorities. Lately, her mind had been entirely consumed by her family.

And there she was now, puffing away on her second cigarette on the station steps, lost in thought.

Family... She didn’t even realize when her assignment turned into a life. A happy life with her family—her dear, sweet, wonderful Judy, little Toby, and her sunshine, Guinever. For a time, she’d allowed herself to hope that things could stay like this forever. That Judy would always be her beloved woman… Sure, they had their quarrels, but those were nothing compared to the ‘parenting lessons’ she, as an orphan, had absorbed from her mentor. Tobias would remain the brilliant boy he was, and Gigi… her baby girl. Her flesh and blood. Her reward for a lifetime of service.

God, she’d truly believed that Gigi was her reward. A reward for loyalty, for devotion, for the success of her mentor’s plans.

Blind, foolish faith. False hope. A mistake that couldn’t be undone. She had become too much of a mother. Loved too deeply. And Betty had realized it far too late. At that moment, when evacuation plans were being discussed. When her Mentor mentioned the "fastest" option… Betty's role in her Mistress’s plans was to raise the heir. That role had been rewritten the day the ultrasound revealed a boy. Her Mistress had adjusted the plan accordingly.

The old aristocrat, with all her quirks, had a few immutable principles. Chief among them: an obsession with preserving the family line. The great bloodline must not end. A boy, after all, was an excellent source of genetic material. Finding a suitable woman to bear the next heir was ten times easier than finding a man with excellent lineage.

And so, Betty became not the tutor of an heiress but the caretaker of the family’s male heir. At first, she was a bit disappointed—had the original plan succeeded, her status as mentor to the future head would have secured her an enviable position. But then... Toby. A miraculous boy. Calm, affectionate, kind, and smart. Despite Judy's doting and protectiveness, he wasn’t spoiled, demanding, or bratty—he was obedient and gentle. Men like that were rare. And over time, her role became her life.

She truly fell in love with Judy, genuinely bonded with the boy, and when little Gigi was born... Betty started thinking that she didn’t need any titles or gratitude from one of the Organization’s future leaders. She was already happy.

According to her Mistress’s plan, Tobias was supposed to live a long and happy life—he was her nephew, after all, and blood demanded it. He would also provide a genetic reservoir for the bloodline as an insurance policy. But then, strange things began to happen. Someone dosed the child with a cocktail to dampen critical thinking and boost impulsiveness. Mercenary observers were discovered. Her son’s mutant abilities manifested. He was kidnapped and later rescued. The boy spent months hidden by mutants. Then came Stryker’s raid on the school, the mass abduction of children... and their rescue by mutant forces.

Everything changed after that. Judy, ever since Tobias left, cried often and worried endlessly. Gigi missed her brother and seethed at the “bandits” hunting him. And Betty... Betty prayed that her boy—her son—was all right. Not just because she loved him but because his death would mean Judy’s death as well.

Her Mentor would not keep a “useful tool” like Betty idle. A new candidate would be found for the role of the heir’s mother, and the plan would revert to its original form—only this time, the genetic material would come from Tobias. Could she even continue living and serving under those circumstances?

The "Deceased" Mr. Joseph Black. His Office.

The man leaned back in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. He had just finished reviewing the reports and was, to put it mildly, astounded. Not that the events were unwelcome—far from it. But as the saying goes, if everything seems fine, you’ve likely missed something.

First, the audacious kidnapping of mutants from Xavier’s school by Colonel Stryker and their subsequent rescue. SHIELD had always seen the X-Men as both a potential security threat and an untapped reservoir of valuable assets. Recent events had amplified both their threat level and their potential usefulness. Orders needed to be issued to ramp up recruitment efforts. No, recruitment was already happening, but now it would be easier.

Second, the abrupt shift in government attitudes toward mutants. Once labeled monsters and freaks, they were now being rebranded as oppressed, undeserving victims. Which, frankly, wasn’t far from the truth in most cases. The higher-ups had pounced on the situation with remarkable speed. The day after the base’s destruction, the Secretary of Defense had “committed suicide,” and Pierce had taken her place. And then the deluge began. Mutants, it turned out, had been saved by the military. Stryker was painted as a madwoman. The media, well-prepared and coordinated, poured syrupy tales of mutant plight into the public’s ears.

A long-planned narrative shift was evident... and he hadn’t been in the loop. That was troubling.

And finally, Tobias. Damn, that kid was unkillable. The footage his people had obtained revealed a boy with enormous potential as a front-line operative. Not just because of his abilities but because of his mental resilience. Nine out of ten grown men couldn’t have done what that child had. Killing is never easy, but to kill as he did? Unbelievable. Fury could’ve done it, Romanoff too—but that boy? Strong. Impressive.

The idea of recruiting him into SHIELD no longer seemed absurd.

Though that didn’t make Sophie’s punch to his jaw any less painful when they met.

Tobias... survived and gained enough power to protect himself. The big, wide world is undeniably riskier for him than for the average man, but then again, Penelope is also planning to work in places where risk is simply part of the job description. Interfering further… well, that would mean not only earning more problems with his wives but potentially alienating his own daughter. So for now, "Joseph" will continue to rest in peace, and the unfolding events will determine what needs to be done next. Recruit Tobias into SHIELD, or simply let things play out? Most importantly, he had to ensure the children never suspected his involvement in some of the young man's... complications.

Yuriko Oyama. Lady Deathstrike.

Yuriko watched him—this young man. No, she couldn’t call him a “boy.” That day… would remain significant. It’s significant now and would be for the rest of her life. Not just because she had been freed from slavery—though servitude was nothing new to her. Service without consent had been her way of life. From the start, her mother… and then all the way to Colonel Stryker. The late Colonel Stryker.

It was impossible for anyone else to understand, but for her… Yuriko had witnessed something that was nothing short of breathtaking. She had seen Onryo—the vengeful spirit of Japanese legend—come to claim a life. A manifestation of vengeance. Retribution. Execution.

She had seen it with her own eyes. She had felt goosebumps race across her skin as the boy hissed, "There will be no trial. No investigation. Only punishment." It had stolen her breath. The hatred pouring out of him was nearly tangible, like a fog you could touch. Just a little more, and she swore you could see droplets of corroding vengeance falling from his fingers.

A mutant, yes, but to incinerate an enemy with so much genuine pleasure—you couldn’t just be a mutant. You had to be a killer. Watching his face change, seeing rage and fury melt into a triumphant grin—the exultation of tasting the sweet nectar of revenge—it was the ultimate peak of indulgence. The joy of truly knowing a man, the high of drugs, the intoxication of alcohol—it all paled in comparison to murder, raw and fervent.

Yuriko had never been "normal," no. Joy and satisfaction weren’t foreign concepts to her life, but this… this was an entirely different flavor of ecstasy. And she wasn’t normal—how could she be, when her entire upbringing had sculpted her into a weapon? To be a blade, a dagger, a poison. To be the Deathstrike of her Mistress's enemies…

That day, she had scorned him for his initial desire to leave that pig alive for "a trial." Burning her tongue—fine. She’d laughed inwardly as the boy maneuvered to strip Stryker of power. Clever. But leaving the colonel alive? That was absurd. Weak and foolish child. As soon as her restraints fell and her regeneration patched her up, Yuriko had fully intended to kill the bloated swine herself. And the boy? She didn’t lack gratitude—she had planned to help him.

But his subsequent actions… they enthralled her. He burned her mind with delight. There was a trial, a prosecutor, a sentence. And he was all of them. The judge, the jury, and the executioner. The sneaky brat had outwitted both Stryker and her.

And she loved it: clever, efficient, and inspiring. Only one question remained—what had motivated him? That was important. Psychos disgusted Yuriko—her kind of psycho, anyway. She needed to understand why this boy burned with such emotion. And finding out became a small goal. No need to interrogate—why bother, when the truth would spill out eventually? You just had to wait.

And so she waited—staying close, listening. The reason didn’t impress her much. She was even slightly disappointed. A little torture and the death of a girl—was that what ignited Tobias’s fury? How... pedestrian. Sure, avenging your own was the right thing to do, but it was so bland.

Yuriko had seen it all in her life. Vengeance for violated honor, for slaughtered family, for damage to reputation or financial loss... Tobias had left a mark, impressed her more than not. He’d given her pleasure through his rage and the way he executed Stryker. He’d returned her freedom, obliterated the power structure holding her captive. The boy had done a lot of good for her, and Yuriko wasn’t one to forget a debt, at least in her own eyes. That’s why she decided to stay close to this young Onryo—to watch over him. Until the debt was settled.

Charlene Xavier and Erika Lehnsherr. Mutant School, Xavier’s Office.

The two old friends, sometimes allies and occasional adversaries, sat drinking tea and talking. Student safety, strange media behavior, the fallout of the kidnapping and subsequent rescue of the children, and Tobias’s blazing—figuratively and literally—debut. There was no shortage of topics, and even more tasks to handle.

"Fine, Erika," Charlene agreed easily to her friend’s proposal. "Next time, if more than half the staff are leaving the school, we’ll inform the Sisterhood. You can send people to reinforce security while the adults are away. But please, make sure they’re mutants who can at least somewhat get along with the kids. And specifically about Logan… if there’s a choice, don’t send Victoria. They’re like a cat and dog, and unsupervised, they’ll inevitably start a brawl."

"Deal," Magneto smirked. "Not like I enjoy cleaning her head up after another mess. Speaking of messes—how are the kids handling… all of this?"

"Varies. Some are better, some worse. I worked with them a bit." Seeing Erika raise an eyebrow, Charlene elaborated: "Softened the memories a little, dampened the intensity of the emotions. I didn’t erase anything—the kids still remember it all, but they see it as something that happened a long time ago." She hesitated. "Even experiences like this are valuable. The world is full of dangers, and the kids need to perceive it realistically. The only one I couldn’t work with, due to the nature of his gift, was Tobias. And he suffered the most serious moral and psychological wounds. The boy doesn’t realize it yet, but in time, the understanding of what happened might hit him very hard. Unfortunately, I can only help him as a psychologist. I’m afraid that might not be enough."

“He’s a good kid… but damn, did he surprise me this time. Honestly, I’d love to give him a good spanking for it. Don’t look at me like that, Charlene,” Erika said, shaking her head with a frustrated sigh. “What he did was stupid—so stupid. He’s still a child, and children shouldn’t be killing or fighting. That’s our job. Mine, the Sisterhood’s—that’s the whole reason we came together in the first place: to protect mutants. The boy just needed to wait instead of risking his neck out there. He always seemed so level-headed, but this? Ugh, what’s done is done.

“And let’s face it—we botched the whole protection thing. That’s the only reason his ass is safe from a proper scolding. His screw-up was the result of our screw-up. And then there’s the fact he didn’t let Stryker get away and finished her off. Honestly, I don’t even know how to feel about that. Oh, and he saved that mutant woman. Speaking of her, what can you tell me about her?”

“A mutant with regenerative abilities,” Charlene replied. “Strong, skilled, experienced… and a little unhinged. I couldn’t dig too deeply—she’s not Deadpool-level crazy, but you know how difficult I find dealing with unstable minds. All I can say is that she doesn’t seem to mean any harm—to us or to the boy. She considers herself in his debt and has decided to stick around until she feels it’s paid. Oh, and she was apparently very impressed by his… execution of the colonel.”

Erika grimaced. “She’s staying here for now. We had a talk, and I don’t see any real reason to deny her that,” Charlene added.

“About that stunt with the news,” Erika said skeptically. “I don’t buy it, and you shouldn’t either. That complex was government-owned. No way they ‘didn’t know’ about it—not with the kind of budget they were pouring into it. And they were pouring money into it, Charlene. Operations like that eat up massive funds. Stryker was sacrificed—it’s easier to throw a dead scapegoat under the bus. If she’d managed to escape, she’d just set up shop somewhere else and continue her work. Instead, some other poor bastard would’ve ‘committed suicide’ while taking the fall for horrific crimes.”

“I know,” Charlene nodded. “The results of her work survived no matter what. No one puts all their eggs in one basket—there are backups, reports, other scientists. All of that remains intact. And this supposed ‘change of direction’? It’s a PR move. The research will continue, just with a softer approach, maybe even under the guise of voluntary participation. If they’re truly pushing for mutant integration into society, the next step will be recruiting mutants as employees in various organizations. And from there, it’s all tests, analysis… you get the picture. These ‘criminal’ facilities aren’t going anywhere; they’ll just get buried deeper. We need to stay vigilant and monitor the situation. I want to believe things will get better, but my hope can’t come at the expense of our charges’ safety.”

The women sighed in unison. Change was always stressful, but all they could do was hope these changes were for the better.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 22

The sorcerer’s staff—something once loathsome and heretical—remained just as vile, just as heretical. But now, it felt far more familiar and appealing. To Kosta, it was repulsive and blasphemous in the best way possible; to every other heretic, it was pure horror.

Konstantin still couldn’t bring himself to wear the sorcerers’ robes—they got in the way. But the staff, the tool of the vilest heretics, fit in his hand as if it had always belonged there. Something long forgotten, it initially recoiled from him, but eventually, it nestled gently in his grip.

The ding that haunted the nightmares of countless Soulslike players had permanently changed sides.

Konstantin couldn’t resist a challenge. Without one, using magic might have made the conquest too dull. So, as the most fearsome of heretics, a hardcore player who had embraced casuality in every roll, he decided to defeat the sorcerers with their own spells. Truthfully, it wasn’t even a real challenge, but…

Let’s just say he was still getting into the swing of things.

Both Sellen and Ranni had expressed a desire to see the Tarnished perform the spells of their Academy. A sort of academic curiosity the witches were eager to satisfy.

In the end, they regretted it.

When Konstantin saw glowing arcs flying toward him, he dodged and sent arcs back in return.

When sparkling stones were hurled at him, he retaliated with identical ones.

When small comets streaked his way, he remembered what a real casual “comet” looked like and sent massive bursts of energy in response, reducing the hapless Academy further into rubble.

It was a true humiliation for the sorcerers. A half-naked lunatic running across their rooftops wielded their own spells better than they did. Despair gripped the sorcerers more and more. They couldn’t catch the madman; their spells seemed to pass through him. The Academy halls echoed with their panicked cries: “I hit him! I swear I hit him!”

The more Kosta visited the sorcerers, the louder and more frequent these cries became.

The Lands Between was yet to fully grasp the power of invincibility frames.

It was hardly surprising that at some point, the sorcerers of the Raya Lucaria Academy decided to put everything on the line, determined to take down the half-naked nightmare—no matter the cost.

Either they would finally acknowledge his casual superiority, bow their heads, and—whether they liked it or not—praise the Sun.

“They’ve unleashed the Red Wolf of Radagon and Carian Knight Moongrum,” Melina muttered thoughtfully.

“The Carian Knight shouldn’t pose a problem,” Ranni noted quietly. “Please, don’t take his life, Konstantin. He is still loyal to my mother. Make him bow instead.”

Konstantin’s terrifying mastery of glintstone sorcery subtly improved the way Ranni and Sellen regarded him. Sellen, in particular, was deeply intrigued. Though she was an incredibly talented sorceress, she was still “mortal” and far more willing to bow her head without any “ifs” before the skill of this mad warrior, who had proven himself a true sorcerer as well.

She would happily take a few lessons from him as a student. Sellen was greedy for knowledge, respecting those who possessed it, just as she respected those with power.

The man shrugged, having no objections to the demigoddess’s words.

Ranni cared little for those who had betrayed her mother. In a way, she even found satisfaction in the terror her loyal madman inflicted upon them. Vengefulness and resentment were integral parts of the Lands Between. Those who lacked them rarely remained sane for long, let alone victorious.

After all, Ranni had seen firsthand what blind faith and love had done to her family. She couldn’t afford to grow attached so easily—let alone forgive so readily.

‘Though, of course, celestial dew was always an option’(1).

Sellen and Melina exchanged strange glances at Ranni. She had become more passive in recent days, her voice softer, almost drowsy.

“Is the lady unwell?” the illusion of the exiled Academy sorceress asked sweetly.

The fact that a spiritual being controlling an inanimate doll couldn’t possibly fall ill made Sellen’s question especially mocking.

Though she had bowed her head to the Academy head’s daughter and Queen of the Full Moon, it was clear Sellen had no intention of being truly loyal. It simply wasn’t in her nature.

Naturally, Ranni understood Sellen’s mockery. Her spiritual form almost puffed up to chastise the brazen sorceress, but…

“Life in the form of a doll is not without its burdens(2).”

Konstantin’s words made Ranni pause for a moment. She stared at the unflappable man in surprise before giving him a restrained nod.

For some reason, she didn’t feel more vulnerable knowing her new servant was aware of her weakness—not critical but significant enough to weigh on her existence.

“I will soon enter a slumber. It will be some time before I awaken again.”

Melina narrowed her eyes, the warrior spirit in her single visible eye igniting. Or perhaps it was the hidden flame within her—it was hard to say.

“I will take care of everything.”

The lunar demigoddess and the false Finger Maiden exchanged a glance, then nodded briefly in unison. In this harsh world, where suspicious women increasingly surrounded their Tarnished, they could only trust each other.

All their past conflicts seemed meaningless as more dubious women continued to flock to their Tarnished. One of them, by the way, was currently sitting nearby in an illusory form, casting very suspicious looks at Konstantin!

Melina couldn’t believe Ranni had made such a grave mistake by involving this sorceress in their shared cause!

Kosta, having leveled up his perception, somehow managed to sense the strange atmosphere with the back of his head, but he chose to ignore it.

He figured the social aspect could wait until closer to the endgame. There were plenty of things to do, particularly issues with his waifus.

There was nothing worse than a tragic ending steeped in sorrow and emptiness. Well, except not understanding what the hell had just happened. On the other hand, confusion was an integral part of the gameplay.

The man kept leaving and returning to the Academy for a simple reason: his casual energy would run out. It took noticeably longer to recover than his physical body, and even a Site of Grace couldn’t restore it instantly. His body only required attention to stamina levels, while magic simply ran out and needed time to regenerate.

His latest visit to the Academy greeted him not only with the gothic and somber architecture—partially destroyed by a half-naked madman armed with bombs and annihilating spells—but also with silence. An oppressive silence.

The previously cacophonous Academy, filled with the malicious chiming of spells, now stood empty.

“They wouldn’t have gone far. They’re watching us,” remarked the diminutive projection of Sellen.

Konstantin paid no mind to her comment, sinking deep into his thoughts.

The emptiness of the Academy weighed heavily on Kosta, evoking the memory of the endgame: when he sat alone on the king’s throne after the standard ending, realizing that he had left behind almost nothing and no one. It felt as though he was walking again through the destroyed capital, trudging toward the inevitable end…

And again. And again. And again. The endgame—a masterpiece of despair and magnificence.

The Tarnished strode forward, heading toward the queen’s palace. Thanks to spoilers from his waifus, he already knew what to expect. And he was not disappointed.

Truth be told, Kosta had somewhat over-leveled for this area. The open-world design had allowed him to farm more safely in simpler zones and complete side quests (while, of course, not forgetting to farm). As a result, progress became markedly easy. Coupled with the mechanics of this world, which didn’t care about assigning specific enemies to specific areas but operated solely based on their strength, this meant one thing:

Kosta simply couldn’t not over-level.

So, when he saw Radagon’s giant red wolf being petted by a knight in armor—the last line of defense for the queen—Konstantin felt an unexpected thrill.

He had grown tired of simply walking around and obliterating everything in his path. While he had embraced and enjoyed casualness, now he longed for a challenge.

“My name is Moongrum, one of the last loyal knights of the Carian House. Have you come for the Great Rune?”

The knight’s unexpected attempt at conversation caught Konstantin slightly off guard. Sellen’s projection, anticipating a battle, quickly leaped off Kosta’s shoulder, hiding discreetly nearby. She’d learned her lesson from previous encounters: staying on the Tarnished during one of his somersaults led to dizziness and nausea—not an experience she wished to repeat.

“Konstantin. Or just Kosta. I don’t really need the Rune.”

The knight, still stroking the affectionate giant red wolf, raised an intrigued eyebrow beneath his helmet.

“Then why are you here?”

“Advancing quests,” the man shrugged. “There’s an important ring lying around here.”

Both Melina and Ranni watched the exchange intently. The false Finger Maiden furrowed her brow thoughtfully.

“A ring? Do you know what ring he’s talking about?”

Melina turned to the frozen demigoddess.

“I’m not sure.”

And indeed, Ranni’s tone betrayed her uncertainty. It was clear she was unsure of her assumptions.

“I’ve been awake too long lately…” she muttered softly, her words barely reaching Melina’s ears.

“Madman,” Moongrum chuckled, his voice lacking malice. “You must have driven the sorcerers mad with all the blood you’ve spilled. They’ve granted us temporary freedom, hiding in their dens and watching, awaiting the battle’s outcome. How pitiful. We owe you thanks.”

The red wolf let out a disgruntled huff, starting to growl softly. Clearly, it was barely restraining itself from attacking Konstantin right then and there.

Kosta scratched his head in confusion.

“Why don’t you just leave?”

Now it was Moongrum’s turn to scratch… his helmet.

“Loyalty to the Carian house, Tarnished soul. Few Carian knights remain, but we are still here. Does that surprise you?”

Konstantin hadn’t expected this depth of lore.

Oh, right. There wasn’t actually any depth—unless there was some random trinket lying around, crammed with two sentences of profound exposition that would later fuel three- or four-hour analysis videos. (3)

“Got it.”

Assessing the gravity of the situation, Konstantin bowed deeply with all the respect he could muster, startling both the knight and the wolf. They were even more taken aback when...

The sorcerer’s staff disappeared from the Tarnished’s hand, replaced by a full set of heavy armor. In his left hand appeared a shield; in his right, a club. A brand-new club.

Melina barely restrained herself from squealing in delight.

Her champion had dressed for battle on his own! No one had forced him or dressed him against his will! He looked so amazing!!!

…Well, the club somewhat ruined the noble warrior image, but…

The armor made everything else irrelevant!

This silent gesture marked the start of the fight.

The giant red wolf howled, conjuring a massive scarlet blade of energy in its maw as glowing blue swords formed in the air behind it.

Moongrum charged at Konstantin, with the wolf leaping after him and the blue blades streaking through the air.

The Tarnished was entirely unfazed by their combined assault. He was, to put it mildly, accustomed to duo bosses.

What followed unfolded as if choreographed to perfection.

Konstantin deflected Lunogrum’s thrust with his shield, landing a club strike to the knight’s face so forceful that he likely saw stars more closely than the most skilled astrologers.

Then came the flying blades.

Dodge roll.

The fiery blade swept twice in horizontal arcs.

Dodge roll, dodge roll.

The wolf snapped its jaws.

Dodge roll.

Strike!

Despite the weight of his equipment, Konstantin’s rolls were as light and effortless as if he wore nothing at all. True Soulslike players knew clothing only got in the way, but proper stat investment allowed for optimal rolling even in heavy armor.

After a series of rolls, another club strike followed.

The wolf yelped as the inhumanly powerful blow struck its snout, leaping away to conjure another set of flying blades mid-air. Meanwhile, the recovering knight made another attempt to flank the skilled madman.

Unfortunately, not even the Waterfowl Dance had been able to stop Konstantin’s rolls back in the day, so what hope did this pitiable chain of combined attacks have?

Perfection. That was the only way to describe the Tarnished’s movements. No mistakes, no misses, no hesitation—let alone fear. It was as if he danced through every attack, every flying dagger. Around them, destruction mounted: daggers clipped buildings, toppling them; the wolf’s enormous leaps created craters; and soon, the fiery red blade’s swings set the ground ablaze.

Konstantin seemed oblivious to the burning ground beneath him. He had entered the flow state of rolling and sporadic strikes, and he had no intention of leaving it until the very end.

Let the world crumble—it wouldn’t shake the focus of a man counting each and every strike. This was a skill every seasoned tryhard possessed.

And it bore fruit.

Another blow to the wolf’s face proved to be the last. Staggering, the red wolf—already seeing double images of the Tarnished in its blurry vision—collapsed, unable to maintain control. While Radagon’s wolf wasn’t dead, it was certainly out of commission for a while.

Now it was the knight’s turn. Though, as it turned out, he had one last thing up his sleeve.

“I haven’t participated in such a battle in a long time, Tarnished!” Moongrum exclaimed. “You are a true warrior. I’m proud to have faced you!”

Kosta shrugged.

He, too, was pleasantly surprised. Finally, something had managed to truly challenge him. A single mistake could have been fatal despite his body’s overwhelming strength, and that thought was somewhat thrilling.

But this wasn’t the end.

Moongrum removed his helmet and tossed aside his shield, gripping his sword with both hands. The knight’s weapon radiated blue, casual energy, growing two or three times its normal size. Normally, this sight would terrify foes, particularly sorcerers used to maintaining their distance from knights. But this wasn’t a typical case.

Konstantin, with frosty composure, stashed his shield away in some manner known only to him and gripped his club.

The club began to radiate the Sun’s light, similarly growing in size. The golden glow was far more intense and blinding than the knight’s energy.

Moongrum let out a warrior’s roar, raising his blade high.

“I’m a casual too,” Kosta said firmly.

And with that, he answered the blow with his radiant club.

Flash! Explosion!

The strike was so powerful that the shockwave kicked up dust all around them. Time itself seemed to freeze for a long, unnerving moment in the Lands Between.

Though not for the victor.

Konstantin remained standing, gazing impassively at the kneeling knight. Moongrum’s sword lay off to the side—the battle’s outcome was clear.

The Tarnished’s armor disappeared, leaving him clad in his familiar loincloth. Somewhere in the distance, a tired groan could be heard. Let’s call it the wind.

“You’ve won, Tarnished. Finish it.”

The defeated Carian knight’s voice was quiet, tinged with despair.

The queen’s situation was already humiliating. What would it become after the madman reached her? Would she even survive? What could possibly be on this Tarnished’s mind?

And why in the name of the Greater Will had he stripped down?!

At least one small comfort remained for Moongrum—the astrologers had entirely lost the will to fight back. At least someone, for the first time in a long while, had shown them they weren’t as safe as they’d believed.

Though the cost of this lesson had been fatal for many. What did it matter that death didn’t exist in this world when they lost their minds all the same?

Konstantin stood silently over the defeated mini-boss for a while, then turned and walked toward the palace. The knight stayed still, his surprised gaze following the Tarnished’s departure.

For a moment, Kosta paused, staring thoughtfully at the massive staircase leading to the palace.

“They don’t, like, roll a giant ball down this staircase, do they?” (4)

Moongrum gaped, slack-jawed.

“Uhh… I don’t think so…”

“Great.”

Kosta visibly relaxed, as if a giant ball could somehow pose a greater threat than a boss-and-mini-boss duo.

The Carian knight watched the Tarnished until he disappeared entirely. Then, a diminutive Sellen approached, drawing Moongrum’s attention.

By now, it seemed nothing could surprise him. The exiled sorceress smiled knowingly.

“First time?”

The final obstacles to the queen were officially cleared. However, one unresolved matter lingered—Konstantin chose not to think about it.

The lunar demigoddess’s reaction to the mention of the ring.

_____________________________________________________

(1) Celestial Dew allows players to carry out an Absolution at the Church of Vows, reversing all antagonizations.

(2) After giving the player the task, Rennie goes to sleep, citing a inconvenient form of existence.

(3) In the vast majority of cases, the lore of the game is presented through item descriptions. Usually short and vague, they give sparse and unclear bits of information. Relying on a bare few sentences from those descriptions and copious amounts of guessing, the lore experts try their best to build out the history of the Lands Between. On one hand, such vague and unclear basis gives a huge scope for theories, on the other hand, it forces unfortunate lore experts to build an entire house on a bare foundation.

(4) On the way to the queen, the player will have to climb the stairs, from which at some point a huge stone ball begins to roll towards them, ready to smash them to bits

[Demons of NC] Chapter 55

The burning message hung before David’s eyes for four seconds. Long enough for him to read and understand. Martinez paled slightly. His face showed a mix of confusion, quickly masked by a facade of forced calm. He struggled to pull himself together, pushing the sudden emotions deep into the mass of chrome and muscle his body had become.

“When they fired you, they tried to kill you… why?” Martinez asked.

Time to tread carefully. Couldn’t let my simmering hatred for Abernathy show too much, or the kid might start drawing some dangerous conclusions about that attempt on my life.

“It’s hard to leave counterintelligence in one piece,” I said with a dry chuckle. “Too many trade secrets that could leak out. But I got lucky. My ex-boss—now late—didn’t see me as too much of a threat. She didn’t put me on Arasaka’s kill list. My elimination was outsourced, so to speak. Private contractors. Mercs.”

“Like someone from Maine’s crew?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Like I said, not the worst-case scenario. The Security Bureau wasn’t after me as a deserter. They didn’t hand my info to the cops.”

“And that’s worse than mercs?”

“Way worse. But even mercs can be sent after you in those cases, adding more fuel to an already burning pyre. If you’re that high up on the list, the hunt becomes total.”

“What about corporate implants? Did they disable yours?”

“Of course. But there are ways around that. Plus, as you can see, I’ve got a lot of new chrome since then. No complaints about my upgrades.”

I said all that aloud, while another message flashed before David’s eyes:

“You’re valuable to them both as a soldier and a research subject. Your genetics? Perfect for testing new implants. If you try to run, they’ll hunt you relentlessly, and they won’t hesitate to get their hands dirty.”

David nodded. He was deep in thought about his future. If he actually tried to leave the corp, it’d be a hell of a mess for everyone involved. His mom would be a prime target. Vik, probably, too. Hell, even I might get dragged into it.

That’s if it happened now. Down the line, things might shift in Martinez’s favor.

I’m betting Arasaka will be in deep shit by ’77, especially if Yorinobu manages to take out his old man.

“So…” I drew a line under the conversation. “We’ve talked about the negatives of working for corps. But there are positives, too. Can you name any for yourself?”

“Mom’s happy.”

“For yourself,” I repeated. “Just for you.

“Two things. First, the paycheck. Second…” Martinez’s face darkened.His youthful, almost boyish features twisted into something that would make most people in this city shit their pants. “… when the shooting starts, I don’t have to think about anything else.”

Surprisingly, it seems like he's still got both a good guy trying to listen to his mom and a cold-blooded killer coexisting in him. Then again, who am I to be surprised? Mass media loves to sell us these so-called turning points. You know, the character experiences some shit, slaughters a bunch of younglings, or pulls some other moral 180, and boom—they’re a villain now. The old self is supposedly gone, like flipping a switch. Best-case scenario, years down the line, a redemptive death might dredge up some faint ghost of who they were before.

But in real life, I think people are way more complex. Otherwise, catching psychos and murderers would be easy—just listen to their creepy laughs or watch how the light dramatically gleams off their glasses. But that’s not how it works.

“When the shots start flying? Yeah, not much else to think about. Gotta fight. But the shooting always stops eventually. And then the thoughts come. All kinds of thoughts.”

“So just keep shooting more. My job kinda makes that possible.”

Oh, really?

“Smells like bullshit—hot and fresh! Like enthusiasm,” I nodded. “Alright, burn bright while you can, but maybe try not to burn out entirely.”

“Enthusiasm?” David echoed, like he was tasting the word. “I don’t know. Not sure. It’s just… everything else sucks even more. I need to walk. Clear my head.”

“If you need anything, hit me up through Vik,” I sent him as I closed the channel.

David nodded, got up from the table, gave me a handshake—no hard squeezing or macho gonk shit—and disappeared into the dark streets, lit up by neon and scattered with the shadows of folks heading home.

Alright, kid. Think it through. You've still got some time. Mine’s running out fast. Time to dig into my own skeleton closet before they crawl out and strangle me.

I wanted to prep for the talk with Lucy. Not just plan my words and moves, but set the mood—remind her of what connects us. Stir up some of those old emotions. I figured the best way to do that wasn’t with some cliche romantic dinner or whatever, but a heist.

The target? An underground casino run by the Tyger Claws.

Mausser had once taken out a Tyger bigshot there, so I had a decent idea of the layout—or at least what it looked like six months ago.

Nice little spot. Basement-level in the Piers Loop area of Kabuki. Three entry points, including two sewer tunnels, though those might’ve been welded shut since Mausser’s raid.

“Why the hell do you care about this hole, V?” Lucy asked, perched on the back of the couch as I browsed schematics on my laptop. “You’re a big shot now.”

“That ‘hole’ holds at least a few dozen thousand eddies, minimum. And it’s just the way we like it: cash, shards, easily accessible accounts. Plus, there’s a pawn storage there. Jewelry, weapons, tech. Unlike the cash, they rarely empty it. And word is they just brought in something real valuable—a corp key. You know what that is, right?”

“A skeleton key for unlocking corp protection on implants and tech.”

“Bingo. If I’d had one back in the day, I wouldn’t’ve needed to swap out all my chrome before quitting. It’s a rare piece. Could help someone escape a corp—or sell for a pretty penny.”

Hell knows if that thing would even work on David’s implants. Arasaka has a special interest in him, so they’re probably using some non-standard control and protection methods.

“Fine, casino it is,” Lucy agreed, though her voice didn’t carry much excitement.

I couldn’t shake the feeling something was eating away at her. The air in our apartment had been… dead, for lack of a better word. We’d talk, drink coffee, even laugh sometimes, but I kept catching myself thinking that we were avoiding each other. We both felt it, and both pretended not to.

Some relief came out of nowhere, though. A day before the casino job, Falco showed up.

No heads-up—just knocked on the door and strolled in like he owned the place.

“Fate’s brought us together again,” he said with a dramatic nod. “Good to see you, friends.”

He was tanned and somehow looked older, even though it had only been a few months.

“Hey,” Lucy said, hugging him before giving him a wry look. “What, took you this long to haggle over a car?”

“If only…” Falco sighed, shaking my hand. “Got dragged into someone else’s mess. Helped out with what seemed like a simple job after selling the ride, and then…”

He paused, lighting a cigarette and sitting on a bar stool.

“And then everything went to shit?” I guessed.

“Pretty much,” Falco nodded. “Only a few months passed, but it feels like I lived a whole life—and died at the end.”

“Got roughed up that bad?” Lucy asked.

“Five stab wounds, two clinical deaths, a few weeks in the shack of some back-alley ripper so high I was betting who’d croak first—me or him. First time I woke up after surgery, he begged me to jab him with Naloxone so he wouldn’t OD. Afterward, I just lay there on a dirty mat, staring at the gorgeous southern sky through a hole in the roof, thinking about how little money really matters—and how much blood it costs. Take care of each other.”

Damn, that hit deep. Maybe it was for the best, though. His little epiphany seemed to thaw the icy tension hanging between us.

“Mind if I pour?” Falco asked, finishing his smoke and grabbing a bottle of whiskey.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“And you two?” He looked at me and Lucy with a mix of concern and curiosity. “Seems like you’re not strapped for cash, but you both look pretty grim.”

“A lot’s happened,” Lucy said vaguely.

“Bad stuff?” Falco pressed. “Everyone still breathing?”

We both nodded in sync.

“Then it’s not that bad,” he said, pulling out a small metal case and setting it on the bar. “Payment’s in here. Weird form of currency, but it’s legit—I checked.”

I popped it open. Inside were a handful of antique gold coins and some shiny black spheres with a faint metallic sheen.

What the hell was this?

"Cortez's Pearls," Falco explained. "Not that they actually belonged to him, just that they’re black. That’s what they call them in Cuba—Cortez's Pearls. Altogether, they should be worth anywhere from a hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand. The range depends on the coins and jewelry. A corner dealer will try to lowball you, but someone who knows their stuff will pay a hell of a lot more."

"Shit..." I muttered, examining a gold coin with an eagle on one side and a rising sun on the other. "That’s a doubloon, right? Didn’t bring anything else? Paintings? Statues? Muskets? A pirate’s skeleton?"

"Nope. That stuff’s too hard to get across borders," the nomad replied with absolute seriousness.

"The more you talk, the more questions I have," Lucy commented.

"It’s fine. I’ll tell you everything. And you can fill me in on what’s been going on. We’re not in a rush, are we?"

"We were planning to hit the Claws' casino tomorrow," I said. "You up for it, or need more time?"

"I’m ready. The question is—are you?" Falco shook his head. "Jumping into a firefight just to forget shit... that’s not the move."

David’s words flashed in my mind.

"…When the shots start flying, you don’t have to think about anything else."

"Come on," Lucy smirked, but it wasn’t the good kind of smirk. "Sometimes, bullets are just what you need to clear your head."

"Yeah, until the wind starts whistling through your new holes," Falco quipped grimly. "It’s your call. But you’re already one foot, maybe two, into the Big Leagues. Rebecca paid me back and kept ranting about some corp exec you took out for a million. I figured she was exaggerating..."

"Nope. A mil," Lucy corrected. "Plus another hundred for prep."

"Damn," Falco nodded. "So, how’s it feel after a mil? All good now?"

Subtle, trying to hint we shouldn’t chase cash so hard. But the problem wasn’t greed.

"In some ways, it’s harder," Lucy said coolly, staring out the window. "It’s not just the money. This fucking city feels like it was built to crush happiness."

"But people are built for it," Falco countered. "Don’t let the roadside block your view of the road ahead."

We talked for hours until Falco finally admitted he hadn’t slept in over a day and wanted to "get a feel for Night City streets again" before the heist.

I took his return as a good omen. Felt like a mini-remake of our old smuggling job with Hohré. Different target, same crew.

The next day was all prep.

We had to take it seriously. Sure, we’d done crazier jobs, but mental state is a fragile thing. Falco wasn’t wrong. If you try to drown bad feelings in violence, you might end up taking one too many risks. As Hash once said, "Had a lot of chooms back in the day. Great guys. They’re all dead now. Most of ’em over shit so dumb it’s embarrassing to talk about."

That’s how it is sometimes—jump a fence and trip over a curb so bad even the medtechs can’t piece you back together.

"What about Becca?" Falco asked. "You could use a shooter. Plus, she wouldn’t shut up about her new chrome."

Shit. I’d wanted this to be just me and Lucy. Becca’d pull attention and ruin my chance to break the ice. But, damn it, Falco was right again. That casino had a dozen, maybe fifteen, thugs. Not the Claws’ best fighters, but they’d have firepower. Probably a couple heavily-chromed yakuzas too.

"Fine," I grumbled. "We’ll try to keep it quiet. Becca can back you up. She’ll probably bitch about not getting to shoot."

"Better that than needing firepower and not having it," Falco said reasonably.

Fair point, but damn, I was tired of being reasonable. I wanted the blood and chaos of a good fight. Was my chrome messing with my head?

Maybe.

I was getting more and more of it. My cyberlimb felt completely natural now, like a real part of me. Hard to believe it used to be just a weak, flesh-and-blood arm. Right now, I was itching to tear someone apart with my metal claws.

Deep breath. In, out.

I couldn’t let the chrome get to me. I had to remember who I was, how I used to beat stronger, more chromed-out enemies even with a vulnerable, human body. No unnecessary risks. Don’t make the same mistakes as my dead enemies.

Here’s the plan: Lucy and I would sneak into the casino through a service tunnel. No messing around with the gambling floor—just the security office and the vault. First step was to cut the Claws’ comms. Calls and messages would vanish into the void. By the time they figured it out, the guards at the vault would already be neutralized. Then we’d upload a virus to transfer their virtual funds to us while we cleaned out the physical valuables. We’d exit through a different tunnel, where the car would be waiting.

Should take fifteen, twenty minutes tops.

For gear, I packed my Kenshin "Apparition," tanto monoblades, a monokatana, grenades, and a bag with two powerful EMPs and two explosives. Simple to use: pull the pin, throw or stick it to a surface, then hit the detonator. The bag was lined with insulation to keep everything from blowing up accidentally.

Lucy kept it light—just a pistol, her monowire, and a suite of scripts. She also brought portable cameras, electronic lockpicks, and a couple of repeaters.

"Three a.m., Saturday," I muttered, staring into the dark void of the manhole we were about to descend. "I bet the place was packed a couple hours ago. Now people are heading out, leaving their cash behind. Time to reap the harvest."

"Let’s go," Lucy said, focused. She slipped into the hole without hesitation.

She jumped halfway down the ladder, landing lightly on the concrete below. I climbed down the old-fashioned way. Inside, it was dark, hot, and damp, with heat pipes running alongside us.

We moved quickly, dodging the worst of the heat. Along the way, we passed two plastic chairs and a pile of empty beer bottles. Someone—maybe locals, maybe squatters—had probably been using the place as a makeshift sauna.

Soon we hit a metal grate. Rusted from the moisture, but thick and sturdy. No door.
"Shine a light," I asked Lucy.

In the dim beam of her pocket flashlight, the monoblade tanto looked like a weapon forged from ghostly energy. Alright, the key here is not to break it. The hand has to move firm and steady. No sideways motions, just forward with a slight up-and-down for a clean cut.

The Dynalar-Kendachi cyberlimb didn’t let me down. My hand didn’t waver. One by one, the segments of the grate were severed. I caught it to keep it from crashing loudly, and we moved on into a relatively clean tunnel, apart from the dust. No signs of recent human activity.

It got cooler as we moved away from the heating pipes and closer to the casino. Ahead, faint fluorescent symbols painted on the wall glowed dimly. They read:

"If you’re reading this, asshole, you’ve taken a wrong turn. If you want your guts, eyes, and dick to stay where they belong—turn around. Tigers prowl here."

The text was accompanied by menacing doodles of blood-soaked Japanese blades and skulls.

“Real scary,” I chuckled.

“They put some effort into it,” Lucy replied. “Probably made some poor sap paint it. We’re probably the first to admire the masterpiece.”

Thanks for the heads-up, Claws. At least now we knew we had to tread carefully, and that they were well aware of this tunnel. For a moment, I worried they might’ve bricked it up or sealed it with slabs. That’d take forever to cut through, and the blade wouldn’t survive. But instead, they’d opted for another grate, this one wired to an alarm, with a pair of magnetic mines waiting behind it. It stalled us for about five minutes.

Beyond that was a door leading into the casino’s utility areas. It was locked up tight—a magnetic lock paired with a manual latch. The latch was a smart choice, but the monoblade sliced through it without much trouble. We stepped into a dimly lit storage room crammed with broken or decommissioned slot machines and poker tables.

No cameras here. Guess the Claws figured the previous security measures were enough. From the storage, one door led out, faint purple and pink light seeping in from beneath it. Beyond, I could hear Japanese music that reminded me of my first meeting with Lucy at the Ho-Oh bar. Felt like a lifetime ago.

Lucy crouched and slid a flexible camera cable under the door. After a few seconds, she whispered:
“Camera to the right. I’ll take care of it. There’s one guy on the left, standing by a closed door.”

If Mauser’s notes were accurate, that door led to the security office. That’s where we needed to cut off the signals.

“Got it,” I nodded, testing the door. “Give me access to the feed. Alright… expand the scan range, I’m missing a bit. Perfect. And… one, two… three!”

I hit the guard with two back-to-back memory wipes, and as soon as they landed, I lunged through the door.

This time, I didn’t go for the throat. Instead, I drove the blade into his eye—less blood that way—and shoved the dying body forward to open the security office door. Inside, loud music was playing. A Claw with bright red-and-green hair sat with his back to me. He noticed the sound of the door opening and reached for his pistol, but I put two bullets in his head before he could grab it. Blood splattered the consoles. Good thing the music was blasting throughout the casino, drowning out the noise.

I shoved the body inside. Lucy joined me shortly after, stepping over the dead guard and getting to work on the computers.

“They’ve got a netrunner,” she whispered.

They didn’t before. Must’ve brought one in after Mauser’s visit. I could guess a few places where their chair might be set up, but nothing certain.

“Take them out or start the op as is?” I asked.

“I can isolate the system even with them alive, but the Claws will swarm us. The netrunner will direct them.”

“Hm. That might actually work in our favor. Buy me a few minutes.”

I stepped back into the corridor, figuring out where to lay traps. I adjusted the settings on the detonator so the charges could go off one by one instead of all at once. Then I rigged both approaches to the security room with mines and set up five spy cameras in spots safe from the blasts.

Traps set, cameras online, control of the security systems imminent. I went back into the office.

“There are twelve left, not counting the netrunner. He’s one floor below us. No cameras there, but I can track him by his signal.”

“Good. I’m ready. Block their comms and seal the doors.”

Lucy’s eyes glowed blue in the darkness. I switched to the casino’s surveillance cameras. There they were—the guards. Five were lounging in what looked like a break room, drinking. Two were in the main hall with the guests, the rest scattered around. And just like that, they got spooked. Must’ve been the netrunner warning them about the outgoing signal block. Five of them made a beeline for us. The others scrambled in different directions.

I focused on one of the most heavily chromed Claws, hitting him with an overheat, soul-rip, short-circuit, and synapse burnout combo. That used up nearly half my memory capacity, but it was enough to take him out of commission.

I switched to our spy cams. The five heading our way were almost on us when—

Two explosions rocked the corridor. One EMP further out, and a regular charge nearby. The advancing Claws were thrown into disarray. I hit two survivors with optical resets before switching back to my body and stepping into the hallway to finish the job. Three shots from the Apparition, three strikes with the monoblade. Done.

So far, so good, but it was too soon to relax. Six Claws still standing, plus the netrunner. Judging by the way they moved, we’d already taken out their leader. The rest scattered. Two tried forcing open the blocked emergency exit. One vanished. Two more took positions in the hallway leading to the vault. They’d have to be dealt with.

I toyed with the idea of taking them down the old-fashioned way—shooting—but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Lucy and I fried their implants with scripts instead.

We could’ve gone straight for the vault then, but the netrunner was still a problem. That’s when my comm buzzed—Falco was calling through the emergency channel I’d set to bypass our signal jammer.

"Bad news, folks. Someone showed up," Jago’s voice was calm but grim as he drove.

"Reinforcements from the Claws?" I asked, surprised.

We’d jammed the signal good and proper.

"Worse. Cops. Four squad cars, real pissed. Even a tactical van with SWAT."

Fuck. Just our luck.

Seemed like the cops had a snitch inside the gang we were ripping off.

Daily Updates (18/12/24)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 27

• Tier 2: Chapter 32

Prof Umbridge

• Tier 1: Chapter 47

• Tier 2: Chapter 52

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 23

• Tier 2: Chapter 28

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 28

Suddenly, that oppressive Ki pressure vanished. The grotesque, many-eyed statue—a horrifying thing made up of a giant head and two shackled hands—shuddered.

Kushina-san’s eyes opened, and she gasped for air. At the same time, I caught the scent of two men approaching. Mixed in with their odors was Naruto’s distinct scent. But there was something strange about it—Naruto and one of the men smelled... similar, like family.

I slipped into a deep shadow, staying hidden. My chakra reserves were depleted, and exhaustion was catching up. I hadn’t slept all night, had sprinted to Konoha, searched for them, and then braved that nightmarish Forest. Too late, the thought struck me—I should’ve involved the Inuzuka Clan, should’ve told everything to Kuromaru. But they weren’t on the way, and the sun had already set an hour after I arrived in Konoha. Stupid! My brain was a jumbled mess from everything that had happened. I thought I could handle anything, that I was ready. But here I was, useless, unable to do a thing to help Kushina-san.

Then again, Sano had already died, and he had nothing to do with this. What would’ve happened to the Inuzuka Clan if they’d gotten involved? And what could anyone do when it seemed like half the people here were turned into mindless zombies? Organize the "Paw Patrol"?... yeah, what a joke to think that things couldn’t get worse.

Something big and horrifying was about to go down. Two masked men approached Kushina. Their masks were similar to ANBU ones but painted differently. One of them was carrying Naruto. The boy was unconscious but definitely alive.

“So you’re still breathing, huh?” One of the men leaned down and grabbed Kushina-san by her hair, tilting her face toward him. “No wonder the Uzumaki Clan is famous for their endurance.”

“Naruto…” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, the kid’ll live,” the man sneered. “I’ve got big plans for him.” Then he leaned closer and whispered into her ear. Thanks to my sharp hearing, I caught the words. “I’m so glad my son doesn’t look anything like you. It’d be unpleasant to see your features in him.”

I froze. From the way Kushina’s eyes widened, she was just as shocked.

“Who are you?” she rasped. “Who… are you?”

“You’ve already figured it out,” he chuckled darkly. “I know it’s hard to accept that your whole life has been a lie. I had dreams, ambitions. I was strong. But I was an orphan—no clan, no family support. It’s hard to survive alone in the shinobi world; you of all people should know that. Jiraiya-sensei once let slip that you’d become Konoha’s newest weapon. A little jinchuriki from the ruins of Whirlpool. I studied you. No friends. Everyone was afraid of you. It made earning your trust easy. Training you as my personal jinchuriki? A perfect strategy. And those techniques you shared with me? A nice bonus to make tolerating your nasty attitude worth it. The sex wasn’t bad either.”

Tears streamed down Kushina’s face. I nearly broke down myself. In this world, Namikaze Minato—the Fourth Hokage, Kushina-san’s husband, and Naruto’s father—was a monster.

“Take the boy outside and prepare everything for the sealing,” Minato ordered the other man, who still held Naruto. “I’ll stay here and... reminisce with Kushina-san.”

The masked man nodded and left the room. I didn’t know what to do—run outside and try to wake Naruto, who was clearly drugged or knocked out cold? Or stay hidden, waiting for a chance to help Kushina? Minato had said Naruto would live, and by “sealing,” he probably meant stuffing a Biju into the boy. Most likely, the Nine-Tails they’d pulled out of Kushina-san. I remembered Hiruzen mentioning to Iruka once that Naruto was the only one in the village who could act as a vessel for a demon.

“I made some interesting acquaintances during the war,” Minato said as he removed his mask after his companion left.

Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and undeniably handsome. He really did look a lot like Naruto.

Minato released Kushina’s hair and pulled her into an almost intimate embrace, as if they were just a couple having a quiet conversation. “Remember when my student, Uchiha Obito, died during the war? We were on a mission. I pulled Kakashi and Rin out of that mess and left them with a clone. But I knew Obito was still alive. He was in bad shape, sure, but the kid had lucked out—he ended up in the hideout of a legendary shinobi. I had a conversation with none other than Uchiha Madara. His ideas, his vision… they appealed to me. But he was old, too old, and obsessed with being resurrected to rule the world. I had my own plans for that,” he chuckled and stroked Kushina’s hair.

She tried to pull away, but Minato didn’t let her.

“Madara grafted a piece of some strange creature onto Obito, making him exponentially stronger. Practically unlimited chakra reserves. And the ability to absorb Biju… The kid didn’t even realize how lucky he was. He wanted to return to Konoha. My plan was simple. As their sensei, I knew my students’ weaknesses better than anyone. Kids are so predictable. I just had to leak some misinformation to the Mist about Nohara Rin, coordinate her capture, and send Hatake with a covert mission. The rest played out on its own.”

“Y-you…” Kushina’s voice trembled. “It was you?”

“Obito wasn’t exactly loved by his clan. After losing the girl he loved, he had no reason to return to Konoha,” Minato continued. “So I found him, trained him. Meanwhile, as a war hero, I was offered the position of Hokage. Having a jinchuriki wife was a key factor in my appointment. Oh, you went all out with the congratulations back then, Kushina-chan. And while I ‘played dead,’ I missed your fiery affection,” he sneered, pulling her closer. “Your pregnancy and Hiruzen’s warnings about how vulnerable a jinchuriki is during childbirth gave me a new idea. Why keep a defiant, willful wife when I could raise a perfect weapon out of my son? You were useful occasionally, though…”

He inhaled the scent of her hair and dodged her attempt to headbutt him with a laugh.

“Everything was supposed to go smoothly, but your damned stubbornness ruined it again. You survived, sealed the Fox back, and forced me to go with Plan B. I had to ‘die’ because Hiruzen and his lackey Danzo started getting suspicious. Plus, Hiruzen’s wife, Biwako, was among the casualties—you know he’d never forgive me for that. You mourned me so sweetly. I bet you missed your husband?”

“Bastard!” Kushina hissed. “Get your filthy hands off me! I hate you! What are you planning? What will happen to Naruto?!”

“Oh, you’re curious?” Minato’s smirk widened. “I borrowed an idea from Madara-san. Tossed Hiruzen a bone, promised he could return as Hokage. But he’s just a pawn in my game,” he said, grinning.

And I wanted to claw his face off. A pawn! What about Sano? Kobo-san? Seito? Kitane? Toh? All those shinobi? Were they just collateral damage to him? Just splinters flying from a chopped log?

“Imagine this,” Minato continued dreamily. “A lonely, hated, outcast boy. Then one day, his father appears—comforts him, teaches him all the things he’s forgotten or never learned. Imagine that, Kushina-chan…”

“What?” My eyes were probably as wide as Kushina’s at that moment.

“When the demon broke free from you twelve years ago, I learned a lot,” Minato said, his tone disturbingly casual. “First and foremost, dealing with such a beast isn’t easy—especially when it’s sealed inside you. There had to be a way to weaken its chakra. So, I devised a special seal, one that would allow Naruto to control the Nine-Tails when he’s strong enough. I hid the key to that seal inside my summoning toad. I even gave it a form that would make Naruto trust it completely—his beloved mother.” He chuckled, a sickly kind of pride in his voice. “Genius, right? Reducing the Nine-Tails’ chakra turned out to be surprisingly simple. All it took was using an incredibly draining technique, powered by the fox’s own chakra, before sealing it into my son. Do you know what technique I used?” He gently brushed his hand across the bruise on Kushina’s cheek, as though mocking her pain.

“What did you do?” Kushina asked, breaking the tense silence.

“A small-scale great genjutsu,” Minato replied, his smile growing. “Covers about 80 kilometers. It blankets the Hidden Leaf and the surrounding villages. We’ve already erased anything that might remind anyone of you. In people’s memories, you died alongside me twelve years ago. And Naruto? Every person over thirteen hates him, and the children… they’ll forget he was ever one of them. Forget that he was ever their friend. As for this generation—I have plans for them too. Naruto will grow up thinking he’s been alone his entire life. Why do you think Hiruzen isn’t here? Our future ‘new-old’ Hokage doesn’t want to forget. You held the title for less than a year, and thanks to the secrecy of the village, no one outside even knows there was a Fifth Hokage. As far as the clans are concerned, Hiruzen has ruled for twelve uninterrupted years. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Naruto… He’s your son!” Kushina’s voice cracked, a raw, wounded howl that sounded more like a wolf than a human. Her anguish cut through the room, and even I felt like the air had turned colder.

“Don’t get so worked up,” Minato replied, his voice dripping with false reassurance. “He’ll live alone for a couple of weeks, and then I’ll grace him with my presence. You won’t see it, of course, but before I leave, I thought I’d give you a final moment of joy…”

A strange noise from outside interrupted him.

“You fool,” Kushina growled, thrashing against his grip. “There’s one clan your ‘great genjutsu’ can’t touch!”

My heart pounded furiously in my chest. Could it be? Could help have finally arrived?!

[Prof. Umbridge] Chapter 52

‘Potions really are a marvelous thing,’ thought Marina Nikolaevna the next morning, ‘perhaps even better than modern pharmaceuticals. Especially when something is custom-made for you…’

It was what it was: for the night (or what little remained of it)—a Dreamless Sleep Potion. After the twists and turns of that incredibly eventful day, falling asleep otherwise would have been nearly impossible. And even if she had managed, waking up in a decent mood and without feeling utterly drained and even more exhausted would have been doubtful.

Early in the morning (she resolutely silenced the timid inner voice suggesting she sleep in until breakfast, though she did give herself a small concession, rising at 6:30 instead of 6:00)—a couple of drops of a revitalizing potion and another concoction of dubious appearance, after which life seemed not just tolerable but almost wonderful! After that, she could manage her morning exercises (because work was work, but letting herself go was out of the question), take a cold shower, and enjoy a cup of coffee purely for pleasure rather than just to pry her eyes open.

"You think I'll need this?" she had asked Snape the day before when he had handed her the set of potions.

"I’m certain," he replied curtly. "Just follow the instructions and don’t overindulge… ahem… with the substances. This is for emergencies only."

He might not have mentioned that at all, just as he could have refrained from sneaking a tiny bottle of brandy into the box of vials. The label read "Drink Me!" with a note tied to the neck that said, "An excellent remedy for stress." Other methods could also relieve stress, but last night she hadn't even wanted to think about those. All she had craved was a soft pillow, and calling Snape soft would require a starving cannibal—after a full day of brewing potions, at that.

"What nonsense is going through my head," muttered Marina Nikolaevna as she began sorting through her correspondence. There was plenty of it.

Most of the letters were from parents—she set them aside for later, intending to read them all at once and draft a neutral and reassuring response template before adding specific answers to their questions.

And there it was—a letter bearing the Ministry seal.

"Dear Dolores," wrote Fudge. "Williamson has already reported last night's incident, and early this morning, I was bombarded with complaints and questions—what is happening at Hogwarts? Why are there explosions and mysterious lights for the second night in a row?"

"Yes, it seems we made a spectacle of ourselves, both literally and figuratively," she muttered and continued reading.

"Naturally, my press secretary (Percy Weasley has selflessly taken on this role—turns out the young man is remarkably clever!) assured everyone that there is no cause for concern or panic. The light show was a Halloween celebration, and as for the explosions—just the children overdoing it with crackers and fireworks, nothing more. I trust you understand that we must stick to this version. According to Williamson, You-Know-Who, having tallied his losses, might send his remaining forces to Hogwarts.

Admittedly, this decision was difficult for me, but I had to agree with the majority of the armed forces: we may not get another chance to eliminate his entire gang at once. To support the contingents already stationed at Hogwarts, reinforcements have been dispatched—those who can fight at the required level. Do not worry, even the older Aurors are far from amateur fighters like those in the Order of the Phoenix. In the worst case, they will take the brunt of the attack, giving others a chance to retreat… but let us hope it won’t come to that.”

"Tell that to someone else about the old Aurors," muttered Marina Nikolaevna, finishing her now-lukewarm coffee.

"Williamson also proposed an emergency evacuation plan for the children and school staff," Fudge continued. "It’s quite labor-intensive but reliable. I found it more than adequate, but again, I hope we won’t need it. Details are in the attached document. Berkeley and O’Leary have received the same; you can address any questions to them.

From the reports, Dolores, the school is holding up admirably. It’s good you managed to settle matters peacefully with the centaurs! You see, You-Know-Who is recruiting not only magical creatures but also beasts like the giants we stopped on the outskirts. Many werewolves have eagerly joined his ranks; as you know, they find Ministry policies overly harsh and refuse to register or report voluntarily, posing a significant threat to our already small community. Thankfully, there are very few maniacs among them intent on spreading their condition.

You-Know-Who has promised to restore full wizarding rights to werewolves—currently, they are caught between being classified as 'beings' or 'beasts,' which is understandable. This is a highly sensitive issue, and I believe we will have to revisit it, but for now, we have a more pressing task. Should the werewolves stand in our way, we’ll have to deal with them accordingly.

Learning of this, the goblins have grown uneasy. It’s no secret how they feel about wizards, and if they decide to break neutrality and join You-Know-Who, we’ll face serious trouble: goblins are excellent fighters, and though we’re used to seeing them behind desks, they can muster a formidable army when necessary. The only question is which side they’ll fight for!

Thus, we must not upset the current balance. Gaining goblin support at the cost of indebting ourselves to them—even if their forces prove unnecessary—is unthinkable and must be avoided at all costs.

We must manage on our own, Dolores, and I believe that as long as I fend off the old fools in the Wizengamot, eager to oust me and interfere with our plans, the school will remain safe! You’ve always been reliable, and I doubt even You-Know-Who will pass Hogwarts’ gates as long as you are Headmistress.

Keep up the good work, Dolores!
Yours sincerely, Cornelius Fudge (apparently no longer Minister but a military dictator—otherwise, dealing with these fossilized beards longer than their genealogies would be impossible!)"

"Amazing how people change right before your eyes," sighed Marina Nikolaevna as she folded the letter. "An evacuation plan, is it? Well, let’s see… Letty?"

"Yes, Madam?" Letty appeared promptly.

"Find out where Berkeley and O’Leary are, would you? If either is free, let them know I’d like to discuss something."

"Right away, Madam," Letty nodded and disappeared, returning only fifteen minutes later. "Apologies, Madam. Mr. O’Leary is still asleep, but Mr. Berkeley just finished… um… briefing the newly arrived fighters. He’s waiting for you in the headquarters now."

"And where might that be?" Marina Nikolaevna asked. "The Room of Requirement? How convenient…"

Indeed, the Aurors were taking full advantage of the Room’s capabilities. Rather than occupy unused classrooms haphazardly, they had requested the Room to provide barracks—and a headquarters nearby, saving themselves the trouble of running back and forth.

"Madam Headmistress," Berkley rose to greet her, "I trust everything is all right?"

"Yes, Mr. Berkley," she replied, taking the seat he offered with a gracious nod, "but I've received a letter from the Minister. It mentions an evacuation plan, and it seems you’re the one to provide the details. Care to explain?"

"Ah, certainly." Berkley shifted into a more formal demeanor, motioning for her to take a stool as he retrieved a document. "The plan’s a bit intricate but highly effective. The key is to gather all the students in one place—like the Great Hall—and... ‘tag’ them. Well, you know, like birds are ringed to know where they migrate..."

"Do you want to put tracking collars on them, or what?" Marina Nikolaevna guessed with a raised eyebrow.

"Why collars," Berkley said, his tone both amused and serious, "just give them bracelets. They're also Portkeys. Should the school face immediate danger—though I hope it doesn’t—they’ll activate simultaneously and transport the students to designated safe zones. We’ve arranged for prefects to accompany groups, as our team isn’t exactly skilled at babysitting."

"But surveillance is also implied?" Marina guessed again, her expression sharpening.

"That’s... part of it," Berkley admitted. "There are Death Eaters’ children here, after all, and they need watching. As for the others—yes, we’ll know where they are within the castle. Though this place is so sprawling and unpredictable it could still take ages to find someone."

"Not necessarily," Marina murmured, retrieving the Marauder’s Map from her pocket. She’d considered its utility for the Aurors the previous night but had fallen asleep before acting on the thought. She unfurled the map on the table. "Take a look."

Berkley leaned over the parchment, and a string of awed expletives escaped him before he remembered his company. Even then, he could barely tear his eyes away.

"Incredible!" he exclaimed at last. "Who made this? Dumbledore?"

"You’d be surprised—no. It was created by Harry Potter’s father and his friends. As far as I know, no one’s been able to replicate it. It eventually found its way to young Potter, and then... well, I had to confiscate it along with his Invisibility Cloak."

"Fantastic!" Berkley’s enthusiasm was uncontainable. "This is exactly what we need! Look at that—there’s O’Leary, still sleeping, and Connor on patrol... It even shows ghosts and animals? And the grounds, too? Astounding..."

"I think you’ll find it more useful than I will right now," Marina offered.

"We’ll return it, of course," Berkley promised, his eyes still glued to the map. "Though if we can figure out how it’s made, maps like these could be a game-changer for strategic locations."

"Ask the Weasley twins," Marina suggested. "One of them let slip they’d had the map for a time. If so..."

"They might’ve studied its workings! Brilliant minds, those two," Berkley said, rubbing his hands together. "They’d fit right into our R&D department. Imagine—schoolkids creating tools like this while Ministry researchers chase their tails!"

"Talented youth thrive with proper support," Marina remarked. "A starving horse doesn’t win races."

"Naturally," Berkley muttered, half-distracted. "Williamson’s got Fudge by the tie, so we should see better funding soon..."

"Careful, or Fudge might grab Williamson by something in return," Marina quipped. "The man may seem cowardly, but..."

"Experience teaches you not to underestimate a seasoned bureaucrat!" Berkley chuckled. "But Williamson handles him with care—lightly, just two fingers on the tie," he gestured, grinning. "I think they’ve reached an understanding."

"It seems so," Marina agreed with a faint smile. "Now, the map is under your personal responsibility."

"Understood. Madam, any chance we could get a house-elf to monitor the surroundings? It’s hard to spot everything from the towers, and we’re short-staffed."

"Of course," Marina replied, snapping her fingers. "Letty, fetch Trinky and Dixie. We have a task for them."

"Right away, madam!" Letty disappeared, reappearing moments later with the two requested elves. Marina quickly briefed them on their duties before heading to the Great Hall, where breakfast preparations were in full swing.

The students shuffled in under the watchful eyes of the prefects, subdued and sleepy. They ate in silence until someone finally asked about the lack of owls.

"As mentioned before, all incoming and outgoing mail will be carefully screened," Marina reminded them. "Hand your letters to your Heads of House. They’ll also deliver messages from your families."

"And the newspapers, Madam?" Hermione Granger asked.

"Copies of The Daily Prophet and other publications will be available in your common rooms and the library," Marina assured her. Hermione looked relieved.

"And now that breakfast is over..." Marina paused, catching a smirk from Snape—clearly, her phrasing echoed Dumbledore. Well, what could she do?

"...please listen carefully to an important announcement. We will conduct a re-sorting ceremony of sorts—though in a modified format. When your name is called, step forward to the Auror at your table, collect your bracelet, and proceed to class. Mr. Berkley, the floor is yours."

"Thank you, Madam." Berkley strode to the center of the Hall. "Listen up! We need to get through this quickly, or you’ll be late for lessons. When your name’s called, approach the Auror at your table, get your bracelet, and move along. Don’t try to remove it—it’s... well, think of it like a parachute cord. If you pull it without cause, best case, you’ll land somewhere highly inconvenient. Worst case? We won’t even know where to start looking for you. Clear?"

"Is this truly necessary?" Professor McGonagall asked quietly, noting the students' nervous whispers.

"Minerva, these are emergency Portkeys," Marina replied firmly. "Rest assured, deploying such resources isn’t done lightly. And you, my colleagues, should receive bracelets as well. While Apparition is impossible here, in a crisis—"

"We’ll stay and cover the children’s evacuation," Sprout declared resolutely.

"They won’t be filing out one by one through some tunnel," Ingebjorg interjected. "Staying behind might be noble, but charging at an army when retreat is possible is foolish. Criminally so, I’d say."

"Exactly," Marina agreed, raising her wrist to show the slim band clasped there. "These won’t hinder you, colleagues, so please cooperate."

She noticed Draco Malfoy approach an Auror, looking pale and withdrawn. He extended his right hand instead of his left, drawing her attention. Snape, nearby, subtly tapped his own left forearm in silent acknowledgment.

Surprisingly, no one objected to what Marina privately called "forced tagging." Perhaps they finally grasped the seriousness of the situation—or maybe the sea of scarlet Auror robes had silenced their protests. Either way, the procedure went on without a hitch.

"Letty, please invite Professor Snape to my office," she requested upon returning to her office after breakfast. Luckily, neither of them had a first-period class.

Snape wasted no time arriving.

"The Dark Lord is summoning," he said as he entered, skipping any formalities. "It started about half an hour after your... centaur battle."

"Are you saying someone reported it to him?"

"Quite likely. The forest fire and the light show at Hogwarts could have been visible not only in Hogsmeade but for miles around!"

"And... what now?" Marina Nikolaevna cautiously asked as she stood and moved closer to him.

"I don’t know," Snape admitted honestly. "As you can imagine, I’m in no hurry to answer the summons—I do value my life! And I highly doubt my death would be quick or painless after all this... No, Dolores, I intend to cower behind the women and children like the coward I am."

"You mean the Aurors, I assume?" she raised an eyebrow. "But I understand—outside of Hogwarts, you’re..."

"Dead."

"And what about the Malfoys?"

"You saw Draco in the Great Hall," Snape said quietly. "He feels the call, too. And let me tell you, it’s excruciating—especially when the Dark Lord is nearby, and I’m certain he is. But physical pain, well, one can endure that... I’ve put up a... what do Muggles call it? Ah, a block, so Draco doesn’t feel the full force of it constantly. But here," he tapped his temple, "you can’t put up a block. Well, unless you knock him out and let him sleep like a log..."

"His parents," she nodded. "Do you think the Dark Lord might harm them if Draco doesn’t try to leave the castle? Surely, he must understand that slipping away from this level of security isn’t even feasible for most adults."

"I hope he doesn’t plan anything like that. This," Snape touched his left arm again, "feels more like a general summons, a powerful one, because many followers might be far away. It only affects us this strongly because we’re close. That’s all."

"So he’s nearby..." Marina Nikolaevna mused. "Which means we’re running out of time..."

"What are you on about?"

"About how it’s time to ensure the prophecy is fulfilled," she replied. "Let’s go."

"Where are you dragging me off to now?"

"To Ingebjorg. We’re going to decipher some of the disputed points in the prophecy about Harry Potter and Voldemort."

"That’s it?" Snape said skeptically. "I thought you were going to hand me Gryffindor’s sword and send me off into some grand final battle!"

"Don’t laugh, Severus," Marina Nikolaevna replied gravely, pausing to wait for the right staircase to move into position. "That’s probably exactly what we’ll do."

The utterly indescribable expression on his face was her reward.

[Castling] Chapter 32

I thought that with no basilisk this year, things would finally calm down—but as it turned out, it was quite the opposite.

Everything was fine up until New Year’s. Even Halloween passed without the usual chaos, and we didn’t get invited to Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday party this time either. But after Christmas, trouble started brewing, and the further we got into the term, the worse it got.

It began in late November with a letter from Mum and Dad. This time, they didn’t even risk inviting me home. They wrote straight away that they wouldn’t be around—they’d gone to visit Bill in Egypt and wouldn’t be back until after Christmas.

Bill had been promoted, or rather, he’d officially qualified as a Curse-Breaker and was taken on full time. They transferred him to Egypt, set him up in a flat in Zamalek on Gezira Island, and Mum and Dad decided to visit while the rest of us were stuck at Hogwarts. That left us to spend the holidays at school. Saying I was disappointed would be putting it mildly. I’d been hoping to visit Charlie, but with no one to see me off to Romania, I had to put the trip off until summer.

I’d already invited Harry and Hermione to come along, of course after asking Charlie first. He was fine with it, even managed to get us a family discount—twenty Galleons instead of a hundred for the international Portkey and translator, plus we’d be staying at his place. Now Harry’s counting down the days till summer on his calendar. He’s buzzing—he’s never been anywhere. Luna turned us down, though. She and her dad are off on another month-long expedition. I wouldn’t mind tagging along with them someday, though her dad’s not too keen on me. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Malfoy, meanwhile, was more insufferable than ever this year—probably couldn’t get over being humiliated at the Quidditch pitch. There wasn’t a single day he didn’t sling some nasty comment when we crossed paths. And it wasn’t just us, either. He’d changed his strategy—got smarter about it, almost professional.

Instead of tossing off a quick insult and strutting off, he’d stick around, goading his target until they snapped and started a fight. His goons, Crabbe and Goyle, wouldn’t let anyone get near him, so Malfoy would stand there smirking, untouched, while the other person fumed. The commotion would draw prefects or professors, and points would be docked—or Snape would hand out detentions. Malfoy, of course, would always play innocent, throwing smug looks that made you want to knock him flat.

He didn’t bother me, though. I’m not a kid, and I’ve got no problem giving as good as I get. I warned him back in the Shrieking Shack to leave me be, and he’s taken that to heart. Plus, my comebacks are a bit more grown-up. Like this one:

“So, Weasley,” Malfoy sneered as we loitered outside the Potions classroom, waiting to go in. “Not going home for the holidays? I suppose your parents finally decided to rid themselves of all their brats and save a few Sickles. Must be crowded in that little hovel of yours, like rabbits in a warren. Hopefully, now your mum can afford a new robe—her old one’s a sight for sore eyes.”

Everyone snickered, and Hermione shot me a worried look, gripping my arm as if I’d fly at him. She needn’t have bothered—I wasn’t going to rise to such a clumsy dig. But Harry, on the other hand, snapped.

“Shut it, Malfoy!” Harry growled, fists clenched. Before he could do anything, I shoved him behind me and stepped forward.

“And I suppose your dad only managed to pot the ball once, Malfoy, and that’s why you’re an only child,” I said with a slow, nasty grin, fixing him with a piercing stare. “Some of us are rich in family, and others in broomsticks. Personally, I’ll take siblings over seven Nimbus 2001s any day. But I’m sure your well-dressed mummy would disagree.”

Malfoy’s face went white, and with an angry snarl, he lunged at me, forgetting his wand. He ended up crashing into Goyle instead, who toppled over with him when my fist connected.

Of course, Snape showed up immediately, docked Gryffindor points, and handed me a detention. After that, Malfoy left me alone, though he still enjoyed winding up Harry, who’s far more impulsive and always takes the bait.

He didn’t dare target Hermione directly either—she’s not the sort to lash out physically, but her words can cut deeper than a hex. Instead, she’d get hit with petty spells behind her back—nothing harmful, just minor inconveniences like a snapped bag strap, spilt ink, tangled hair, or a stuck scroll of homework. Hermione’s sharp, though, and always fixed things right away. The trouble was, we could never prove it was Malfoy, so we couldn’t hex him or report him. The little git knew that if he crossed a line, we’d tear him apart, so he stuck to sly, small-scale sabotage.

That’s how life went—one skirmish after another. I couldn’t help but think half the fights could’ve been avoided if someone just rearranged the schedules so Gryffindor and Slytherin didn’t share classes. But no, wizards never take the simple route.

Harry was on edge this year too—terrified of letting the team down. With Slytherin’s new brooms, it all came down to the Seeker. Wood was relentless, piling on so much pressure it even got on my nerves. I wanted to smack him just to shut him up. Harry, already dealing with Malfoy and Snape, was completely frazzled. Snape wasn’t even outright insulting him—just constant, calculated nitpicking that made his life hell. He even made sure all of Harry’s detentions were with Lockhart, knowing how much Harry hated him. I thought it was a bit of a joke—sitting there listening to Lockhart ramble while writing lakers to his fans in his name wasn’t exactly hard labour. But Harry swore he’d rather scrub cauldrons for Snape than endure another detention with that blowhard.

Then, a week before the holidays, Dobby reappeared. Honestly, I thought he’d vanished along with that cursed diary.

Saturday brought our first Quidditch match of the year—Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Our team got a standing ovation from the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws too. I almost felt sorry for Slytherin. They’re proper pariahs, really, the whole school against them. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Could just be everyone united in envy over their shiny new brooms.

The game didn’t even get off to a proper start. A rogue Bludger locked onto Harry straight away, forcing the twins to protect him while Slytherin racked up points.

Before the match, I reminded Harry about the mad house-elf, told him to keep his guard up, and if anything odd happened, to get the teachers involved. When the team called a time-out, I thought, finally, Harry will tell the grown-ups about the cursed Bludger, and they’ll sort it all out.

But nope. Nothing of the sort happened. The team huddled, had a quick chat, and they were back on their brooms before I could blink. Looked like Wood didn’t fancy losing points over stopping the game, or maybe Harry was just being his usual reckless self—classic hero antics.

The rain started coming down harder, and I realised it was only a matter of time before Harry ended up with a broken arm. I hurried down from the stands, aiming to stop Lockhart from mucking things up worse if he got anywhere near Harry with a spell. Hermione caught up with me just as I reached the edge of the pitch. We stood there, squinting at the sky, trying to make out what was going on and wondering who might’ve cursed the Bludger.

Then, a roar went up from the crowd, and Harry plummeted straight to the ground like a stone, barely managing to roll off his broom before impact.

He’d landed a fair distance off, so we didn’t reach him until a crowd had already formed—his team, Lockhart, and Snape heading over from the stands. Strangely, no sign of Madam Pomfrey or Dumbledore, not even Hooch. Students were trickling down from the stands to gawk.

“I caught it, Ron!” Harry beamed when he spotted me, holding up the Snitch in his good hand. But then his face twisted in pain, and he groaned, gritting his teeth.

“Yeah, you caught it, Harry! We won!” Wood announced gleefully, clapping Angelina on the back, while Fred and George wrestled with the rogue Bludger, trying to shove it into the crate. The thing was still trying to break free and have another go at Harry.

“Harry, your arm!” Hermione fretted, rattling off about how he needed to get to the Hospital Wing immediately.

“I reckon I can handle this,” Lockhart chirped, grinning that ridiculous grin of his as he whipped out his wand. “Hold still; I’ll have you sorted in no time!”

“No—” Harry managed to say, but before he could finish, I shoved Lockhart square in the back. He went sprawling face-first into a puddle beside Harry, just as I turned and socked Wood in the nose, hard. I couldn’t take it anymore—he was standing there rabbiting on about how the win was worth any injury, instead of helping Harry to the Hospital Wing like a proper captain should.

“You’re a bloody nutter, Wood,” I snapped, as Katie and Alicia tried to calm him down, and Hermione grabbed my arm to keep me from taking another swing. “You don’t give a toss about anyone, as long as you get your precious win. Look at you, preening like a prat while Harry’s lying here in the mud with a busted arm!”

“What’s going on here?” Snape’s icy voice cut through the scene as he arrived. “Weasley, Wood, ten points from Gryffindor for brawling. And you, colleague,” he added, turning to Lockhart, who was sitting up, inspecting his mud-splattered robes with a horrified expression, “what exactly happened to you?”

“Oh, just a little mishap,” Lockhart replied breezily, brushing himself off. “Thought I’d lend a hand and, er, slipped. I’d best go change—leaving Mr. Potter in your capable hands, of course.” And off he went, scuttling back to the castle.

“Well?” Snape turned back to us, scanning the lot of us with that sharp, piercing look. No one said a word.

“Everyone, back to the castle. Wood, Weasley, with me,” Snape barked. The crowd scattered quickly, not wanting to stick around. Snape cast a sleeping charm on Harry, conjured a stretcher, and levitated him toward the castle.

“I expect an explanation,” Snape demanded, once Harry was handed off to Madam Pomfrey and Wood’s nose had been mended.

“The Bludger was cursed, sir,” I said bluntly. “Everyone could see it during the match, but Wood didn’t stop the game or ask for an investigation. Then, when Harry fell, instead of helping him, he just stood there waffling about how the win was worth it. I think someone ought to look into this before our next game.”

“You suspect Slytherins?” Snape asked, his tone dangerously sharp.

“No idea, sir. I figure an investigation will clear that up,” I replied, not backing down. “Gryffindor’s got two more matches. I’d rather not see this happen again.”

Snape stared at me for a long moment before turning to Wood. “Mr. Wood, a week of detentions with Mr. Filch should give you time to reflect on your duties as captain. Fail to prioritise your team’s safety again, and you’ll be the first captain in history to be removed for negligence. And you, Mr. Weasley, will serve detention with me tonight at eight for your insolence. Dismissed. Wood, stay.”

As Wood followed Snape, he shot me a murderous glare over his shoulder and made a cutting gesture across his throat. I smirked and flipped him the bird. Looked like I was in for another fight later.

Honestly, I’ve been uncharacteristically aggressive this year. Must be hormones or something. Half the time, I feel like I’m bursting out of my skin, itching for a scrap or to down a pint. Hell, even just to sneak off with a girl for a proper snog. But no one would understand. So here I am, living like a cross between a grumpy old man and a monk. Brilliant.

Wood didn’t get back for two hours, and he was still muttering threats when he did. Fred and George cuffed me on the back of the head for good measure, but they backed me up in the end, letting Wood know in no uncertain terms that if anyone was teaching me manners, it’d be them. Turned out the Bludger had been cursed to take Harry out of the match—could’ve been fatal if he weren’t so quick on his feet.

If Harry had been seriously injured, I reckon Dobby would’ve swooped in to save him—his whole plan, after all, was to keep Harry alive but far away from Hogwarts. “Better crippled than dead,” or something like that, wasn’t it?

The whole thing must’ve rattled Dumbledore and Snape—two years in a row now, and Harry’s the target of another cursed object. Bet they’re checking everyone’s skulls for Dark Magic squatters. Snape’s been hovering around us a lot more since then, clearly keeping an eye out. Can’t say it’s done much for his mood, though.

Harry was let out just in time for dinner—looking chipper, healthy, and smug as ever about the win. After the meal, when we hid away in an empty classroom, he spilled the beans.

Turns out Dobby had paid him a visit in the Hospital Wing. This time, his rambling made a bit more sense.

“He said,” Harry rattled off excitedly, “that after the Dark Lord disappeared, life got better for house-elves. And now, apparently, I’m some kind of hero to them! I don’t really get why, though. Then he said he didn’t mean me any harm—he just wanted to save me. That something terrible’s brewing at Hogwarts, and if the Chamber of Secrets is opened again, the nightmare will return. Only this time, I might get hurt.”

“The Chamber of Secrets?” Hermione frowned. “I’ve never heard of it. But if it’s been opened before, and judging by what he said, someone must’ve been hurt back then. We should look into it,” she added, already brimming with enthusiasm. “By the way, what are house-elves exactly?” she asked as she started dragging us off to the library.

“And you didn’t deck him?” I asked while we clattered down the stairs. “Forgave him, didn’t you? You soft git—he nearly killed you!”

“Well, I felt sorry for him,” Harry mumbled, his face going red. “He’s so small and pitiful. He cried and had bandages on his hands—hurt himself for going against his masters. Can you imagine? And he promised he wouldn’t try saving me again.”

“You’re a saint, Harry,” Hermione said with a pointed glare in my direction. I just snorted. “You handled it perfectly. Did Dobby say who his master was?”

“No,” Harry muttered in frustration. “When I asked, his eyes bulged out, and he smashed a water jug on his head. Madam Pomfrey came running, but by the time she got there, he’d already vanished.”

Nothing else happened until Christmas. I spent most of my time at extra lessons with Flitwick, Hermione with McGonagall, and the rest of it in the library. We dug up some information about the Chamber of Secrets in “Hogwarts: A History,” but there wasn’t a word about its opening in the school’s chronicles. Still, I let the kids enjoy their little mystery hunt—I had other things on my mind.

______________________________________________

I kept bumping into Luna regularly—usually just enough for a quick exchange of words on the stairs or in the entrance hall before breakfast or lunch. I didn’t push to hang out more, figuring it’d be good for her to make friends with other girls and settle into school life. She’d have me around regardless.

But things didn’t turn out quite as rosy as I’d hoped.

Every day, she wrote to me in her notebook. About everything. It was like having a conversation with her, really. She’d spot an interesting suit of armour or a crack in a window frame and jot down a couple of lines right away. At times, it felt like I was walking alongside her.

Luna never complained, but through her cheerful words, you could sense a deep homesickness—especially for her dad. She felt out of place at Hogwarts, surrounded by so many people who didn’t understand or even try to understand her. She missed her long walks through fields and hills. Here, they didn’t want wonders springing from her imagination—they demanded spellwork exactly as instructed, robbing the magic of its spark and turning it into bookish drudgery.

She enjoyed her lessons, though, and was considered one of the strongest in her year. But she had a habit of daydreaming and going off-topic. Ginny told me how, during Charms, Luna made her feather not just levitate but twirl like it was dancing, break into butterflies, flutter over everyone’s heads, and then transform back into a feather before landing softly on her desk. Flitwick thought it was brilliant. McGonagall, on the other hand, was less impressed. She preferred precision and discipline, and Luna’s whimsical approach didn’t sit well with her, even though she excelled in the subject.

Luna’s favourite class, surprisingly, was Potions. She liked to experiment there, too, but always managed to get it right. And, to everyone’s shock, Snape had become her favourite teacher. She even made him a Valentine—a bright yellow card with a sun motif, decorated with fresh flowers and leaves. Alongside it was a string with an orange radish charm, like the one she’d given me. I could only imagine his face when he received it.

“Everyone else will get loads of cards, Ron, but the professor’s all alone,” she said matter-of-factly when I asked why Snape of all people, not someone like Lockhart or Flitwick. “Besides, it’s always dark and cold in the dungeons. That’s probably why he looks so sad—he must miss the sun and warmth.”

Can’t argue with that...

As always, Luna looked like herself—dreamy, serene, and a bit disheveled. She had a Puffskein on one shoulder and a tiny dragon on the other. Her wand was often tucked into one of her braids or behind her ear like a pencil. The handle was adorned with little beads strung on thin cords—sort of like the rowanberry necklaces Russian girls make in autumn. The wand in her hair resembled a wooden chopstick with dangling charms. Bright orange radishes dangled from her earrings. Altogether, her look was odd but endearing. I figured she was doing fine since she was dressed properly, so I stopped worrying. Big mistake.

A couple of days before the holidays, I noticed her Puffskein was missing. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but when we returned after Christmas, it was still gone. Luna just smiled and changed the subject when I asked about it. Imagine my shock when I spotted it perched on Cho Chang’s shoulder.

Cho, a pretty girl a year ahead of us, always stood out with her exotic looks. But I hadn’t expected her to be such a cow.

I had a word. Didn’t need to threaten her with violence or anything.

“Oi, doll,” I said, blocking her path. “Your mum works at the Ministry, yeah? Well, if you don’t return what’s not yours to its rightful owner, people might find out her daughter’s a thief. Imagine the gossip here at Hogwarts—bullying first-years, no less. Think anyone’d still want to date you then?”

"You...!" she started, her face going red.

"Yeah, me," I cut in, keeping my tone calm but firm. "Hope you’ve got the message loud and clear. And don’t you dare try anything with Luna, or I’ll be adding my own little touch. You know who my brothers are, right? Wouldn’t take much to get a recipe that'll have you going bald and spotty for life."

By dinnertime, Luna’s Puffskein was back on her shoulder. Later that evening, though, three blokes cornered me. Turns out it was the lad who’d been sweet on Cho Chang and his mates. If they’d come at me with magic, I’d have been done for, but the daft git decided to use his fists. Lucky for me, I’m decent at that sort of thing, especially since I’d learned to add a bit of magical oomph to my punches. The rest of the Gryffindor lot stayed out of it, of course. All four of us ended up in the hospital wing, but I came out of it the least worse for wear.

Then the older Ravenclaw lads decided to have a go at "teaching me a lesson" about sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. Tried three times. Would’ve worn me down eventually—fists are no match for older students—but word got out about why I was doing it. I’ve got a feeling the twins might’ve had a word with them. Say what you like about Fred and George, but they’d bury someone with a shovel if it meant sticking up for family. After that, they left me alone.

Not that it ended there. I lost count of the number of Luna’s things I had to get back. Seems her house was full of people who fancied "borrowing" what wasn’t theirs. I was knackered from all the fights and never-ending detentions. Hermione kept having a go at me for losing points, saying I was reckless. But I wasn’t about to explain it all to her—it was my problem to deal with.

Then Percy got wind of it and went absolutely mental, even wrote to Mum about it. She sent a Howler that could make your ears bleed, ranting on about me brawling left and right. Ginny, of course, strutted around like her brother was some kind of superhero, while the lads from other houses kept their distance, and the girls started giving me these curious looks. Shame I was still a kid—could’ve made the most of the attention. Mum really did me a favour with that one.

Still, it didn’t fix Luna’s problem. It wasn’t just the lads nicking her stuff; it was the girls in her dorm, and I couldn’t exactly belt them or scare them off.

Then I had an idea. Went straight to Penelope, Ravenclaw’s prefect, and gave her a piece of my mind about how useless she was at her job. Told her if she didn’t sort it, I’d take it to Flitwick and have her replaced by someone decent. She got all teary and ran off to tattle to Percy, who had a right go at me. Apparently, she sulked for two weeks after that. I didn’t let up, though—gave Percy an earful about choosing a girl over his family. Honestly, it was a proper mess.

But can you blame me? Here’s an example:
"Why’re you so late, Luna?" I asked one evening, catching her sneaking back to her tower just before curfew.

"My dragon’s wing got broken by the Nargles," she said softly, stroking the tiny figure. "We went to the healer."

"There’s a healer here?" I asked, my chest tightening at how sad she looked.

"Of course," she said, brightening a bit. "Professor Kettleburn. He can fix any creature. Hagrid could too, but only the really alive ones, since he doesn’t have a wand—just his umbrella. The professor taught me a spell so that if Layel ever breaks his wing or leg again, I can fix it myself. Isn’t that brilliant?"

"Yeah," I said, gritting my teeth and vowing to get rid of every bloody Nargle I could find.

Then she frowned at me. "Ron, my charm isn’t working for you. There are too many Wrackspurts around you. Here, take another one." She pulled off her necklace of radishes and handed me a few more. Without a second thought, I slipped them onto my cord. Didn’t even ask why she had so many—it was just Luna being Luna, I suppose. Maybe she needed the sunlight and warmth they represented just as much as I did.

Strangely enough, after that, I felt calmer. I still threw punches and stood my ground, but it became less about the anger and more about doing what was right.

I did try to cheer her up. Took her to see Hagrid a couple of times, even gave her a ride on my broom before curfew. But the cold set in, and even warming charms weren’t enough, so we had to stop. Didn’t want her catching something.

At least people got the message—mess with Luna, and I’d be there to break a jaw. Shame that my sticking up for her didn’t win her any friends. Might’ve even made things worse. But it’s alright. Luna’s tough; she’ll manage.

Daily Updates (17/12/24)

Stories:

Prof. Umbridge:

• Tier 1: Chapter 46

• Tier 2: Chapter 51

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 22

• Tier 2: Chapter 27

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 26

• Tier 2: Chapter 31

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 49

• Tier 2: Chapter 54

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 16

• Tier 2: Chapter 21

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 16

• Tier 2: Chapter 21

[Life is Good] Chapter 21

Everything after that was… chaotic. There’s really no better way to describe it. They grabbed me, started asking questions rapid-fire, all the while side-eyeing Deadpool and Yuriko like they were one wrong move away from causing a scene. I gave them the short version of my “adventures,” mentioning the kids on sublevel five and the isolation cells for particularly strong mutants on sublevel three. They already knew Deadpool, but for Yuriko, I introduced her without using her name, explaining she’d been enslaved by Stryker and was a mutant too.

I was worried about Logan’s reaction—figured he might blow up—but he just looked at her the way he looks at everyone: like crap. Either they didn’t have beef in this timeline, they hadn’t had it yet, or he’d forgotten. Whatever. Moving on.

I also mentioned that there was a girl’s body down the hall in the morgue, one that absolutely needed to be retrieved. That little tidbit made Magneto’s eyes flash with anger, her jaw audibly grinding. Then, I told them I’d killed the big boss—Stryker himself. Logan frowned at that but kept quiet, while Magneto and Sabretooth exchanged approving glances, like I’d just been promoted to “junior psycho” in their book.

I didn’t hold back, either—told them Stryker’s office had a vial of the mind-control neutralizer. A few drops in the eyes would eventually lift its effects. There were documents there too, stuff that might be useful down the road. I tried to cover everything that could help.

After that, they sent me upstairs. Deadpool stayed with the strike team, while Yuriko silently followed me. She only muttered her name once during the entire conversation, and when asked if she wanted to join the fight, she shook her head and gestured toward me. And… weirdly enough, everyone seemed to relax when she did that. Even Logan gave her a glance without his usual grumpy-ass face. What kind of reaction was that?

On the way up, I grabbed a pair of pants off a corpse—a dead woman with her head almost severed. They were way too big, but a belt and a quick burn-hole adjustment did the trick. So now I was topless but rocking military pants, albeit rolled up at the bottom and slightly bloodstained. Still, at least my boys felt a semblance of false security.

On the first sublevel, Jean Grey and Toad greeted us. Jean immediately squawked at my disheveled, shirtless state, while Toad just explained where to go and who was waiting for us upstairs: Storm, Cyclops, and Charlene were there as the heavy artillery and interference crew. Kitty and Kristi, who’d managed to escape during the kidnappings, were with them too.

Hearing that Kristi was okay made me feel a wave of relief. I’d been really worried. Yeah, we hadn’t been together long, but I liked her a lot—there was strong chemistry there, plenty of attraction mixed in.

When we made it to the surface, the base was a wreck. Lightning cracked across the stormy sky, and the wind whipped through the trees with violent force. Miss Ororo Munroe was clearly putting in work, messing with satellites and keeping any aircraft at bay.

That’s when Kristi crashed into me. Hard. The girl had clearly been losing her mind over this, and the rapid-fire German she unleashed on me knocked me off balance for a second. But she cared. That much was obvious.

I just hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. Wanted to kiss her on the lips, but then I remembered how much I’d thrown up today and decided that was not what she’d be dreaming about. So we just stood there for a few minutes, holding each other.

It did occur to me, though—was my little Tobi standing at attention? Stress, maybe? Kinda embarrassing. Judging by Kristi’s twitching purple ear, she noticed too. But she didn’t pull away. Nice. This was exactly what I needed. Now if only I could get a shower, a toothbrush, and a massage…

My stomach growled loud enough to make Kristi laugh, reminding me that food wouldn’t hurt either. But that’d have to wait.

They led Yuriko and me to a pair of buses parked near the demolished base. Charlene was there to meet us, looking concerned but clearly up to speed thanks to her telepathic abilities. Smiling warmly, she mentioned there was warm clothing and snacks inside the buses.

Clothing? Meh. Food? Yes, please.

What did make me a little nervous was the silent staring contest happening between Xavier and Yuriko. She was clenching and unclenching her fists, and Charlene just kept watching her with a calm, unreadable gaze. Finally, she smiled, and gave a curt nod before throwing me a glance and heading for the bus.

Well, alright then. Mutant solidarity wins again, I guess. As for me? I was gonna eat.

And eat I did—politely, too. I swear! Not eating for a whole day isn’t as bad as people make it out to be, as long as you don’t have a fridge nearby tempting you. Honestly, I’d been too focused on keeping myself alive to even feel hunger.

But as I ate, I thought about the chaos we’d left behind. The military base was practically rubble. On the way out, I saw tied-up guards, dead bodies, and captured soldiers locked in big metal cages. The mutant community had clearly hit a boiling point over the kidnapped kids, and honestly? I couldn’t blame them. Hell, I’d gone full slasher flick in there myself. After seeing the girl in the morgue… well, I figured the remaining soldiers on the lower levels were about to have a very bad time. Deservedly so.

Still, the future worried me. A wrecked military base isn’t something the government’s just gonna let slide. I don’t know how well the mutants had jammed communications, but sooner or later, someone’s gonna notice and send tanks, APCs, and a whole lot of questions. Step one? Get out of here fast. Step two? Go underground. Like, really underground—sewers, dungeons, the whole nine yards.

But for now, things were calm. The buses were filling up with my fellow survivors, and there wasn’t a tank brigade in sight. Yuriko sat near the front, half-turned toward me. She’d refused snacks and mostly just kept an eye on things, occasionally letting her gaze linger on me with a faint smile—a surprisingly sweet, polite, and slightly reassuring smile.

Then Raisa and Windy showed up. A bruised but still-tough Colossus and an unscathed winged Windy slid into the seats behind me. The conversation turned to the events we’d just gone through, with the girls doing most of the talking. Even Windy dropped a few colorful curse words.

And then… she entered.

Her.

Jubilee swept into the bus like the Empress of the Universe. Her smile radiated smug superiority, and her eyes sparkled with anticipation. She was a living embodiment of drama.

Everyone who knew Jubilee even a little could tell—she was about to drop some big news. The kind of bombshell that makes the cosmos shudder. And me? I just wanted to whimper and hide. Preferably between Sabretooth’s titties.

Jubilee scanned the now-quiet bus, her gaze critical, before declaring: “Not enough people here. Once we’re home, I’ve got something BIG to tell you!”

The collective sigh of relief from the bus was almost audible. I exhaled, grateful, while everyone else just seemed mildly disappointed.

Thank you, Goddess. Thank you, God-Emperor. Om-nom-nom-nom. Damn, these chips are pretty good.

And then... well, then everyone was rounded up, and we just left. Yeah, it was that simple. Charlene rode in the first bus, Storm in the second. Charlene made sure the ride went smoothly, while Storm kept the skies above us conveniently cloudy. The fighters split between the buses and a couple of cars taking point in the front and rear. We were heading home. Next to me, my lovely, blue-skinned Kristiana was snuggled close, wrapping her tail around my leg while holding my hand. It was cozy. Too cozy, maybe.

The Next Day. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

The size of Stryker's operation was her undoing. Too many people. Too many prisoners. The info leaked to Magneto’s newly acquired informants from the Sisterhood, who quickly rallied the mutants to rescue their children. This wasn’t just a rescue mission—it was the rescue mission, the largest one in the history of mutantkind in the U.S. Everyone came together. The Sisterhood. Charlene’s people. Numerous enclaves. Some handled logistics, others set up blockades or brought food, clothes, and medicine. The mutants with serious combat skills? They suited up as shock troopers and evac teams. Sure, compared to full-scale wars, this was a drop in the ocean, but for a species that was used to operating in small, tight-knit groups, this was monumental.

And, well, that was that. We gathered up, beat the crap out of the defenders, leveled the base, and freed the prisoners, including a few dozen mutants snatched from all over the country by Stryker’s cronies. Our losses? Just one girl: Sandy. As Logan gruffly muttered, “Tough luck.” Turned out she got killed by her guards during a breakout attempt. Just one solid kick to the head from a heavy boot was enough to end her life. The scientists, ever practical, shrugged and went, “Guess we’ll dissect her then.” Did I regret torching the ones responsible? Not for a second. Most of them were basically successors to Dr. Mengele. On the lower levels, after Magneto saw the dead girl, there weren’t many survivors left. Even the scientists got shredded. When Charlene expressed some concern, Erika just shrugged and said, “I lost my temper.” Fair enough.

The weirdest part of all? Deadpool. How the hell did she get there before everyone else? How did she sneak down to sublevel three, where she was first spotted by the guards, sparking a shootout? When asked, she just said, “I came for Tobi. A young, growing boy needs sunshine, and dungeon air does terrible things to complexion.” Charlene’s response? A nervous shoulder shrug and a rushed, almost rap-like, “We believe you! Thank you so much for your help!” Polite granny energy, I tell you.

By midday, most of the school’s residents were huddled around a TV, watching the news with disbelief. The base we had smashed to bits was all over the screens. Security camera footage played on a loop. But—get this—it wasn’t showing mutants storming the place. Nope. It was all about how Stryker’s people were dragging kids into cells. About the experiments, which looked more like torture sessions. They even showed me strapped to the electric chair. They aired the murder of little Sandy and her autopsy table footage. A revolting montage of revolting acts by revolting people.

But the biggest shock was the narrative being spun: “A tragic incident. Criminal actions by rogue military operatives. A madwoman, Colonel Stryker, leading a team of extremists.” And then, get this: “The brave U.S. military successfully freed mutant children kidnapped by radical anti-mutant fanatics.”

Seriously, I kid you not.

The talking heads kept swapping out, but they were all saying the same thing. The cherry on top? Alexandra Pierce, the newly appointed Secretary of Defense, taking the podium after her predecessor “committed suicide” that morning. She declared:

“Mutants are as much citizens of the United States as anyone else. The government, the military, and law enforcement all serve the American people. No one has the right to kidnap and torment children or adults. The Founding Mothers made this nation free and great for all, and anyone who threatens the freedom of American citizens is a criminal and a traitor. We will ensure that those responsible for this heinous crime are punished. Colonel Stryker has already met her end—she was killed during the assault on her base. She has been found guilty of crimes against the American people and stripped of all ranks and honors. Further investigations into the involvement of other high-ranking officers are ongoing.”

And just like that, the narrative was flipped. There were also loads of interviews with random citizens, and they all said basically the same thing: “If they’ll kidnap mutant kids today, what stops them from taking my boy tomorrow?” “How much longer are we going to tolerate this? These soldiers have lost all sense of decency!” “A mutant girl lived next door to us. Sweet and polite, not like those rowdy brats. A bit strange, sure, but harmless!” “Kids are our future! Who could even think of doing something so barbaric?” “Look at this—they tortured boys too! These aren’t humans; they’re animals!”

The internet? Total chaos. Hundreds of forums, thousands of bloggers, all buzzing. Sure, there were a few places where people grumbled, “Well, that’s what these animals deserve,” but overwhelmingly, mutants were getting support, and the military was being dragged through the mud. It was… surreal. The kids at the school were mostly ecstatic, but the adults? Oh, they were pensive. A week ago, mutants were “a threat,” and now this? Plenty to think about.

A familiar office. Behind the desk, a woman in her early fifties leaned back in her chair, studying reports on her monitor. Everything had gone perfectly. No, better than perfectly. This information bomb had gone off with minimal effort on her part. Stryker’s people had practically done the work for her—finding the school, creating a distraction for the senior mutants, kidnapping the children, and signing their own death warrants in the process.

Planting a few sympathetic agents into the right information traffic routes? Child’s play. Redirecting surveillance to specific recording devices for later retrieval while shutting it off for Stryker’s guards? Easy. Her people had simply waited in secure hideouts until the main forces arrived. Negotiations with Pierce? Flawless. Alexandra wasn’t an idiot—she understood the long-term value of loyal mutants. Controlling mutants? Not as scary as the media once made it out to be. Ninety percent of mutations were only dangerous under certain conditions. And with trained squads to back them up, loyal mutants could handle nearly any threat. Teams like Xavier’s always ended up stabilizing the situation and aligning with the Organization’s goals.

The pieces were all falling into place.

Control. Real control is impossible in a world engulfed in chaos. And the chaos stirred up by the unhinged "awakened" individuals across the U.S. (and sometimes beyond) is, more often than not, was calmed down by none other than Xavier's people or Lehnsherr’s crew. Meanwhile, all of Stryker’s projects are safely where they need to be—along with the particularly promising scientists.

Now, the focus has shifted to the massive task of assimilating mutants into society. The propaganda machine is gaining momentum, orders have been issued, and the process is in motion. All that’s left is to tweak the trajectory slightly and stoke the flames of public outrage, steadily increasing the number of sympathizers. She had plenty of “hot material” left to shake things up. The X-23 project, for example. The trick was waiting for the current blaze to start dying down—then tossing in more fuel and giving it a burst of oxygen.

The Organization’s operatives cleaned up the base after the mutants had left. Officially, the U.S. military liberated the children—no need for unnecessary rumors. This move would reduce the army’s reputational losses while making the X-Men think the military was scrambling to cover its tracks after the information leak. Not as suspicious as politicians suddenly doing a 180. A series of resignations and prison sentences for a few particularly inconvenient individuals would further cement this shift in narrative. “Some folks got burned and fell from grace, while others seized the chance to score political points by jumping on the opposite bandwagon”—and that’d be the truth, at least partially.

And then there was Tobias. Oh, Tobias. The boy had honed his gift and become even more valuable. The footage she had received made her absolutely giddy. Such excellent combat potential. And the boy had tasted blood—quite literally. What delighted her most, though, was that he hadn’t broken, hadn’t become a hollow shell or a raving lunatic. Prayed, did he? Please. In a fight, every other atheist starts praying. As for killing Stryker? She’d have done the exact same thing in his shoes. Sure, extracting greater benefits from the now dead Colonel was a better option, but the boy was only fifteen. Still, not only did he take down that lunatic, but his actions also earned him the admiration—if not outright affection—of a mutant with remarkable regenerative powers. Smart boy. Inexperienced and prone to making mistakes, but that would change with time.

She was a little baffled, though, by his new companion—a small demoness of sorts. But hey, at least the girl spoke an intelligible language. Still, the boy really needed to find himself at least one normal, human girlfriend. Hopefully, that squint-eyes girl wouldn’t start hovering around him, though.

And what about SHIELD? What were the discussions over there? She’d need to look into that. Nothing classified, of course—merely what’s being discussed near the cooler, just to satisfy her curiosity. Surely, even an old woman could indulge in a few small weaknesses.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 21

As much as Kosta wanted to avoid it, the inevitable had come: the waifus had challenged him to battle. Two of them at once.

He could never have imagined this day would come. Like any self-respecting waifu fan, he always reacted with outright hostility toward anyone who dared raise their swords or staffs against the innocent waifus waiting to start their quests—of which there were already so few in the Lands Between. It was terrible. Truly terrible.

There was only one waifu Kosta would have gladly crossed blades with, but the problem was she was a boss. This situation, however…

Something had gone horribly wrong.

Now, Konstantin had joined the ranks of those contemptible people. Nepheli Loux and Latenna wanted to test him. The clearly furious warrior waifu (thankfully, her anger wasn’t directed solely at him) had teamed up with the still-doubtful albinauric. The latter needed assurance that the piece of the secret (which was now not-so-secret) medallion would end up in the hands of someone who could actually help her reach her destination.

The women decided to unite forces, seeing no shame in it. Before them stood the vanquisher of a demigod and—though they didn’t know it yet—the newly christened terror of sorcerers. Still, this did little to comfort Konstantin.

He needed to at least find a way to make this madness tolerable. Kosta decided to heed Alexander’s advice and impose a self-made challenge.

“There’s a highly respected class of players who beat the game using bananas or dance mats, (1)” Konstantin said with inspiring reverence, as though recounting tales of legendary heroes. “I can’t pull off a challenge like that, so I’ll limit myself in other ways.”

Nepheli and Latenna exchanged glances. They didn’t understand the first half of what he said, not even a little, and only partly grasped the second half. However, they got the gist: The Tarnished planned to hold back.

Kosta stood on one leg, tucking one arm behind his back. In his remaining hand, he wielded his trusty club—showing at least some respect for the efforts of the waifus.

Unfortunately, his goodwill gestures went unnoticed. Veins bulged with fury on Nepheli’s face. Already frustrated, she couldn’t believe the Tarnished she respected, the one she wanted to face in a fair fight, would insult her like this. Insult them!

“Do you underestimate us so much, Konstantin of the Tarnished?”

The scowling albinauric nodded, narrowing her eyes as she pulled her bowstring back with all her strength.

Melina, watching as Konstantin slumped in despair under the wrathful stares of the women, felt as though he’d taken a critical hit to his poise.

“What’s going on?”

She turned to see the sudden arrival of the lunar demigoddess in a flash of starlight. On Ranni’s shoulder sat a tiny illusion of Sellen. Whatever conversation the sorceresses had been having, they seemed to have reached an understanding. Whether it was voluntary or not was unclear—Sellen’s illusion looked slightly worse for wear, glancing at the unbothered demigoddess with at least some apprehension.

It was entirely possible she’d been shown the disco balls.

The False Finger Maiden didn’t know how to answer Ranni. Instead, she gave a subtle nod toward the scene, as if to say they’d better see for themselves.

And they did.

The fight began abruptly. Clearly enraged, Nepheli charged in with her twin axes, eager to punish the overconfident fool. Winds swirled around her, lightning crackled in bursts. Latenna released an arrow that seemed destined to hit its mark.

Unfortunately for the waifus, they had chosen the wrong opponent.

Without rolling, Kosta hopped backward on one leg (2). While it didn’t look particularly flashy—if anything, it was a little comical—the hop was fast and long enough to evade both the furious warrior’s attack and Latenna’s lightning-quick arrow.

Kosta assessed the distance of his jump, realizing he could have leapt even farther, hardly feeling the ground’s resistance. He let out a mournful sigh.

“It’s happening… I’ve over-leveled again. Everything’s casual unless you’re playing with fruit or vegetables… I was blind.”

Seeing how disheartened the Tarnished was by his own effortless dodge only enraged Nepheli further. She growled gutturally.

“Get back here, you lunatic!”

What the unseen observers witnessed next both amazed them and filled them with pity for the warrior and archer.

Kosta dodged everything: the rain of arrows, the strikes of a raging giant wolf, the wind, the lightning, and the axes. The women flailed after him as if trying in vain to swat an annoying fly buzzing around them. A fly that, when unable to dodge, would counterattack—forcing the dual-wielding warrior into a defensive stance with nothing more than a simple club.

The humble piece of wood in Kosta’s hand had such force that with every strike, Nepheli’s feet nearly sank into the ground. The club groaned, threatening to splinter into a thousand shards at any moment. It probably didn’t because Kosta forbade it.

It was clear: the man was over-leveled. The Great Rune pulsing deep within him didn’t even need to be activated, adding to his already overwhelming stats. (3)

“What a nightmare…”

Nearby, an albinauric elder lay on the ground, his crumbling legs long gone. Whether he wanted to or not, he witnessed the horrifying spectacle.

“S-stop! Stop!”

Latenna had long since run out of arrows, and her direwolf—having sensed Kosta’s overwhelming power much earlier—had simply plopped down, leaving the frustrated albinauric as a mere spectator.

That left Nepheli. She was drenched in sweat, the winds around her weakening, lightning flickering faintly and sporadically. Kosta, meanwhile, remained unshaken.

Obviously, he was carefully monitoring his vastly increased stamina, like any diligent tryhard, ensuring it never hit zero. Otherwise, it’d take longer to recover. (4)

At some point, the exhausted warrior stopped in front of the mightiest Tarnished, breathing heavily.

“I understand,” she exhaled slowly, catching her breath. Kosta could see she was beaten. It broke the heart of the waifu fan in him. “This is your victory, Konstantin! By the winds, I was wrong. But please, let me see what you’re truly capable of!”

Kosta glanced at his cracked club before tossing it aside. He stood on two legs, no longer hiding his second arm.

“The real parries are reserved for someone else,” the man said grimly, repeating words he’d spoken before and would speak again, firmly resolved in his purpose. “But I can show you something else.”

Casual or not—who cares? Even if Alexander was wrong and Kosta was nothing but the most shameless of casuals, the jar warrior’s main point still rang true: enjoy the game, don’t hold yourself back. Challenges should bring joy, and mechanics are there to be explored to the fullest.

Especially when a waifu warrior, already so thoroughly upset, asked him so earnestly. Priorities had long since been set. There was no longer any conflict in the hardcore soul of a devoted waifu fan.

In some sense, without even realizing it, Kosta had found liberation.

He extended his hand, where lightning began to form—almost identical to the ones conjured by the warrior maiden. Except this one was far brighter and more powerful, gleaming with golden light in the shape of a spear.

The man cast a strange glance at the glowing golden construct of casual energy, then hurled the Lightning Spear (5) into a nearby cliffside.

The spear crossed the distance instantly, colliding with an explosive force. The crash of thunder that followed was so loud that it left the unintended spectators’ ears ringing. At the site of the impact, a massive scar remained, etched into the rock as a permanent reminder of the Thunder Spear’s arrival.

Melina froze, staring in open horror at the aftermath of the Tarnished's actions. Meanwhile, Ranni’s and Sellen’s eyes sparkled with intrigue.

“Hmm,” the demigoddess murmured, folding her hands thoughtfully. “So, we were right after all.”

The previously sulking Ranni suddenly seemed much more amicable, and the very air around her softened noticeably.

“I wonder what else he’s capable of...” mused Sellen’s miniature illusion, narrowing her eyes.

She narrowed them so much, in fact, that the lunar demigoddess and the false Finger Maiden immediately shot her a sharp glare.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you two. I’m not planning anything nefarious,” the sorceress grumbled indignantly.

Both Ranni and Melina let out quiet, disbelieving huffs.

The lunar demigoddess was beginning to regret enlisting such a controversial figure. She had seriously underestimated her servant’s combat capabilities.

That said...

A faintly pleased smile crept onto her spectral face, her eyes glowing with genuine curiosity and hope. With a servant like this, her chances of success had just grown exponentially!

Ranni vanished in a burst of starlight, taking a clearly disgruntled miniature Sellen with her. Melina watched the irritatingly smug demigoddess disappear, her gaze wary.

‘How am I supposed to protect my Tarnished from the clutches of these conniving wenches?’

Melina bit her lip, turning her attention back to Nepheli and the albinauric.

Women. There were far too many women gathering around here, and what was most troubling was that her chosen one seemed entirely unbothered by it all.

The demonstration had been enough for both Nepheli and the albinauric. There was no point in arguing with the overwhelming power of a casual hardcore player. At least, not unless you were a true hardcore enthusiast willing to endure hundreds of deaths just to take half a boss's health bar—only to despair when the second phase began.

“I’m grateful to you,” Nepheli sighed. “I have much to reconsider and do. But tell me—how does one defeat someone as strong as you?”

Konstantin grew as solemn as ever. With all the sincerity he could muster, he gave the only advice that countless try-hards had passed down through the ages:

“Git gud.” (6)

Nepheli blinked, utterly dumbfounded.

Truthfully, she had somewhat forgotten that the Tarnished before her had traded something of equal value for all his immense power.

Of course, strength demanded a price. Konstantin must have paid a massive toll...

“I... I’ll think about what that means later. Forgive me, I must take my leave...”

The man was left alone with the albinauric. Well, technically, there was still the old albinaur sprawled nearby, and Melina lurking in the background—but he’d long since grown used to the latter, and as for old Albus, he didn’t really count. In a way, it was just him and Latenna.

“You’re right,” the albinauric sighed. “Even with my other half, we wouldn’t reach our destination... I... we will trust in you.”

Latenna exchanged a glance with the nervous old man, then let out a mournful sigh. They truly had no other choice but to trust the Tarnished Soul.

The woman, pale as chalk, lowered her gaze to her wolf companion, gently stroking his fur.

Her next actions took Kosta completely by surprise, but it was too late to react:

“Will you wait for me to return from my journey, my Lobo?”

The giant wolf whimpered softly, bowing his head, as if acknowledging that this half-naked man (and what a man?!) had a much greater chance of helping his albinauric companion.

“I will go with the Tarnished Soul,” Latenna declared with newfound confidence. “So that our journey will not be in vain. Forgive me, Lobo. Wait for my return.”

The albinauric’s body unexpectedly dissolved into particles of energy, which flew straight to Konstantin. Acting purely on reflex, he pulled a bell out of some indeterminate location, and the spirit of the woman was immediately drawn into it.

“Call upon me if you need me. I will fight by your side... though what’s the point…” (7)

Her last words echoed in Konstantin’s head with a distinct melancholy—and, perhaps, a hint of depression.

“...although this bell is surprisingly comfortable...”

These final words trailed off as her voice faded into an echo, leaving only silence behind.

Melina gaped soundlessly.

Does this mean that woman will follow my Tarnished everywhere now?

The man himself stared dumbly at the bell for a moment, then glanced at Lobo. Then at the old albinaur.

“I’ve broken every questline I’ve ever touched,” the man muttered. “And yet, the one quest I deliberately tried to break... somehow played out almost exactly as intended?”

The wolf whined uncertainly, as if to suggest that its continued existence meant the quest had already veered wildly off course. For Kosta, this wasn’t much of an argument.

“I... can I still help somehow?” the old albinaur asked hesitantly, feeling utterly out of place throughout the entire ordeal.

Kosta shrugged, generally satisfied. The side quests were complete, albeit with some difficulty, which meant...

It was time to go back to terrorizing the casuals’ lair. Though this time, things were bound to change drastically.

After all, a casual hardcore player was on his way.

Returning to the dark path of a try-hard, the man sought out the nearest Site of Grace, feeling its energy restore him. Without hesitation, he headed straight back to the Academy. His actions were so spontaneous and decisive that Melina stood staring at the Grace for a long moment before snapping out of it and hastily following her Tarnished.

What followed was a true nightmare for the sorcerers. While they were more prepared this time for the madman’s arrival, it didn’t help much.

Explosions once again filled the Academy, and once again, the man escaped after wreaking havoc.

And then he returned.

Again.

And again...

Time in the Lands Between had long since ceased to flow. Many had stopped counting the days and weeks altogether, and this was especially true for the sorcerers. Compared to the rest of the world, they lived relatively comfortably—among their peers, protected by powerful seals. Though not entirely safe (their greatest threat often came from each other), they spent most of their time in relative peace, immersed in research.

The arrival of Kosta had profoundly altered the situation, forcing the sorcerers to count every minute of his absence, always dreading the moment the madman would return.

In some ways, the lunar demigoddess had been right: Konstantin had missed the opportunity to rush straight to the queen. Now, the watch over her was so intense that no amount of invincibility frames would suffice to roll his way to the next Great Rune without being blasted by a spell. The "mobs" were simply too numerous. Worse, they were acting with noticeable organization and coordination, using their talents to the fullest to protect the rune. The situation escalated to the point where the entire Academy began covering itself in seals designed to immobilize Konstantin. However, there was one problem.

It was called the "Sellian Sealbreaker"(8). The joyful laughter of the tiny illusion of the exiled sorceress began echoing through the Academy.

Some sorcerers, their nerves breaking faster than others, simply fled the Academy, deeming the outside world safer. Along with their departure, they spread rumors about what was happening in the usually impregnable fortress.

Unfortunately, Konstantin no longer cared much about whether he was using magic or not. Unfortunately for them.

Worse still, the man had found a peculiar joy in defeating the casuals with their own casual spells. The accursed "ding" had become a nightmare for this bastion of heresy.

It was as though Kosta had started a new NG+ run as a mage—overleveled and thoroughly vindictive. He was rediscovering that forgotten sense of satisfaction, diving into it with renewed vigor.

And that pleasure, that sweet feeling of revenge rising from the deepest wounds inflicted by the casuals, became the last straw for the sorcerers.

They decided to go all in.

The Red Wolf of Radagon and Carian Knight Moongrum, the last two obstacles before Queen Rennala of the Full Moon, were unleashed to capture the madman.

It was clear this battle would determine whether the Academy would fall to the rolling Tarnished or not.

Meanwhile, the already turbulent Lands Between was on the brink of experiencing another casual-quaking upheaval.

_______________________________________________

(1) This isn’t exactly rare. Streamers love setting up these “stress tests,” completing games in the most ridiculous ways imaginable. The latest methods that come to mind? Beating the game with a goldfish and… uh, with their butt. These were two different runs, by the way. Don’t ask.

(2) In Elden Ring, you can not only jump and roll but also perform a backward hop by standing still and pressing the dodge button without moving the stick. Honestly, I’ve personally never used this mechanic. (TN: intentionally)

(3) Great Runes need to be activated to function. But I’ve decided to deviate from this in-game convention for the sake of the story.

(4) Stamina recovery takes slightly longer if your bar is fully depleted.

(5) A spell you can Purchase from Brother Corhyn or Miriel, Pastor of Vows after giving either the Dragon Cult Prayerbook which is dropped by a Leyndell Knight 

(6) Gaming slang frequently used in the Dark Souls series. When asked how to defeat a tough boss, players are often told to just "git gud." Naturally, this is exactly the advice everyone wants to hear!

(7) By taking part of the medallion from Albus, the player can accept Latenna’s request to escort her to her destination, where she then becomes a summonable ash spirit.

(8) Sellen gives the player the “Sellian Sealbreaker” during her questline. Judging by its name, you can probably guess what this “breaker” does.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 54

Two days had passed since my encounter with Jack. In that time, I’d hit the gym, practiced at the shooting range, and worked with two different fencing instructors.

The first was a well-known guy around the city—big on videos, lectures, and ads. He was a short, elderly Japanese man with barely any implants and ran his dojo near Corporation Street. For two and a half grand, he gave me a long, polished spiel about philosophy, katas, and different styles. Occasionally, he’d demonstrate something. Slow. Precise.

He was good—knew his history and taught well—but the longer the session dragged on, the clearer it became that his niche wasn’t street samurai like me. He catered to bored corpos chasing “spiritual growth.” Sure, I’ve got cash, but boredom? That’s one luxury I don’t have.

The second instructor was a black ex-merc known as Hash—probably short for hash marks all over his body. The guy looked like he’d survived multiple apocalypses. His military-grade cyberarm, replacing the right one, was pockmarked with bullet dents and blade scratches. Half his skull was plated with a rough, polished implant, while the other half was a mess of burn scars.

Hash worked out of a garage-turned-mini-gym: makeshift dummies for attack drills, rubber flooring, junk piled in corners, and old movie posters slapped on the walls. No eastern philosophy here unless you count Bushido film posters.

He didn’t talk much about philosophy either, breaking up his haggard speech with bouts of deep, raspy coughing.

“Lungs giving you trouble?” I asked.

“Nah… Back in '71, I got hit by a netrunner assault in Pacifica. Fuckers fried me good. Second Heart saved my ass, but I’ve been glitchy ever since.”

Battle-hardened experience. Just what I needed from a no-frills instructor.

“Now, where were we?” he scratched his non-metallic side. “Why the hell would anyone use swords in '76, when you’ve got all kinds of guns? Good ones too. Yeah, some folks say it’s for style, and sure, they’re right. Nothing screams “I walk the edge” like cutting down some asshole with a shotgun or LMG.”

“Sneaking up from behind? Face-to-face is not my style,” I shot back.

“Exactly! And there’s the second reason: blades are quieter. Not silent, but quieter than suppressed guns. Downside is people tend to scream when you stab ‘em. You gotta learn to send them off without all the noise and drama.”

I recalled taking out Mausser’s guard recently—quick amnesia script and a single swipe with a monoblade. Done in seconds. Clean, fast, and quiet.

“Another thing: modern blades paired with good chrome can do some real damage,” Hash continued. “No Berserk mod’s gonna save a guy if you lop his head off. Monoblades slice through armor most bullets and shrapnel can’t touch. A solid EMP shocker will make some borg regret their life choices. Get the right chip upgrades and a sharp blade, and you’ll be dishing out royal-level ass-kickings… until someone blasts you point-blank with a shotgun, of course.”

Fair point.

I needed to figure out how melee weapons fit into my combat setup. Time for a breakdown. What’s my overall combat profile?

First, there’s the strategic layer—planning ops, leading a team, and providing remote netrunning support. That’s my brain in action.

Second, there’s ranged combat. Between hacking, grenades, and guns, I’m covered at mid-range. A sniper or precision rifle could even let me hit targets from afar. And my pistol’s always on hand.

Lastly, close-quarters combat. What do I need there? Taking down targets in tight spaces, silent kills, or handling enemies who rush straight into melee. Seen plenty of those types—like Miriam Levy and Wesley Hunt. For those situations, melee weapons are essential.

Mastering swordsmanship would round things out. Then I’d have skills at all three levels: strategic, ranged, and melee. No glaring weak points.

“In Night City, though, you don’t get much use out of fancy swordplay, choom,” Hash went on. “Flashy moves are for Bushido flicks. What you really need to learn first is iaido. That’s what the japs call the art of quick-draw attacks. Instant takedowns, straight from the scabbard.”

He stepped up to a training dummy, riddled with marks around critical areas. Hash rested his cyberarm on the worn hilt of a simple wakizashi.

“You’re close. Real close. No weapon in hand beforehand,” he described the scenario. “You’ve got a sword and maybe something else. They’ve got a gun holstered. If you get it right, you can cut the bastard in one move and sidestep their line of fire.”

Hash bent his knees slightly and twisted his torso just enough to prepare for a lunge. He barely unsheathed his blade—a little show of menace—before delivering a straightforward horizontal slash to the mannequin's neck.

“This is like the first kata.”

A kata—a move or a type of routine scenario you drill over and over. Basically, Japanese sword styles are built on core principles of the school and the specific katas that embody them.

“He…” Hash gestured at the mannequin. “He’d probably try to pull his piece and shoot you in the gut if you’re close. So ideally, you’d move your body like this, too.”

The ex-merc repeated the move, this time shifting his torso slightly to the left.

“Japs in the yakuza, and just cold steel fans in general, used to go all out back in the day. One guy had custom scabbards—shit would split open to ‘boost’ the sword’s speed. Another choom would carry crap-tier scabbards and slice through them in one move with a monoblade. All just to save a fraction of a second. Sounds dumb, but sometimes dumb shit like that wins the fight.”

While Hash rambled, I got a message from Viktor:

“V, can you make it today? The kid will be here in 20 minutes. I can hold him for an hour or so.”

I glanced at my worn-out sensei and asked, “Mind if I delta early today?”

“Not at all, choom. It’s your eddies. I ain’t gonna act high and mighty like some Shaolin master. My ‘philosophy’ wouldn’t even fill five lines of text. What’s up? Got a gig?” he asked with the curious tone of a retired pro still nosy about street action.

“Nope. Personal. Gotta straighten out some kid. Word is, he’s falling apart.”

“That’s noble work.” Hash shrugged. “I’ve had plenty of chooms before. Good ones. All gone now. Most over some dumb shit too embarrassing to even talk about. So yeah, better to fix their heads sooner than later.”

“Agreed.”

I headed out to Vik’s clinic for a totally random encounter with David Martinez. I wondered if anyone was tailing him. Bet he’s got some tracker tucked into his implants, but as for eyes on him? Hard to say.

On the way, I kept an eye on the crowd. Nothing suspicious caught my attention.

“An invisible fiery star fell upon our city and struck the tower at its center!” shouted a street prophet, waving his arms like a maniac. “The astral sea churned and boiled as a hellish spirit came for the lizard-woman of the Arasaka clan! You’d call it corporate warfare. I say it’s only a fragment of the secret war waged between the overlords of the afterlife and the techno-necromancers from distant space!”

Crazy as it sounded, there was always a nugget of truth buried in his bullshit. Maybe Gary the Prophet really did have a busted implant that picked up fragments of comms or Cyberspace chatter, but by the time it reached his brain, it turned into this fever dream bullshit. Still, sometimes it’s worth paying attention—or even funding a deep dive into whatever makes him tick. But not today. Today was about Martinez.

After greeting Misty, I headed downstairs to the clinic. David was still half-reclined in the chair, clearly coming out of anesthesia. Viktor turned, gave me a wink, and gestured for me to wait. No problem.

While I stood there, my holo rang. It was the owner of 7th Hell.

“What’s that? They haven’t checked in for a few days? How tragic…” I said coolly. “My offer still stands, but I expect you won’t jack up the price compared to the last client. Let’s meet sometime soon and…”

“Mr. V?”

David had emerged from Vik’s office and was now climbing the stairs.

“Let’s talk tomorrow,” I said, cutting the call and turning around.

David stood a step below me, but even so, he seemed taller. His shoulders were broader, too. The things tech could do to a person—and how fast—never ceased to amaze me.

“Hey. Looks like you’ve been living in the gym,” I joked.

“More like the ripperdocs,” he replied, his tone flat and lifeless as he climbed past me. “See you, Mr. V.”

“Hold up!” I called after him, layering my voice with as much friendliness as I could muster. “Off to work?”

“No,” he shrugged, stopping. “Nowhere to be.”

Something about his tone was way off. I’m no shrink, but even I could tell life had thrown Night City’s rising Sandevistan star face-first onto the cold, wet pavement.

“Well, that’s perfect,” I said with a grin. “Let’s grab a bite. Talk.”

“Why?”

Huh. A fair question, but also… off. We weren’t exactly pals, but we had some history. Sitting down together didn’t seem that weird. Kid just looked like he’d forgotten how to people. Emotionally numb.

“It’ll be good,” I said vaguely. “For both of us.”

“Fine,” David agreed without much enthusiasm.

Maybe he just didn’t feel like going home.

I already had a private room reserved at a nearby cafe. We walked there on foot. David stayed quiet at first, so I nudged him into conversation.

“Got any questions?”

“Where you working these days? What corp?”

“Nowhere,” I said.

That seemed to throw him off a little. Yeah, I didn’t look like some washed-up bum. Decent outfit, chrome worth more than most people’s cars.

“I’m a freelancer. A free lancer, literally. Just poking my spear wherever it fits. And sometimes where it doesn’t—but that’s when I gotta run fast.”

“A merc?”

“More of a fixer. Occasionally a merc. But honestly? I shoot for fun more than anything.”

We reached a half-empty diner and took a booth in the back. I ordered us a couple of beers and some snacks, while David went all out—three burgers, a mountain of fries, and a giant soda. Looked like emotional eating at first, but nah. His bulk probably demanded a small army’s worth of calories.

“So, how’s Arasaka treating you these days?” I asked.

David stopped mid-bite, gestured vaguely, and didn’t answer.

“Got any questions about the corp?” I pressed. “Anything confusing? I’m out of the game, but I worked there long enough to see it all from the inside.”

“Questions?” David frowned. “What’s the point? Just clogs up your head for nothing.”

“Fair enough… I bet a lot of Sandevistan users at Arasaka would call that a solid answer. Why bother asking questions when you’ve got orders to follow? But questions… they show you care about the world. At your age, you should still be asking them.”

“Maybe we should just say fuck it?” David said with tired indifference. “I’m doing my job. You did yours. Followed orders, like back at that thief’s apartment.”

“Not really,” I said with a small smile. “That wasn’t my job, and I wasn’t following any orders.”

I had to grab his attention somehow, find even a flicker of curiosity beneath all the muscle, chrome, and disappointment.

“No way?” A trace of surprise finally flickered in his voice. “Then why the hell did you get involved?”

“I saw an opportunity. That fun little ride with the Claws and the mess at the apartment originally got me a reprimand and a sweet forty-thousand eddie loss. But in the end, I came out way ahead. So did you. I made a bet, and it paid off big time.”

“But they still fired you, and you almost got killed,” David said grimly.

“Yeah. That had nothing to do with you or my little gamble, though. It was a fight way above my pay grade.”

I wondered if someone was listening in on us right now through David’s implants. Maybe they’d activated his recording function? While we talked, I started discreetly scanning him, catching signals floating around through the Net. There was something, no doubt about it.

“‘Nothing to do with me,’” he echoed, staring blankly at the table, his fingers brushing over the salt shakers and napkin dispensers like the culprits for all his pain were hiding somewhere in between.

Not there, David. You’re looking in the wrong place. One of them is sitting right in front of you, and the other is probably steering a wheel somewhere between Night City and the Badlands. That is, if either of us can even be blamed. His girl put on the target mask all on her own. Taking the bullet meant for Sue Abernathy was her mission, and she nailed it. Though in the end, it didn’t do Sue much good. Maybe that’s what’s really eating him. A heroic sacrifice is one thing. A pointless one is another.

“Vik told me what Gloria said about you and that ambush,” I said. “You did everything you could. Stop beating yourself up.”

“Did I? Then what the fuck was the point?” he finally snapped. “We put our lives on the line to protect her, and then—”

“Then everyone pretended nothing happened,” I finished for him. “Like they didn’t care at all about Abernathy or her death.”

“Yes!”

David slammed his palms down on the table, making the whole thing creak and the dishes rattle. The guy at the scratched-up counter glared at us but didn’t say a word. I’d paid him enough to keep quiet.

David was definitely broadcasting something. His signal was clear but encrypted. I started trying to crack a few of the packets.

“You’re pissed and confused by how they acted,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Which means, David, you don’t really understand what corporations are.”

“And who the hell does?” he shot back, his voice sharp. “Everyone’s got their own bullshit take.”

“Plenty of people do. And yeah, spouting bullshit is part of their job. They get paid for it,” I said with a wry grin.

“You gonna explain this without the bullshit? You’re not on their payroll anymore.”

“With pleasure. But let’s start somewhere a little abstract.”

“With Saburo’s childhood?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “I just went through that shit.”

“Forget names and brands for a sec. Imagine aliens.”

“Aliens? You’re serious? They’re real?”

Guess I’d been listening to Prophet Gary too much if this was the example I picked.

“Doesn’t matter if they’re real or not. Just picture them. Total outsiders, clueless about our world, landing here and trying to figure out what the dominant form of intelligence is. These aliens gather data, analyze everything, and make their call. Who do you think they’d pick?”

“‘Humans’ is too easy of an answer…” Davi mused, his brain actually kicking into gear. “Corpos? Money guys?”

“Still too simple,” I said. “And not exactly subtle—it’d just mean corpos aren’t human, which is what plenty of anarchists love to claim. Makes it easier to demonize the suits. But nah, corpos are just as human as you or me. The problem isn’t them. Got another guess?”

“AI?”

“They don’t dominate us. At least, not yet. You were on the right track at first, but the answer’s a little trickier. The dominant form of intelligence on Earth isn’t corpos. It’s corporations themselves. You get the difference?”

“You mean… like corporations are alive? Actual beings?”

“Entities. Alive in a way. Don’t freak out; this isn’t sci-fi or mysticism. Think about what an AI is: an organized system of information recorded on some medium. That medium can change or multiply, but the AI itself keeps functioning. It’s not biological, but it ‘lives,’ grows, evolves. Now picture a corporation the same way—not as a group of people, but as a network of information. Hierarchies, rules, accounts, protocols, contracts, obligations, instructions, laws. All that becomes more important than the people. What you get is an informational system. And it ‘lives’ by its own principles. Corpos are just the hardware. Replaceable parts. Break one, and they’ll slot another in, same info loaded up.”

“Okay…” Davi exhaled, staring down at his plate of soggy fries. “And that changes what, exactly?”

“Everything. Look at the world this way, and corpo logic starts to make sense. The problem is we get taught history in the shittiest way possible. Not even because of lies—just plain bad teaching. Ever seen medieval art showing ancient Romans or Greeks?”

“No.”

“They drew them as knights. Same armor, same weapons. They couldn’t imagine society being different in the past. We’re the same way. We picture kings like presidents, knights as soldiers, merchants as businessmen.”

“But they weren’t?”

“Not even close. Those societies didn’t have complex systems like we do now. Back then, you had two natural forms of human organization: gangs and families. Medieval kings were more like Valentino bosses than Rosalind Myers. That’s how it started. Drop a hundred people on a desert island, and they’ll split into small groups—gangs, families and friend cliques.”

“Like Maine’s crew?”

“Yeah, that's our foundation. You don’t need complicated rules or job descriptions for it. But humanity’s evolving—not so much biologically, but organizationally. New forms of groups emerge: first states, religions, armies. Then corps. Your problem is that you’re trying to view this in terms of family or friendship. It’s both more complicated and simpler than that. A corp is a big, informational entity. People? Just leased data carriers.”

“Leased by who?”

“By us. A corp rents our time and headspace. One carrier breaks? They lease another. In many corps nowadays, the individual doesn’t matter. What matters are their permissions, functions, job duties. That’s the informational “flesh” of a corporation. That’s why one month everyone’s idolizing some director, and the next, they’re burying them in the desert and singing praises to the new one—who’ll get buried in six months anyway. Because they’re not praising a person; they’re praising the functions tied to them. Swapping out the carrier doesn’t change that.”

“That’s what happened to Abernathy?”

“Exactly. What’s the point of avenging a Director of Special Ops? The role lives on as long as the function does, and someone will always fill it. Especially now. Whether intentionally or not, corporations have reshaped the world for themselves: cheap labor, minimal value on human life. Swapping out defective carriers is easy.”

“So what’s next? Eternal competition? Or will someone win, and… maybe… there’ll finally be peace?” the kid asked with a hint of hope.

Looks like those old, normal emotions were stirring somewhere deep inside, breaking through the cold gloom of recent losses. Talking about peace, huh? Guess I should shut that down—not his emotions, but that hope for peace.

“One corp winning would be even worse.”

“Why?”

“Right now, progress and “humanity” only exist at the intersection of contradictions between major players. An arms race forces them to invent. Sometimes they throw people scraps to stand out against competitors. But if one faction wins, mark my words, they’ll try to freeze things exactly as they are. Any extra scientists? Executed as threats. Wars replaced by “protective” purges. The body count won’t drop.”

“So there’s no hope? This world’s just stuck in shit forever?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a prophet. Not beyond ‘77, anyway. Humanity’s gone through several transformations. There’ve been better times and worse. Maybe corps aren’t the end yet, and something entirely different is already on the horizon.”

“On the horizon…” David echoed, staring out the window where neon lights cut through the twilight, and people trudged home from work. “How long do we wait? What do we do now?”

“Don’t wait,” I said. “Just get a grip on the situation and figure out what you want. What you need.”

“Are you suggesting I leave Arasaka? Not renew my contract with Security?”

“Leave?” I smirked. “Nah. They’re not letting you go anywhere.”

By then, I’d cracked the signal packets. Seemed like medical data and geolocation. No comms monitoring? Maybe, but better to play it safe.

“You could stay and rethink your perspective,” I said, while setting up a secure transmission channel. “A corp will never be your family, and you’ve gotta be damn careful about who you call a friend there. Expect them to stab you in the back someday, or for management to throw them out—or worse, make you take them out. But there’s an upside. Corps pay big for someone like you.”

There. The protection was up, and the bypass protocols were set. I kept talking about the perks of corporate life, smiling, while before David’s eyes, a burning message should’ve popped up:

“The only way out of Arasaka is to run.”

[Castling the Long Way] Chapter 31

Nobody besides our lot seemed to notice that Harry and I didn’t arrive at Hogwarts on the train. The boys were dead jealous, though, when they found out we’d already been to Hogsmeade—especially since they’d have to wait another year. They crowded around us, hanging on our every word about the shops, happily stuffing themselves with sweets, and dreaming of the day they’d get to see the place for themselves. In the meantime, they were already flicking through the catalogue and placing orders for snacks to jazz up our evening hangouts.

The catalogue, courtesy of the owner of Honeydukes, was a right game changer. All you had to do was tap a picture with your wand, choose the amount, and by morning, an owl would deliver it. Back in the day, first-years like us had to beg favours off older students, which was always more trouble than it was worth. They’d charge you in chocolate frogs, butterbeer, or Merlin knows what else—hardly affordable on a first-year’s allowance—or, worse, demand favours: running errands around the castle. No one fancied that, so most kids just went without.

Ginny’s puffskein, Arnold, caused a proper stir at school. The girls were swooning over him, and some of the lads were already planning to buy one as a gift for their girlfriends. Ginny became a bit of a celebrity among the first-years and didn’t have time for Harry or his fan club. She wasn’t blushing at the sight of him anymore, at least, though I caught her sneaking the occasional dreamy look in his direction.

On every break or in the Great Hall, people kept asking Ginny where they could get a puffskein like Arnold. She sent them straight to Fred and George. The twins made a killing, pocketing nearly 150 Galleons in two months. Even at four Galleons a pop, complete with a fancy carrying bag, there weren’t enough puffskeins to meet demand. They were a smashing deal, though—they didn’t age for ten years, ate rubbish (literally anything from scraps of parchment to broken quills), didn’t shed, and purred like cats. Best of all, their fur changed colour depending on their owner’s mood. They even came with a catalogue to explain the colours.

The twins, of course, had worked some magic—quite literally—to ensure that charmed puffskeins couldn’t breed, keeping the market wide open for years to come. Brilliant, that. I had to hand it to them; they were sharper than I ever gave them credit for. They gave me 15 Galleons as thanks and Ginny 30, so we were pleased with the arrangement.

I even gave Hermione one for her birthday—a red puffskein with gold tips. She blushed, properly touched, and said she’d always wanted a pet, but her parents wouldn’t allow it. Harry toyed with the idea of getting one but decided against it—he reckoned he’d have no time between Quidditch practices and didn’t want to worry about keeping it safe at the Dursleys’. Still, he’d occasionally borrow Hermione’s puffskein for a quick cuddle.

Flitwick set me a massive summer project for Charms—no books to guide me, just 122 questions I had to answer with my reasoning written out in detail. It took me ages, but it must’ve impressed him because, by the end of the first week, he started piling me with extra reading and weekly tests. Nothing promised, of course, but it was my chance to prove myself. I spent most of my free time in the library, often with Hermione. McGonagall had taken her under her wing too, so she was buried in extra coursework just like me.

Harry wasn’t thrilled with all the studying, but it rubbed off on him a bit. Between Quidditch practice three times a week and hanging out with us, he didn’t have much choice. He’d bolt off to the pitch looking like he’d escaped Azkaban. He was never one for sitting still, especially not with a book in front of him.

The weekends, at least, were ours. We explored the castle, roamed the grounds, and visited Hagrid. Harry joked one day that it was such a dull year he wouldn’t mind running into Fluffy again just to spice things up. Honestly, it was shaping up to be a quiet term.

Lockhart, though—what a disaster. Every bloke in the school loathed him, especially the older ones. I got it—he had half the girls swooning over him, including Hermione. They’d huddle in groups, whispering and giggling, while the lads ground their teeth, dreaming up ways to take him down a peg. Some even talked about giving him a "helping hand" with the cursed DADA position.

I’ll admit, he did look the part—if you like your blokes all polished and preening. Back in my old neighbourhood, he wouldn’t have made it to the corner shop without getting a smack. Still, he had charm, I’ll give him that, and could talk the hind legs off a Hippogriff. He reminded me of Prince Charming from Shrek.

His books, though—surprisingly decent. More like adventure novels than textbooks, really, but good fun. Still, they were more for a female audience, with endless descriptions of clothes and emotions. You couldn’t learn a thing from them, but they made for a laugh:

"That balmy summer evening, with a flutter in my chest, I prepared to face the Yorkshire Yeti. This unthinkable creature had plagued the good folk of the village where I had sought refuge during my perilous journey to the Northern Forests. There, I was destined to confront sinister trolls (see ‘Trekking with Trolls’). But how could I turn a deaf ear to the tearful pleas of these desperate villagers?”

Utter drivel, but I couldn’t stop reading.

The danger was immense, so I decided to don my favourite lilac satin robes for the duel—the very ones I had worn only a few months ago when I triumphed over a ghoul (see "Gallivanting with Ghouls").
A treasured pin, gifted to me for luck by my dear mother, took pride of place on my silk cravat, tied in an impeccable Plastron knot. A couple of dabs of cologne—to counter the stench of the filthy creature—and there I was, tossing my hair lightly and calling the heavens as my witness, ready to meet my fate.

I do not know if I shall survive this encounter, but if I am to perish, I shall do so with dignity and flair.”

In the end, the beast, overwhelmed by such beauty and bravery, surrendered and reformed itself. Particularly after Lockhart taught it to read and write (copies of the creature’s letters and photos of the hero in various poses were, naturally, included). The rest of his writing followed the same pattern. The battles were vividly described, thrilling even, but it all reeked of “The New Adventures of Hercules”—as told by a man clearly in love with himself.

Thus, we mastered Defence Against the Dark Arts on our own, relying on Miranda Goshawk’s "The Standard Book of Spells, Year 2.” Lockhart’s lessons, after his spectacular failure with the Cornish pixies, were more like amateur theatre performances. Honestly, it was brilliant—like Quirrell’s fairy tales, but acted out and with flair.

Harry got particularly roped in, often cast as some monster or another. He wasn’t too pleased about it, but Lockhart was relentless. Still, no one earned Gryffindor as many points in this subject as Harry did—except, of course, Hermione, who had memorised all of Lockhart’s books cover to cover.

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed to have gone off the deep end this year, constantly watching us and picking fights. We managed to dodge any proper scuffles—for now. I reckoned he was shocked that Harry had even made it to school. I, on the other hand, was curious about who had sent Dobby—Draco or his smug, blond father. Either way, our first clash with him wasn’t far off.

It happened near the castle during a walk, when some new Gryffindor, a kid named Colin, started pestering our trio for magical photos. He was so enthusiastic about Harry that a group of onlookers began gathering.

“Oh, handing out autographs already, Potter?” came Malfoy’s slow, sneering voice from behind us. “Hoping for another headline?”

Malfoy stood there with his usual pair of goons, openly smirking.

“Oi, everyone, queue up!” he suddenly shouted, sniggering. “Potter’s giving out autographs to all his adoring fans!”

“I’m not giving out anything, Malfoy,” Harry hissed, his face red as he clenched his fists. “And leave me alone, Colin. I told you, I’m not signing anything.”

“Don’t let him get to you, Harry,” chirped Colin, still grinning. “He’s just jealous of your fame.”

“What was that, you little runt?” Malfoy snapped, stepping forward with a menacing squint. “Who’s jealous, eh?”

I had to step in front of the kid with a grin, but before things could escalate—

“What’s this I hear?” came Lockhart’s overly cheery voice. “Harry, you rascal, giving out autographs without me? Tut-tut, you should’ve waited! Mr Creevey, was it? A double portrait, perhaps? Shall I sign too?”

The awestruck crowd instantly closed in on Harry, who was trapped, struggling to escape Lockhart’s grip. The camera flashes went off, accompanied by gasps and squeals from the girls.

“And what about you, Weasley?” Malfoy drawled, turning his attention to me with a smirk. “Not first in line? Fancy a photo for yourself? Bet it’d be worth more than that shack you call a house.”

“Maybe so, Malfoy,” I replied, smiling sweetly as I turned to face him, “but it’s not exactly smart to make bets when you’re always losing. None of your warnings about Potter have come true, have they? You’re no Trelawney, that’s for sure. Still, if you fancy a wager, I’m game—maybe I’ll get lucky again. Easy money, eh?”

“Not bloody likely,” Malfoy spat, storming off towards the castle. And rightly so—what’s the point of starting a row when everyone’s distracted by your rival?

“Oi, Malfoy,” I called after him, “if I were you, I’d snap a photo with Potter—just in case. Who knows? Someday it might be worth more than your house too.”

He glared, clearly wanting to retort, but before he could, Snape emerged from the castle. Malfoy threw me a look of pure frustration before quickly turning, nodding solemnly at his Head of House, and retreating with his cronies. Snape’s mere presence swiftly dispersed the crowd of gawkers. The man himself shot me a sharp glance before heading towards the greenhouses, trailed by Lockhart, who was babbling incessantly. Here’s hoping Snape had the good sense to bury him under a carnivorous shrub.

Our second run-in with Malfoy happened at the Quidditch pitch. One Saturday morning, I woke up to find a note: “Come to the pitch with Hermione when you can. First training session—need support. Harry.”

Oliver Wood, of course, was a complete Quidditch maniac and had dragged his team out at the crack of dawn. I was glad not to be on the team, though I’d brought my broom just for a bit of fun. But while Wood was captain, there was no chance I’d get a spot as Keeper.

Hermione and I arrived just in time to see a confrontation brewing. Flint, the smug Slytherin captain, was showing off his new Seeker and their shiny new brooms.

“The latest model—Nimbus 2001,” Flint sneered. “Much better than the Nimbus 2000. And as for those Cleansweeps…” He shot a derisive glance at Fred and George’s battered old brooms, “they’re not even worth mentioning.”

“What d’you think of our new brooms, Weasley?” Malfoy jeered, smirking at me. “Jealous?”

“Why would I be?” I shrugged, feigning indifference as I admired the brooms. “Let’s see you catch the Snitch first, Malfoy. Otherwise, your lot’ll string you up for cocking it all up. No excuses, eh? The broom’s top-notch, after all. Who’d they boot off the team to put you on? Hasper? Saw his face earlier—not jealous of you there. Slip up, and you’re done for. Let’s see if you’re as brilliant as you think. But if it’s a bet you want, I’ll put my Galleons on Potter—best Seeker there is. Don’t even need fancy brooms to thrash you lot.”

“Get stuffed, Weasel,” snapped Malfoy, looking visibly rattled. “Jealous much? One Seeker doesn’t decide a match, and we’ve got better brooms. Maybe if your fans chipped in, you could afford some as well. Or better yet, auction off your Cleansweep Fives. Museums would be tripping over themselves to get them.” He smirked as his team chuckled, but our lot brightened noticeably, remembering we had Harry on our side. What followed was more of a back-and-forth of harmless jibes and disdainful looks than anything serious, and the tension eased—at least until Hermione decided to get involved.

“At least none of our players had to buy their way onto the team,” she said sharply, narrowing her eyes in disdain. “Everyone earned their spot through talent.”

“No one asked you, you filthy Mudblood!” Malfoy spat, his face twisting in fury.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

Flint and Wood threw their brooms down and went at each other like wild animals. I shoved Hermione back towards the Gryffindor girls and joined the fray with the twins and Harry, aiming for Malfoy. Of course, the git hid behind Bletchley, their hulking Keeper. It turned into an all-out brawl—a proper one at that—but somehow Malfoy managed to escape unscathed. Not that it spared him entirely; later on, one of our girls hit him with a belching and hiccuping-hex from behind.

We’d have been in for an even worse beating if Madam Hooch hadn’t shown up, followed by an absolutely livid Snape. Between the two of them, Gryffindor lost another thirty points on top of the twenty Madam Hooch docked us. Snape dragged his lot off—probably to chew them out or patch them up in the Hospital Wing. At least he didn’t assign us detentions, so I’ll take the small victories where I can.

Naturally, any hopes of a proper Quidditch practice were out the window after that. Everyone scattered. Wood and the twins headed off to the Hospital Wing—they’d taken the worst of it—while Hermione and I decided to visit Hagrid. On the way there, we nearly ran into Lockhart, but luckily we managed to skirt around to the back of the hut before he could corner us. Hagrid’s dog started barking, and the git changed his mind about coming inside. Good riddance.

“Imagine that—telling me how to clean a well of algae,” Hagrid grumbled as we sat at the table. He brushed a pile of rooster feathers onto the floor, clearing space for the kettle and clattering some poor mugs in the process. “As if I’ve been livin’ all these years and don’t know how to do that meself. Then he starts prattlin’ on about his so-called adventures. Load of codswallop, if you ask me. I’ll eat this kettle if he ain’t makin’ half of it up.”

It wasn’t like Hagrid to speak so disrespectfully about Hogwarts professors—not even Snape. Clearly, the poor bloke had had it up to here.

Harry and I exchanged a look but said nothing. Hermione, on the other hand, scowled.

“I think you’re being unfair, Hagrid,” she began in that prim-and-proper tone of hers, ready to defend Lockhart, but Hagrid cut her off as he caught sight of us.

“Blimey… What ‘appened to the pair of you? You’ve been fightin’, haven’t you?” he said, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, we had a scrap with Malfoy,” muttered Harry, poking at the cut on his lip.

“Don’t pick at it with dirty hands,” Hagrid barked, swatting Harry’s hand away so hard it nearly took his arm off. Then he dug through a box of potions and handed us a couple of vials.

“The whole team got dragged into it,” Harry explained, wincing as he applied the salve. “Malfoy called Hermione a name, and everyone lost it.”

“He called me a Mudblood,” Hermione interjected, her voice small as she stared at the floor. “I think it’s a really bad word.”

“Bad? Worse than bad,” Hagrid growled, slamming his massive hand on the table so hard the mugs jumped. “The little toerag!”

What followed was an impassioned lecture from Hagrid about blood purity and its utter nonsense, peppered with some rather flattering praise for Hermione. It seemed to work—by the time we left his hut, she was smiling again, her spirits much improved. I couldn’t help wondering, though. Hagrid, being a half-giant, must’ve heard far worse in his lifetime. For the first time, I found myself wondering where all these magical half-bloods came from if even Muggle-borns were treated like dirt by the so-called pure-bloods.

On the way back to the castle, Hermione finally broke her silence. She’d spent the walk fuming, but now that her bruises had mostly faded, she decided it was the perfect time to lecture us.

“You know, you were both completely in the wrong,” she said, her tone lofty and disapproving. “I appreciate you standing up for me, but resorting to violence? It’s barbaric.”

“What exactly are you saying was wrong?” I stopped walking and frowned at her.

“Civilised people can express themselves without resorting to fists,” she snapped. “You didn’t have to stoop to their level.”

“It’s how lads settle things, love,” I said with a smirk. “Not counting Lockhart, of course, but he’s barely a man anyway. If we’re being honest, though, the whole mess started because of you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!” she shot back, clearly offended.

“Not what I meant,” I replied. “I’m talking about what you said. Why’d you jump into a row between lads? We’d already traded insults, and that would’ve been the end of it if not for your Gryffindor sense of righteousness.”

“Are you blaming me because I’m a girl?” Hermione gasped, utterly scandalised.

“Yes,” I said bluntly, ignoring the disapproving look Harry shot me. He clearly agreed with me but wasn’t daft enough to say it out loud. I figured it was best to address it now, or we’d end up in another scrap because of Hermione before the week was out. “Look, never butt into a fight between blokes when they’re sorting it out.”

“That’s sexist!” she shrieked, face red with fury.

“It’s not,” I countered. “I don’t interfere in your girl stuff, do I? So don’t interfere in ours.”

“You think women aren’t equal to men?” she demanded, glaring daggers at me.

“We’ve already established you’re smarter than the lot of us put together, but when it comes to a punch-up, lads have the upper hand,” I insisted.

“You’re a chauvinist, Ron Weasley!” she yelled before storming off towards the castle as though a pack of wolves was on her heels.

“Feminist,” I called after her, sighing. Honestly, it seemed we couldn’t go a day without some kind of argument.

“Did you have to say it like that, Ron?” Harry chided me as we strolled along the path.

“To teach her to hold her tongue,” I replied plainly. “We’re not always going to be around. One day, she’ll run into a lot like Malfoy’s crew and say something she shouldn’t. Blokes like him don’t even notice Muggle-born girls unless they go out of their way to insult them or shove the truth in their faces. And Hermione, clever as she is, is a proper Gryffindor—can’t keep quiet to save her life. Better I say it now than let her get scared out of her wits later and leave us to deal with the fallout.”

Hermione sulked for a couple of days after that. Then she asked me to pass her a dictionary in the library, got caught up in a debate about something or other, and by the time she remembered she was supposed to be upset, it was too late. She had to pretend the row had never happened. Not that she could stay mad for long anyway—she’d flare up like a firework and burn out just as quick. Typical Gryffindor.

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Translator's Note: 

As you might have noticed, New Ron can quite a boor. While not irredeemable, he's very much set in his ways—typical of many men who grew up in 90s and 00s Russia.

In this story, Ron’s “boys will be boys” mentality is a part of his cynical and self-centered character. It feels authentic for someone like him to hold such views and behave the way he does. However, this characterization is likely more relatable to readers familiar with Russia or the CIS post-Soviet experience, and may not resonate as strongly with an English-speaking audience.

Below this note, I’ve added my personal interpretation of the last scene, softening Ron’s character to make him less of an asshole (and Hermione less irritating). If you prefer this approach, I’ll discuss it with the author and advocate for slight adjustments to his portrayal in the English version.

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Alt. Ver:

On the way back to the castle, Hermione finally broke her silence. She’d spent the walk fuming, but now that her bruises had mostly faded, and the anger petered out, her mood took a sharp turn and she started walking while looking morosely at her feet.

“I'm sorry…” she whispered, barely lifting her head.

“Wha… What for Hermione?” said shocked Harry.

“It’s my fault, you and the boys… If I didn’t say anything there wouldn’t have been a fight, right?” she said, this time looking directly at me.

“Of course.” I replied bluntly, ignoring the disapproving look Harry shot me. I figured it was best to address it now, or we’d end up in another scrap because of Hermione before the week was out. “Why’d you jump into a row between lads? We’d already traded insults, and that would’ve been the end of it. You just needed to stay out of it.”

“And let any ‘lad’ badmouth my friend?” she was getting angry again, though it was obvious this time it was my fault.

“We didn’t ask for help, did we? Look, do a favour, never butt into a fight between blokes when they’re sorting it out.”

Now the self righteous anger in her eyes became accompanied by hurt, so with harrumph, Harmione stomped away with rapid steps.

“Did you have to say it like that, Ron?” Harry chided me in hushed tones.

“Yes, I did,” I replied plainly. “We’re not always going to be around. One day, she’ll run into a lot like Malfoy’s crew and say something she shouldn’t. People like him don’t even notice Muggle-born girls unless they go out of their way to insult them or shove the truth in their faces. And Hermione, clever as she is, is a proper Gryffindor—can’t keep quiet to save her life. She understood some of it but she will still try to do it her way. Better I say it now than let her get scared out of her wits later and leave us to deal with the fallout.”

Hermione sulked for a couple of days after that. Then she asked me to pass her a dictionary in the library, got caught up in a debate about something or other, and by the time she remembered she was supposed to be upset, it was too late. She had to pretend the row had never happened. Not that she could stay mad for long anyway—she’d flare up like a firework and burn out just as quick. Typical Gryffindor.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 27

TN: Short one today

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Wake up, please! Come on, wake up! Don’t die!

Feline gods, human gods, Sage of Six Paths, Buddha, Allah, Jesus Christ, anybody! Please, don’t let her die!

Those bastards even tied her up, as if someone could escape after having a Tailed Beast ripped out of them. They tossed her aside like a broken doll. But you’re alive, aren’t you? You have to be alive. Your hands are so cold, I can’t even tell what color your skin is in this darkness. But I can feel it—or at least, I hope—there’s still life in you somewhere.

Please… Kushina-san, wake up!

I knew something was wrong—I felt it! I hadn’t left the palace for a whole month, too worried about my master. The tension was suffocating, like a storm waiting to explode. Something was brewing. The daimyo guards had grown strange—philosophizing about how, technically, the country was under dual rule. They talked about how shinobi were supposed to protect and guide ordinary people, how the clans used to have their own lands and villages to defend. No one seemed to know who dissolved those old territories, but the younger guards were debating—would it be better if there was just one king?

Then Tou stopped petting me. One day, when I rubbed against him, he even pushed me away with his foot.

That bastard, Asuma—he killed Tou. I’m sure of it! Tou was only 17! Seito-san, Kitane—they were gone within the first minutes. I’m convinced they were ambushed; no way could shinobi that strong die in a fair fight. The daimyo guards turned on each other! I still can’t believe it—this tight-knit warrior family seriously took up arms against their own brothers. And they fought to the death. I watched from a distance as they tore apart the palace’s left wing. Daishiki, you stupid Buck—why’d you get involved? Who asked you to? What were you thinking?!

I saw Chiriku kill my Daishiki. I watched it happen. He swung that scythe and took the head clean off the guy I loved teasing.

Chiriku told Minoruhi that some of the guards had rebelled, planning to overthrow the daimyo so the Hokage—"The Red-Hot Habanero," Uzumaki Kushina—could seize power. He said the conspirators were Kazuma and Kobo-san, and that Daishiki had been trying to break into the palace to assassinate Minoruhi. Supposedly, Asuma and Chiriku had uncovered the plot and were leading the daimyo’s defense.

I broke free of Minoruhi’s grip and ran. The palace reeked of smoke and blood. Screams echoed through the halls as servants darted around, trying to barricade themselves. But you can’t hide from shinobi when they decide they want to find you.

“Tora-chan! Where are you going? It’s dangerous!” Sano called after me. Then there was this awful, wet, squelching sound behind me. A sound that chills your soul. And then—Tayami-san’s inhuman, agonized scream.

When I turned around…

Sano collapsed to his knees, blood dripping from his mouth. My poor, sweet caretaker. Just a kid. A child. I watched his eyes lose focus, his life slipping away, and something inside me snapped.

“Your son was part of the conspiracy! He was a student of one of the ringleaders!” Chiriku snarled, slapping Tayami-san as she clung to him, sobbing. Then he stormed off.

And there I was, left to grieve with the palace cook, as she wailed over her boy. I wanted to howl right alongside her—from the helplessness, the sheer injustice of it all. Could this have been prevented? Could I have done something?

The next morning, they read out the names of “traitors” and “defenders of the daimyo.” Out of twelve guards, only four survived. But there were seven bodies. Kazuma’s body had fallen into the palace moat, carried off by the river. I can only hope he survived, lying in wait to ambush the real traitors like some kind of ninja John Rambo. But Asuma was confident Kazuma was dead…

And then things got downright surreal.

By afternoon, none other than the Third Hokage himself, Sarutobi Hiruzen, arrived at the palace. Stern, composed, dressed in armor. He told Minoruhi that Kushina had betrayed his trust—that she was an outsider all along. He claimed she’d tried to seize power as revenge against the Land of Fire for failing to help the Land of Whirlpools when it was destroyed by the combined forces of the Hidden Mist and Hidden Cloud.

Minoruhi believed him.

I sat perched on an empty ceiling beam in Minoruhi’s office, watching. I understood why he ‘believed’ it. Without defenders, the daimyo was vulnerable. That smiling old geezer could probably kill him with one well-aimed chakra pulse, and they’d just call it a "sudden heart attack" at 39. Bastards. They’d cornered him completely.

Hiruzen all but outright said he should be reinstated as Hokage. And then he said something strange—something terrifying—that I didn’t fully understand. He claimed Kushina had been a terrible Hokage, a traitor, unworthy of being remembered by future generations of the Leaf. That he’d “take care of everything.”

My fur bristled, and I realized that while I’d been focused on the chaos in the capital, things in Konoha might be even worse.

Hiruzen stayed for dinner, but I didn’t. I bolted straight to the ninja village.

The Uzumaki household was gone. In its place stood a park. But the ground reeked of smoke, ash, and destruction. The trees looked 15, maybe 20 years old. It felt like I’d stepped into another reality—one where Kushina and Naruto didn’t have a home. My scent markers had almost completely faded over the past month and a half, but I knew this was my territory.

And then I noticed—Kushina’s face on the Hokage monument was missing. Sure, it had always been kind of scary-looking, but for the entire stone carving to just… vanish?

And the weirdest part? No one was panicking. Life in Konoha carried on as if their Hokage’s face—and their Hokage herself—hadn’t disappeared.

I couldn’t find any trace of Kushina or Naruto. I checked the Academy. The kids were busy making lanterns and cutouts for some kind of festival. Apparently, they were celebrating the autumn equinox that night. Sasuke and the others seemed happy to see me, chatting away. From what they said, they thought Naruto was at home, sick again.

I had no idea what to do. No clue where to look for the Uzumakis. Desperate, I went to an old acquaintance—Takaro.

Breaking into the post tower was even easier than the first time I’d visited Konoha. Lucky for me, Takaro was perched on his usual spot. The hawk looked nervous at first, like those silly pigeons, but he recognized me soon enough.

“Tora-chan? Long time no see,” he squawked. “How’ve you been?”

“No time for small talk,” I cut him off. “Tell me everything weird that’s happened in the village. What happened to Kushina-san’s face on the mountain? Where is she?”

“Oh, I saw it!” He flapped his wings excitedly. “Some guy with weird chakra destroyed the mountain face. But no one seemed to notice! What, are they blind? And the Hokage’s house—poof, gone! A forest sprouted up instead. And still, silence. Everyone’s busy preparing for the festival.”

My brain was fried. Between the deaths, the chaos, and everything I’d seen, I could barely think straight. Even with Takaro’s obvious hints, my worry for the Uzumakis clouded my judgment. Who was behind all this? Who was helping Hiruzen and his son?

When night fell, and people filled the streets with their lanterns, a red moon rose over the village.

It was haunting—watching everyone, mouths agape, staring at the sky. I felt the sinister chakra in the air. I’d felt it before—when Kushina was angry. I followed it, running toward the source, just outside the village.

The "signal" reflecting off the moon was coming from the Forest of Death. Creepy place. One time, I dared to stroll along its edge, and some creature the size of a clenched fist—something that looked like a flea—almost ate me alive.

For a few minutes, I hesitated, but then a faint breeze carried a familiar scent. Naruto’s scent. Something about two hundred meters from the gate smelled like him. I decided to risk it and crept closer, dreading what I might find. Thankfully, it wasn’t him—just his school backpack.

Then I noticed something eerie: all the terrifying creatures in the forest were also reacting to the red moon. None of them paid any attention to me or even to each other. That distraction gave me the chance to dash through the forest, making my way to the tower. This had to be the place where the kids were supposed to finish their Chūnin Exam, like in the anime. I had no idea how they pulled that off.

From the roof of the tower, a crimson beam of chakra shot straight into the sky. And there was so much of it. I knew bijū were on another level, but the sheer amount was overwhelming. It made me want to crawl on my belly, trembling with envy and primal fear. The kind of fear that made your skin feel too tight, that sent your instincts into overdrive. I don’t even remember how I managed to move forward through that suffocating dread. For some reason, I thought of my parents. And of my late grandfather’s stories about the war. He said the fear was unbearable, but it was even worse to shut your eyes and give in.

Somehow, I ended up in the building's basement. The air reeked of rats—or something that smelled like rats—but it was eerily quiet. Every living thing seemed to have fled.

Then I saw it. Massive green hands and a grotesque head. It finally clicked. That thing was the Gedo Statue, the monstrosity that ripped bijū out of their jinchūriki. This was the Akatsuki. The shadowy shinobi organization in those cloaks with red clouds. This was how they killed Gaara! I’d seen that episode—the one where the Kazekage gets revived and they all return to the Sand Village. Sergey had told me something about an Uchiha being involved, a friend of his favorite character, Kakashi. Apparently, Kakashi’s friend died at some point, but that’s as much as I remember. It never seemed important—what did it matter in a world so different from that anime? Yet now, in this reality, it looked like the Akatsuki was real, and things were just as dangerous as they were on screen. If not worse.

And then I caught her scent.

Kushina-san. She was lying on the cold floor, bound. Her vivid red hair was tangled and spread out around her, a bruise marring her jawline, blood trickling from her mouth... just like Sano. There was no one else around—at least no one I could sense. The overwhelming demonic chakra from the statue made it impossible to detect anyone else. Why was it sending all that chakra skyward? What was the point?

Come on! Wake up! Now’s not the time to sleep!

The oppressive hum from that horrifying statue drowned out everything else. I couldn’t hear if her heart was beating. But it had to be. It was, wasn’t it? She had to be alive.

Wake up, Kushina-san!

[Prof. Umbridge] Chpater 51

"What an eventful night," Snape remarked with a hint of irony as he observed the scene. "Look at them—they're armed to the teeth and clearly very determined."

"Funny joke," Conner replied dryly. "Not that one could ever get bored in this school… What's that commotion at the gates?"

"The local watchman is asking for sanctuary," one of his subordinates replied. "Says they'll beat him to death otherwise."

"That's Firenze," Marina Nikolaevna explained, noticing the blond mane. "He really is the night watchman here… and, apparently, will now be substituting for Hagrid. Let him through, Mr. Conner. He's harmless. And he's an exile—his kin really might kill him."

"Bring him here!" Conner shouted, and within moments, the centaur approached.

Firenze's appearance had changed somewhat in recent months: his hair was now shorter and tied into a ponytail at the crown of his head (after nearly losing his mane to one of the few surviving Blast-Ended Skrewts). He had also donned a shirt and fur-lined vest over his human torso, much like Hagrid’s. It was clear that, while the centaurs in the herd kept warm by huddling together and sitting around fires, Firenze found it much colder on his own. Though he barely fit inside Hagrid's hut, especially when Hagrid was present, he had stubbornly refused to build his own proper shelter, settling instead for a flimsy lean-to that barely kept out rain and snow. It seemed, however, that he might soon give in.

"So, your name is Firenze?" Conner asked, and the centaur nodded.

"Good. Then tell me, Firenze, what do you think your kin want?"

"I imagine they are extremely angry," Firenze replied. His voice, once deep and melodious, was now hoarse—likely a result of his preference to deal with colds on his own, without seeking help from Madam Pomfrey.

"That much is obvious. But about what, exactly? My people haven’t wronged them."

Firenze hesitated, then said, "It all started with me. I agreed to Dumbledore’s offer to teach Divination at the school, and…"

O’Leary, who had stepped closer, let out an impressed whistle, evidently unaware of this story.

"But nothing came of it," Firenze glanced briefly at Marina Nikolaevna, "and I could no longer return to the herd. When they learned of my agreement to help a human, my kin accused me of betraying and dishonoring them, of revealing our knowledge and secrets. Hagrid barely managed to save me from their fury, and they’ve resented him for it ever since. Previously, when he needed to speak with someone from our herd, they would respond. But after my exile, they stopped."

"Can you keep it brief?" Conner asked. "They're getting closer."

"Oh, the barriers will stop their arrows," O’Leary said.

"Sure, but watch out for any overhead shots—one of those arrows could knock you out cold," Conner retorted. "So, Firenze, you were exiled, they’re mad at Hagrid, and then what?"

"Hagrid brought a giant into the forest," Firenze said. "That kind of neighbor didn’t sit well with anyone."

"That, I can certainly understand," Conner nodded. "But we’ve rid them of little Grawp!"

"Centaurs don’t like humans entering the Forbidden Forest," Firenze explained. "Hagrid was tolerated, but it seems our leader’s patience has run out."

"Impatient, isn’t he…" Conner smirked. "Madam? Shall I handle the negotiations, or would you prefer to take the lead?"

"I think I’ll observe," she said. The real Dolores, as far as she recalled, had little love for magical creatures, and the centaurs almost certainly knew that. "As the school’s headmistress, I can’t stand aside. But you likely know better how to deal with aggressive, armed opponents."

"Excellent. Then let’s proceed." He offered her his arm gallantly and ordered his team, "Light up the castle grounds. Make it bright enough to find needles in the grass!"

The area was suddenly illuminated as if by powerful floodlights, the kind used at stadiums and concert venues. White light flooded the surroundings, rendering the centaurs’ torches useless and invisible. Startled by the sudden brightness, the centaurs hesitated and stepped back—the illumination was overwhelming after the dimness of the night.

It became clear that their numbers were far smaller than the dark had made it seem. Even if they had brought only men—logical enough, as they were all warriors in their prime (and likely left others behind to guard the elderly, women, and foals)—it was evident that the centaur population in the Forbidden Forest wasn’t large. This couldn’t be a mere vanguard; otherwise, they’d struggle to sustain themselves on hunting and foraging alone. Centaurs certainly weren’t inclined toward farming—perhaps animal husbandry, at best…

"What do you want?" Conner asked as he stepped forward. He amplified his voice with a spell so that it could probably be heard even at the top of the towers. "State your names!"

A tall bay centaur with a haughty, high-cheekboned face and long black hair stepped forward. He carried a large bow in his hands, with a quiver of arrows slung over his back.

"My name is Magorian. And who are you, human?"

"David Conner, Deputy Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," he introduced himself politely.

The centaur snorted, rearing slightly, and the others stomped and muttered, particularly a black-maned centaur with a wild beard.

"What do you want?" Conner repeated.

"Centaurs will not tolerate humans invading our forest!" Magorian declared. "We tolerated Hagrid, even when Firenze betrayed and disgraced us, and Hagrid stopped us from punishing the traitor. But now you’ve come again! We have our own lives and laws, different from yours, and you have no right—"

"Stop, stop, stop," Conner raised a hand. "Less drama. First of all, have my people done anything to offend your kind? No?"

The centaur shook his mane.

"Excellent. Did you enjoy the company of the Acromantulas? No? Or the giant? Didn’t like him either? Then why are you upset? We rid you of these unpleasant neighbors, and yet you’re complaining!"

"Humans invaded our forest, and we will not stand for it!" the black-maned centaur shouted, loosing an arrow that struck Conner’s shield squarely between the eyes.

Conner didn’t flinch. After a pause, he said, "Clause Fifteen, Article B clearly states that any attack by a magical creature classified as having intelligence comparable to humans and therefore capable of taking responsibility for its actions—"

"Comparable to humans?" Magorian repeated, and the others erupted into furious neighs, stamping their hooves and brandishing their bows. "That is a grave insult, human! Our intelligence far surpasses yours!"

"Yes, I’ve noticed," Conner replied completely seriously. "It takes truly great intelligence to lead an unprotected handful of kin to confront well-armed wizards. Even without our wands—"

"Then you wouldn’t dare approach our forest!"

"Yours?" Conner asked with genuine surprise. "Magorian, let me remind you: you live here only because the Ministry of Magic designated this land for you. Or would you prefer we reconsider and deport you to your historical homeland? Let the Greeks deal with you…"

"Now that would cause an international scandal," O’Leary interjected. "As I recall, the Greeks were glad to be rid of them. The local centaur tribes won’t be thrilled either, they live peacefully on Mount Pelion, raising goats, making cheese, and farming grapes and olives. They even trade."

“Well, the wine they got isn’t bad,” Murphy chimed in.

“Yeah, if you don’t drink it by the barrel and have some snacks with it, it’s just right. Though I preferred the anise vodka,” Conner nodded, turning back to Magorian.

“We will not deal with humans like those traitors who have forgotten their nature!” roared the gray centaur. “We are not some talking horses; we are an ancient people, and we will not tolerate invasions and insults from wizards! We do not acknowledge your laws, nor do we intend to yield to your dominance. We live in isolation and take pride in it!”

“Then keep living in isolation. What brought you here?” O’Leary asked in surprise.

“Your people entered the forest uninvited, breaking the agreement!” Magorian retorted. “We demand to see Dumbledore!”

“That’s impossible,” Conner replied. “Professor Dumbledore is gravely injured and cannot receive visitors—especially such unruly ones. However, if you mean the head of Hogwarts, there’s no problem... Madam?”

“Dolores Umbridge,” Marina Nikolaevna introduced herself, stepping forward so she could be seen behind the towering Aurors. “Deputy Minister of Magic, Headmistress, and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts. What do you want?”

“A Ministry official as Headmistress?!” the black centaur bellowed, stamping his hooves. “I told you, Magorian! It started with that traitor Firenze, and now, after stealing our secrets, humans will ravage the forest and drive us into pens!”

“Funny, why would they bother, when you’re as useful as a milkless goat?” Snape muttered, observing the discussion from the back row with interest. “Prophecies, maybe, but even those are vague... Ahem, pardon me, Madam Ingebjorg.”

“For what?” she asked, puzzled.

“I had the pleasure of conversing with Firenze, and... you’re right, Severus. Their prophecies, based on the movements of celestial bodies, are so broad they’re almost impossible to connect to any specific event or individual. Mars being bright means war? Even humans have known that for ages. Perhaps,” she added, “the centaurs remaining on Pelion still retain Chiron’s wisdom, but the ones here have grown rather wild.”

“Well, it’s hard to focus on detailed prophecies when snow’s falling, and you’re starving,” he muttered. “It’s not like basking under the Greek sun, among streams and grapevines...”

“No wonder southern peoples are more inclined toward philosophy than northerners,” Ingebjorg replied. “It’s much easier to ponder the transience of existence in warmth and on a full stomach, not after braving the icy ocean for fish or hunting boars. If you return alive with some food, that’s already a success—no time for deep thoughts!”

The centaurs, meanwhile, ceased shouting curses and brandishing their bows, calming down slightly. Marina Nikolaevna repeated her question:
“What do you want? No one has infringed on your hunting grounds, so why have you come?”

“We demand that humans never cross the Forbidden Forest’s borders! The edge of the forest is enough for them!” Magorian declared.

“But how are we to teach Care of Magical Creatures?” Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had joined Ingebjorg, asked curiously. “Will you bring us unicorns and hippogriffs for demonstration?”

“Let your foals learn from pictures,” the black centaur snorted, “The creatures of the Forbidden Forest don’t exist for humans to prod and dissect!”

“I repeat, we demand a total ban on humans entering the forest!” Magorian stamped his hoof.

“Well, there goes my mushroom picking,” Snape whispered softly, seemingly addressing Ingebjorg, who responded:
“Yours here aren’t potent enough, Severus, like russulas. They barely have any kick... If only you tried that tincture Raven’s kin makes, then you’d notice the difference.”

“Oh no, thank you, I’ll pass...”

“We’re waiting,” Magorian interrupted, drawing his bow.

“Say something to him, Madam,” Conner whispered to Marina Nikolaevna. “We can’t stand here all night—my lads are tired, to be honest...”

She nodded and stepped forward, stopping in front of the towering centaur. She had to look up to see him properly, but alas, there was no Flitwick with his little stool nearby—and it wouldn’t have helped anyway.

“So,” Marina Nikolaevna said, waiting for the centaurs to quiet down, “you, Magorian, demand that humans no longer cross the Forbidden Forest’s borders and not interfere with your lives... though they haven’t interfered so far. Did I understand you correctly?”

“Yes,” he nodded, frowning heavily.

“Good... And what will you do if an overly curious student ignores the ban and enters the forest anyway? Worse yet, gets lost in it?”

“We don’t harm foals; that’s the law!” the centaur proudly declared.

“There’s someone to send for mushrooms, then,” Snape muttered again.

“The rule-breakers?” Grubbly-Plank guessed correctly.

“So, you won’t harm them?” Marina Nikolaevna clarified, ignoring her colleagues.

“Of course not!”

“And will you help them out of the forest?”

“We do not help humans!” the black centaur roared again.

“So a child could wander near your settlement for days, and you wouldn’t guide them to the edge of the forest? There are no acromantulas left in the forest,” Marina Nikolaevna glanced at Conner, “but what if a few are hiding deep within? And even without them, the forest is full of dangers...”

“We might guide a child,” Magorian admitted reluctantly, “if we find them before the predators do.”

“And if an adult ventures in to search for them, I assume you’d riddle the brave soul with arrows?”

“The law must be the same for everyone!” he responded. “I repeat, we demand that humans never...”

“And I’ll tell you, Magorian, that you have no right to demand anything,” Marina Nikolaevna replied calmly. “For a very simple reason: it was your ancestors, driven by pride, who demanded in 1811 to be classified as ‘beasts’ rather than ‘beings.’ Have you forgotten?”

Magorian even stepped back in surprise.

“As far as I know, not a single representative of your kind has ever approached the Centaur Liaison Office, though it still exists to this day,” she added. Dolores was well-versed in anything regarding magical creatures!

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that,” Conner smirked. “Yes, the Headmistress is absolutely correct. The Centaur Liaison Office still operates under the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’ Beast Division... and I think it even has one employee. Address your concerns there.”

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled,” O’Leary said seriously.

“Yes, but within the Beast Division, centaur demands will likely be heard with the same seriousness as garden gnomes’...”

“Those can’t even speak properly, but by classification, they’re magical beasts too, so no discrimination—none at all!”

“You get what you fought for,” Murphy remarked, clearly enjoying Magorian’s expression.

“Pride is to blame,” Ingebjorg added, stepping closer. “It has destroyed countless lives! Take Dumbledore, or your Voldemort... Pride blinds.”

“We could’ve lived in peace, like that herd from Pelion,” added Grubbly-Plank, puffing on her pipe. “But no, they demand independence for a single forest!”

“You could grant them independence, sure, but what would they do with it?” Connor asked. “They’d die out. If not now, then in a few generations due to inbreeding.”

“Exactly, you can already see signs of degeneration on that bearded one,” nodded the seer. “Well… many great peoples have met such a fate. Earthly glory fades, and you can’t argue with the destroyer of assemblies...”

“Enough talk!” A black centaur reared up, raising his bow. The arrow trembled on the string, and although Magorian reached out to stop his comrade, the centaur darted forward, clearly forgetting that the despised humans were well-protected by magical shields. “The forest is our home, and anyone who steps onto our land will be punished!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Marina Nikolaevna saw O’Leary lift his hand and make an indecipherable gesture.

There was a soft click, and the centaur sank to his hind legs, staring in shock at the arrow—its tip had somehow been sliced off. Another click, and the bowstring snapped with a twang, nearly whipping the centaur in the face as the bow suddenly unraveled.

“Gentlemen, your memory is worse than a goldfish’s,” Connor said seriously. “Did you forget what we did to the Acromantula nest? Have you forgotten that they, too, are classified as ‘beasts’? Intelligent, some even capable of coherent speech, but—oh, the misfortune—far too aggressive… No parallels come to mind?”

“You may remain in the forest; it’s your home,” Marina Nikolaevna interjected at the right moment, “but you have no right to dictate who else can enter or leave it. People will try not to disturb you or wander into your hunting grounds, but if a centaur attacks an innocent person—be it wizard or a lost Muggle...”

“What, they’ll burn us like the spiders?” a gray centaur rasped.

“Why bother?” O’Leary replied calmly, lifting his head. “Your friend’s bow wasn’t broken by magic. That came from back there. Muggle weaponry—you’re lit up like a stage play in this light. Wiping out the whole squad would take a minute.”

“Humans are taking too many liberties!” the black centaur growled, taking a few steps forward.

Ratatat-tat! The centaur retreated as bullets tore up the ground just inches from his hooves. Ratatat-tat!

This time, the burst took down a scraggly tree growing far from the edge of the forest; splinters flew everywhere.

“I assume we’ll settle this peacefully?” Marina Nikolaevna asked Magorian. “You return to the forest and live as you always have. Humans, as I said, won’t intrude on your lands unnecessarily, but you should stop treating the entire Forbidden Forest as your private property.”

Magorian flared his nostrils silently, as did the other centaurs.

“Unless,” she added on a whim, “you agree to become guardians of the forest.”

“What are you saying, woman?” he asked grimly.

“Who knows the Forbidden Forest better than you? Who could track and stop an intruder intending harm to its inhabitants? I heard about someone who was killing unicorns a few years ago,” Marina Nikolaevna recalled. “Why didn’t you intervene? Couldn’t you stop him?”

“We swore not to interfere with what must happen by the will of the heavens. The planets’ movements showed us what would come...”

Another, younger, chestnut-colored centaur spoke up:
“Firenze decided it was better to intervene, and he was right.”

“Better?!” The black centaur stomped his hoof in outrage. “None of this concerns us! Centaurs should not meddle in what is foretold by the stars! And it’s not our place to run around the forest chasing lost humans!”

“A classic generational conflict,” Ingebjorg said seriously, and Grubbly-Plank nodded in agreement.

“This concerns you directly,” Marina Nikolaevna said dryly. “When You-Know-Who comes, you’ll be grateful for the Acromantulas. Now then, gentlemen, it’s getting late. Decide quickly what you intend to do. Either you claim the forest as your own, protect it, guard it, and refrain from attacking people who mean no harm to you or its inhabitants, or...”

She paused meaningfully.

“Yes, those,” Connor gestured at the picturesque group of centaurs, “whose moods change unpredictably, are worse than Acromantulas. Spiders just try to eat everything they see—it’s simpler with them: see one, kill it!”

“If we agree...” Magorian managed to say, “will you promise not to meddle in our tribe’s affairs?”

“Not like we’re eager,” someone from the Aurors muttered.

“Yes. Just as we haven’t interfered in your internal matters before, we won’t in the future—unless you ask us to,” Marina Nikolaevna stated.

“If we promise to guard the forest and its inhabitants from malicious outsiders, will you promise not to enter its shade without significant need?”

“As the forest was called Forbidden, so it shall remain,” she nodded. “But lessons will still take place. And the gamekeeper—I hope Hagrid returns to us, but if not, we’ll find another—must have free access to the forest. Even if it’s Firenze.”

The black centaur snorted furiously, but Magorian raised a hand to silence him.

“So be it,” he said with poorly concealed anger. “If we’re all to sully ourselves with a pact with humans, why is that traitor any worse? But none of us will shake his hand or speak a word to him unless absolutely necessary or unless someone’s life depends on it!”

“I think he’ll survive that, so long as you don’t try to kill him,” Marina Nikolaevna sighed. “And one more thing: as I’ve mentioned, our students are far too curious about things that don’t concern them and might try to venture into the depths of the forest. So having sentries wouldn’t hurt; it’s easier to catch those brats at the edge than deeper inside!”

“Agreed,” Magorian nodded. “What else?”

“Report anything suspicious you notice. For example, if the unicorns suddenly leave their usual spot… you know the local creatures’ habits better than anyone. And since you won’t talk to Firenze, hang a bright cloth at the edge of the forest. One of the professors will come and listen to your message.”

“Are you literate, by the way?” O’Leary suddenly asked. “Plenty of owls in the forest, and you could leave a note in a hollow tree...”

“I think the method of communication is less important,” Connor said. “I hope we’ve reached a fundamental agreement? Magorian?”

“Yes,” the centaur replied darkly, shifting his weight, and extended a broad, hoof-like hand to Marina Nikolaevna. Then he looked to the sky and added, “So this is what Sagittarius foretold...”

After a short pause, he reared up into a majestic pose and declared:
“We leave. From this night on, the Forbidden Forest is under our protection, and do not enter it without need!”

“As agreed,” Marina Nikolaevna said with a shrug, watching the retreating centaurs.

Judging by the loud cursing, it was too dark in the forest after the bright light—they’d lost their torches—and someone tripped.

"I hope that's all for today," sighed Conner. "Alright, guys, let's head back to the castle. We'll rest here tonight—just in case. Madam?"

"Of course, there's plenty of space here," she replied and then asked, "Mr. O'Leari, was that you who broke the black one's bow? I saw you raise your hand..."

"No, why would I," he replied with a dazzling smile, "that was another marksman. I don’t know who exactly, but my guess is Basilisk. He volunteered for watch duty today for some reason."

Marina Nikolaevna tilted her head back, but it was impossible to spot anyone atop the towers or near the narrow windows. She simply raised her hand and waved, knowing that if Orford was up there, he'd see her

All that was left was to herd the students off to bed and grab some rest herself—these past 24 hours had been exceptionally eventful!

"You were exceptionally convincing," Snape complimented as he caught up with her along the way.

"And your little jokes almost ruined my entire momentum."

"You could hear that?" he asked, feigning surprise.

"Every word," Marina Nikolaevna replied, stifling a yawn.

"Go get some sleep, Dolores," said Ingebjorg. "I'll keep an eye on things, seeing as how I’m now your deputy... hmm... for disciplinary matters."

The seer hefted her staff, and Marina Nikolaevna couldn't help but smile. With such a deputy, discipline was the least of her worries!

"And you," she said quietly to Snape as they ascended the stairs, "if you pinch me on the backside in public again..."

"You'll break my nose?" he asked, quick to respond. "I heard O'Leary retelling that legendary scene at the Ministry... But don’t worry, Dolores, no one saw it—everyone was watching the centaurs. Still, you immediately perked up..."

"Turned feral, you mean?"

"Call it what you will. The point is, you remembered the ancient law and found the right words. I'd say it turned out rather well."

"You know, Severus," Marina Nikolaevna said thoughtfully, turning to look him straight in the eye, "I’m curious about only one thing..."

"And what might that be?" he asked with genuine interest.

"With that sense of humor of yours... how are you still alive?"

Announcement!

I am sorry guys, my laptop shat itself so I sent it for repairs this morning. Unfortunately, it will take at least two days, so there won’t be any chapters today or tomorrow (except for public chapters on Webnovel, it's on scheduled release).

If I’m lucky, I’ll get it back by tomorrow evening and post the chapters then. If not we'll see how it goes.

Apologies and have a good day.

Sneak Peek: Clown (Ch. 1 - Ch. 2)

Alright, before I post the first chapter, a quick note—this is kinda important. I’ve spent days looking through fanfics and original stories that I could translate. The problem is, while I know what people on Webnovel, QQ, and SB might enjoy, I have no idea what you guys would like.

Do you prefer more comedy or crack fics? Or maybe something more serious and expansive? Old-fashioned power fantasy? If you have any preferences, let me know. I’ve got access to the whole catalogue of Russian fanfics, so feel free to share your requests, and I’ll try to find something that fits your tastes.

"Clown" for example was a request from readers on Webnovel who got screwed over by a guy who MTL'd the story without permission and then disappeared when the author filed a complaint.

Without knowing what you want, I feel like I don't get to abuse the fact that there are tens of thousands of fanfics out there for me to translate. For example, right now, I am shying away from short fics, fics with super long chapters or jump chain fics. If any of that might interest you, hit me up. You guys should have the first choice when it comes to new stories.

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Clown (Joker Insert, System)

fandom: DC (Harley Quinn show inspired)

Tags: System (Gamer like), NSFW, Harem (Harley, Ivy, Batgirl)

Author: logri

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Chapter 1

Beep… beep… beep… beep…
“Harley, if you don’t shut off that damn alarm, I swear I’ll get up and shove it up your ass!”

Wait. Who the hell is Harley? Why do I feel like absolute crap? Where am I? And most importantly… who am I?

Pain… My whole body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder. But the pain isn’t blinding; it feels… tolerable? habitual? Like I’m used to it somehow.

What’s that? My eyes caught sight of a pop-up window:

[Synchronization with the First Origin complete.]

A system? Memories crashed over me like a wave—death, traveling through Darkness, hallucinations, ha-ha-ha… he-he-he… HAHAhaha… HAHAHAHA…

[Emotional peak smoothed.]

…ha…

Right. Noted. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about that place. Remembering the craziness of the void between the worlds isn’t something worth my sanity. Anyway, I’ve got a system now, and I ended up in this body. That’s kind of cool—I’m a real-life OP MC now. But the nagging pain on the edge of my consciousness is still maddening.

“System, is there anything you can do about it?”

[Enhance the First Origin to 75 points, or the Sixth Origin to 150 points.]

Oh, neat, I’ve got a help menu. 

“System, what are the Origins?”

[Origins, or Shells, are inherent to all surrounding entities.

• First Origin: The physical body. The only Origin whose existence no one questions. It can be seen, touched, measured, and weighed. Governs health, endurance, strength, immunity, and regeneration. Depends on the Second Origin.

• Second Origin: Life energy, also known as prana or vital energy. Permeates every cell of the physical body, enabling living beings to breathe, move, eat, and reproduce. Depends on the First Origin.

• Third Origin: The astral body. Ensures life after death. It produces bahione (energy of gods and miracles, also known as faith energy) and allows for journeys through subtle realms. Appearance mirrors the physical body. Depends on all Origins.

• Fourth Origin: The central core to which all other Shells are “anchored.” The most crucial part. The only piece of the soul that is ABSOLUTELY indestructible. After reincarnation, only the core remains, with encoded information. Depends on all Origins.

• Fifth Origin: The emotional spirit. Represents personality, character, emotions, and feelings.

• Sixth Origin: The mental spirit. Represents intelligence and memory. Concentrated in brain cells but can exist without a physical body by anchoring to the Fourth Origin.

• Seventh Origin: The magical spirit. Absorbs and stores mana, enabling spellcasting. For ordinary people, the Seventh Origin is “dormant.” Depends on the Sixth Origin.

• Eighth Origin: The immortal spirit. Grants its owner an unlimited lifespan.

• Ninth Origin: The divine spirit. Exclusive to gods.]

Huh, that’s some fascinating info. So, to get rid of the pain, I need to level up my body to improve regeneration, which should heal me, or make my mind strong enough to ignore the sensations entirely.

Magic and immortality seem pretty intriguing, too. As for the Ninth Origin? No need to worry about that—I highly doubt this body belongs to a god.

Damn, it’s annoying as hell that everything hurts, but there’s nothing you can do about it. I need to distract myself. What else do transmigrators usually ask their systems?

“Status?” I asked mentally, crossing my fingers. 

[First Origin (Body): 45
Second Origin (Prana): 15
Third Origin (Astral): 7
Fourth Origin (Core): 10
Fifth Origin (Spirit): 12
Sixth Origin (Mind): 40
Seventh Origin (Magic): 0
Eighth Origin (Immortality): Locked
Ninth Origin (Divine): Locked
Free Points: 0]

Not bad. I just need thirty more points in the First Origin, and the pain will stop being a distraction.

“What are the stats for an average person?” I sent the system another mental query.

[An approximate average person in this world:]

• First Origin (Body): 25

• Second Origin (Prana): 5

• Third Origin (Astral): 5

• Fourth Origin (Core): 5

• Fifth Origin (Spirit): 25

• Sixth Origin (Mind): 25

• Seventh Origin (Magic): 0

Interesting little note about “this world.” I wonder what the stats in my previous world were?

[First Origin (Body): 20 (estimated average)]

Uh… why is it so low?

[The information is based on the host’s memory. For more detailed data, a noosphere scan is required.]

“Noosphere?”

[Noosphere (mental plane): A global informational field containing everything.]

Damn, I could’ve used something like that for exams. A mystical internet. So, I can literally find out anything?

[Third Origin (Astral) must exceed 500 points.]

Excuse me? You just gave me the info on an average person! How the hell am I supposed to hit a hundred times more than a normal human?!

[Quests yield free points.]

Great, quests… Let’s leave that for later. For now, explain why you have info on average people but require insane amounts of points for scanning?

[There is an emergency reserve of bahione used for the initial World scan and binding the soul to the body.]

Got it… I adjusted the slipping blanket, wincing as the pain flared up again. While talking to the system, the sensations hadn’t been as sharp, so I tried to distract myself once more.

Okay, what do we have here? I’m almost twice as strong and intelligent as an average person. But about that intelligence… isn’t that supposed to be my natural ability?

“System, why do I have so many points in the Sixth Origin? I was never a genius.”

[Residual traces of the sixth shell from the previous host, concentrated in brain cells. Reflexes and memories foreign to the current host may manifest.]

Just traces? How brilliant was this guy… Wait, whose body am I in anyway? System?

[Personal information is removed to avoid conflicts of ego.]

Oh, of course. I guess I’ll have to figure everything out myself. What else can I ask?

"Inventory?"

[A fold in space.]

"I know what an inventory is. I’m asking if I have one!"

[Creating an inventory requires magical energy and a spell.]

"Great… And what spell?"

[A specific sequence of words (or sounds) to bend reality to one’s will.]

"I know what a spell is! I’m asking for an example—like a fireball or, better yet, something for pain relief, which I could really use right now."

[Requirements not met: dormant seventh shell (magic).]

Of course. A big fat zero in magic. So, the seventh shell is dormant, and I need to awaken it somehow…

“Damn it!” Frustrated, I slammed my fist on the bed. Pain surged through my body, forcing me to grit my teeth. Once the wave subsided, I sent another mental request to the system.

"What quests are available?"

[Quests are generated to acquire bahione and convert it into free points. They revolve around either saving or killing sentient beings based on events occurring around the host. Global quests may arise when the world's existence is threatened.]

"I assume killing yields more bahione?"

[Yes.]

"So, it’s more beneficial to be a bad guy?" I shuddered at the thought. I don’t want to be a killer, there are already plenty of maniacs out there… Wait, since the system dampens emotional peaks, and sowing chaos is simpler than trying to be a good guy—combined with the constant pain that practically pushes me to accumulate points as fast as possible—then is it the system itself that wants me to be a villain?!

[No.]

"What? But logically, killing should yield more bahione than simply being thanked for saving someone’s life. So being a villain is the convenient path you peddle, is it not?"

[The system’s creator didn’t want to focus on dark or light paths: excess energy dissipates into the void.]

"Who’s the creator? Some kind of Game God?"

An entire universe of stories about such beings came to mind. Though, in those tales, the systems usually had personalities, unlike mine. And people received them after making deals, not by… whatever hit me when I… My lips curled into a smile, he-he-he, Ha-ha… 

[Dampening emotional peak.]

Phew, that was close. I’d gotten so lost in my thoughts I didn’t notice the system’s response.

"How do I review previous messages?"

[Access to message logs is denied.]

"Wait… I can’t even scroll back?"

I mentally tried to revisit earlier messages…

…

[The system’s creator didn’t want to focus on dark or light paths: excess energy dissipates into the void.]

…

[No]

…

[Yes]

…

Okay, got it. I didn’t miss any message about the creator. Whoever that was has locked any info about themselves and the messages I recall receiving when hurling through the Darkness are inaccessible. But the rest I can browse freely. I’ll have to “scroll” back the messages but I can read them. Annoying, but hey—I have a system!

"Can I level up my shells manually? I mean, through training?" It would suck if I couldn’t, but the system reassured me.

[Yes.]

Now that’s good news. Judging by countless fanfics, it’s better to train on your own initially and only use free points when leveling slows down. Though, I’ll definitely invest a few points to unlock magic—having a big fat zero there is just unacceptable.

Hmm… Something’s odd. The fourth shell shouldn’t have any numerical values. It’s supposed to be indestructible, if the system’s info is accurate…

"System, why does the fourth shell have points?"

[The number of points reflects the metaphysical “pull” of all other shells. The higher the pull, the more resilient the individual’s sense of self and the more memories they can retain after reincarnation.]

"So, if I level it up to, say, a thousand, I’ll be practically immortal?"

[Currently, a value above seventy-five in the fourth shell ensures full memory retention after reincarnation, barring external interference.]

Great. Practically useless. I already retained most of my memories, and one of the system's main purposes is to preserve them after death anyway…

"How did I manage to retain my memories? I didn’t have a system when I died."

[The host was found in the interdimensional void and then placed in a suitable body.]

After grilling the system further, I learned more about the world’s structure. Apparently, the place I ended up after death is called the Limbo—a kind of dumping ground for all souls. That’s where memory purging begins, albeit inefficiently. Souls start to forget who they are after decades in that white expanse. From there, they enter the Wheel of Rebirth, which strips away most of their shells. Quite painfully, which I assume is a strange feeling for bodiless spirits, but it is how it is.

Here’s where the dense, indestructible fourth shell comes into play. After death, it cocoons all other shells except the first. That mysterious seventy-five threshold represents the sum of my stats, excluding the first and fourth shells, which makes sense. A small core can only save the bare minimum, like willpower or personality (the fifth shell). But the larger and denser it is, the more of a person’s essence remains.

Interestingly, the order of the shells isn’t random—that’s the sequence in which they’re stripped from a being after death, except for the first two, which perish with the body. The third shell, the astral one, suffers less due to its proximity to the core, as does the fifth. This might explain the existence of ghosts. In my previous world, their existence wasn’t proven, but where did the tales and scary stories come from?

Unrestful spirits might escape Limbo, bypassing the Wheel, but only scraps of their final shells remain. Thus, they wander the world of the living—a shadow of their former selves: fragments of a personality attached to an immortal core and an astral body, drifting through space…

I could’ve easily ended up the same way if I hadn’t somehow fallen into the Darkness. The system refused to give me any information about it—just Darkness, with a capital “D.” After the Darkness, I was thrown into the interdimensional void, where I encountered the system. If I’d stayed in that place any longer, I… Ha-ha-ha! I’d have gone completely insane! Like, full-on, off-the-rails crazy—hee-hee-hee...

[Dampening emotional peak.]

And there it goes again. I didn’t exactly “encounter” the system—it was more like I stumbled upon its host. From what I could piece together through the endless barrage of Access Denied messages and indirect questioning, the previous owner had it for only a short time. It detached from him when he collided with me because he was a mage. Apparently the seventh shell (magical spirit) is too unstable for heavy constructs like a system.

These constructs always latch onto the last shell of the soul. The mage just got unlucky, inheriting the system right after awakening his magic. The paradox here is that for a mortal only the fifth and sixth origins can reliably support such constructs. The seventh isn’t solid enough for it, but the eighth can hold dozens of systems, and the ninth (divine) can handle hundreds! In a way, the seventh shell can be considered a system in itself, but far more versatile thus “too soft” for constructs. Still, the end result is: my frayed sixth origin was more robust than his nascent 7th and it stripped him off the system the moment we collided.

"By the way, are you even sentient?" I asked the system, hoping for a no.

[The system operates according to preset algorithms. Self-awareness is absent.]

That’s what I suspected—its responses were too impersonal. Occasionally, I’d get a detailed answer, but nothing resembling a personality. Honestly, that’s not a bad thing…

I’d learned all I could for now. Time to return to the “waking” world. But seriously, how did the previous owner of the body not lose his mind? Constant pain and that stupid beeping—it reminded me of the heart monitors in hospitals. The things measure pulse, blood pressure, and other vital stats. I guess I am in the body of a chronically ill patient?

Maybe the guy kept himself distracted with endless thoughts too. That helps. Or maybe his super-intellect let him ignore it all, assuming the system isn’t lying… Alright, enough stalling. Time to open my eyes.

The ceiling was dark and dirty, with cobwebs clinging to some corners. The texture resembled untreated stone and mortar. Yeah… definitely not a hospital.

I glanced to my left and saw medical equipment, wires snaking under my blanket. To my right stood an IV drip. Maybe it was a hospital, just a really crappy one…

I sat up on the bed, unintentionally dislodging a few sensors. The machine let out a loud beep before going silent.

Strange. My skin was way too pale. I examined my lean, wiry frame with mild curiosity.

Suddenly, the only door in the room flew open. Standing in the doorway was a worried-looking, beautiful blonde with twin pigtails and colorful makeup. She was dressed in pink pajamas with black hearts.

“Mistah J, you’re awake!” Her face lit up with a joyful smile. “But you shouldn’t be gettin’ up yet!”

In a flash, she was at my side, gently laying me back onto the bed while fussing over me.

“That stupid Bats just couldn’t leave us alone, could he? He had ta keep chasin’ us! If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be hurt like this, my poor Mistah J. I had ta pull you out from the rubble at the factory and carry you to this hideout. All by myself! I deserve a reward, don’t I?”

She snuggled up to me, her face nuzzling into my chest. My hand instinctively moved to stroke her head.

Pale skin. “Mistah J.” Being here after the Bat chased me. And now, this gorgeous blonde wrapped around me…

Oh, hell no…

Oh, fuck me…

I’m the Joker!

Chapter 2

I’m the fucking Joker! And I’m in the DC Universe…

As if the comic book world wasn’t dark enough already, I’ve landed in the body of the most psychotic bastard around, constantly hunted by Batman—the so-called greatest detective in the world. I doubt this hideout will stay secret for long. And honestly, I suspect I won’t be roaming free for much longer either. How the hell am I supposed to escape my inevitable stay in Arkham Asylum without the original Joker’s brilliant mind?

I absentmindedly played with Harley’s hair while she chattered on about something. I was too lost in my thoughts to pay attention to her ramblings. Should I just come clean to Batman? Tell him I’m not the same Joker anymore? But why would he believe me? How many times has the deranged clown tried to fool the greatest detective? Besides, the body’s previous owner caused too much chaos. Joker has enemies everywhere—from psychopaths to regular people. If they find out all that’s left of him is this flesh sack and a reflex set, I’m toast.

And then there’s the chance that I end up in Arkham’s care under the “kind” Dr. Hugo Strange. That old bastard was one of the first supervillains Batman ever faced. In some alternate Earths, he creates monsters out of mental patients and sells them to other supervillains. Even on most Earths, Strange isn’t exactly a saint. He conducts shady experiments that only worsen people’s mental states instead of helping them.

I highly doubt that Strange missed the change in behavior from Joker’s attending psychiatrist, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, now better known as Harley Quinn. I bet, in some ways, he’s responsible for creating one of the most infamous, deadly, and absolutely unhinged duos of supervillains ever.

[Quest generated: “The Joker’s Not Real!” Objective: Keep your identity swap a secret. Weekly Reward: 1 Ability Point. Failure Penalty: Death.]

“What the hell?! Hey, system, are you serious? These are just thoughts! I don’t even know which version of the DC Universe I’m in yet. What if this Hugo Strange is actually a sweet old man trying to genuinely help his patients? Hello? Where’s the choice here?”

Crap. This is bad. I can’t pull off being a psychopathic genius while simultaneously crafting elaborate, bone-crushing and sanity stripping plans. And I’m not about to start killing or maiming people either—though I haven’t decided what to do about the other maniacs yet. Take Victor Zsasz, for example. That guy had an electric chair coming for him for ages. A serial killer who carves a tally mark into his body for each victim? Yeah, no one would shed any tears over him. Though, should I be the one to send him into the afterlife? How much Xp would I get?

“Maybe it’d actually be better if I came clean. Go to Bruce Wayne—or even show up at Wayne Manor, lay it all out. He’d understand my predicament, right? Give me a new identity, hide me from all the psychos out there? What do you think, system?”

I concentrated hard, willing a response, but… nothing.

Well, that’s not good. Maybe I can fake “madness” convincingly enough. Just think back to that place…

“Hahaha!”

[Dampening emotional peak.]

“Mistah J, I’m so glad you liked my idea!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius.” I kept stroking the blonde’s hair, still lost in my thoughts.

There’s no way I want to stay a supervillain. If I have to play Joker, I’d rather flip the script and become a hero. I mean, what’s more insane than the Joker protecting Gotham? At least no more random chaos, killing, or hostage games with Batman.

“Any thoughts on this, system?”

[Quest generated: “Hero or Villain?” Objective: Personally disarm the bombs planted in the city. Progress: 0/3. Reward: 6 Free Points.]

What? Bombs? What the hell, bombs?!

I snapped back to reality, pain flooding in again.

“... The Bat’s going to regret not playin’ by the rules this time,” Harley was saying.

“Regret? What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly ice-cold inside.

“Mistah’ J, were you even listening to me?” She puffed her cheeks like an annoyed hamster. “I told you—I borrowed some explosives from the warehouse and rigged a few buildings while you were out. You just praised me for it!”

“Oh… uh… remind me again what happened and what you did with the explosives? My head’s still fuzzy from the injury.”

“Aw, my poor puddin…” Harley’s expression softened as she gently stroked my head. “We’ve been playin’ a game with Batsy at the Arkham canning factory. He had to choose between savin’ Commissioner Gordon or three kidnapped kids. The rules only let him save one, but that sneaky Bat brought a backup—some girly. A dirty cheater! But you Mistah J, you realized he was cheatin’ and triggered the self-destruct before makin’ tactical retreat… but then… but then.. a beam fell and knocked you out cold! Ugh, I’d tear whoever built the place apart!”

Her eyes burned with vengeful fire before softening again, tears welling up.

“I thought… I thought I lost you Mistah J… there was so much blood… so much blood. You even stopped breathin’ for a while. I had to unseal one of our hideouts with medical equipment to save ya. And while you were unconscious, I… I decided to take revenge. So, I rigged a school, the construction company’s office, and a supermarket…”

“A supermarket? Why a supermarket?” I asked, genuinely baffled. Blowing up the construction company made sense—they built a shoddy structure that couldn’t survive a few explosions. In Gotham, of all places! That’s just negligence! The school? Sure, probably where the kidnapped kids came from. But the supermarket?

Harley looked away, mumbling.

“I wanted to rig City Hall or the police station, but the guards…”

“Right... So, how much time do we have until the explosions?” I asked, trying to sound casual, though the impending death of innocent people was anything but.

Harley glanced at a clock attached to one of the nearby machines.

“Seven days and four hours!” she chirped, her tone as carefree as if she were discussing dinner plans. “When you’re all betta’, we will watch the fireworks together at sunset!”

Fireworks? What kind of half-assed plan is this? Where’s the drama, the intrigue? At least leave the Brooding Bat a taunting note or stagger the explosions for some theatrical flair! Wait—what the hell am I thinking? There’s no “game” here! I have to defuse those bombs! And if I want the system’s damn skill points, I have to do it myself without giving away that I’m not the real Joker.

“Harley, baby” I said, gently pushing her back and gripping her shoulders, “that blow to the head made me realize something: fighting Bats is pointless. You know what would be way cooler? Becoming a superhero myself! Just imagine the look on Gotham’s Dark Knight when I start saving innocent people! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Harley blinked, stunned, before her expression shifted to one of joyous confusion. “Wow, Mr. J... That hit must’a done a real number on you... But you know what? I don’t mind! You know me—wherever you go, I’ll follow!”

“Ahem...” Was it just me, or did her eyes sparkle with little pink hearts for a moment? “Since we’ve decided to play the heroes, it’d be a good idea to start by defusing those bombs... I’d like to handle it myself, though.”

“Oh, don’t you worry!” she said brightly. “I used your usual setup, so disarming them will be a piece o’ cake.”

Right. For the real Joker, it wouldn’t be hard. But I don’t have his goddamn expertise! Now what? …Guess I’ll just play the classic isekai amnesia card.

“Harley, uh... I hate to say it, but I think I’ve got some amnesia. My head’s all scrambled. The only things I clearly remember are you and fighting Bats... for reasons I don’t quite understand.”

“Eeeee!” Harley squealed and flung herself at me, clinging to my neck and crushing my poor ribs in the process.

“Harley... ribs...” I croaked, trying to pry her off.

“Oh, Mistah J, even with amnesia, you still remember me! Our love is too strong!” She placed her hands on her flushed cheeks, her eyes shining with a manic light. “We’ll get married soon! And then the weddin’ night... Oh, I can’t wait! We’ll have a baby—or ten! I’ll tell Ivy all ‘bout it—she didn’t believe you’d ever propose!”

Propose?! How the hell did she jump to that conclusion from what I just said?!

Not that I’m complaining... Harley’s gorgeous, brilliant (in her own unhinged way), and head over heels for me—or for the Joker, at least. Still... what happens if she figures out I’m not the original? Considering the system’s “death on failure” penalty, probably nothing good.

“Harley, darling...” I started, trying to redirect her attention.

“Darlin’...” she murmured, staring dreamily into the distance, utterly lost in her rose-colored fantasies.

“...I’ll recover in time to deal with the bombs, right?”

Her eyes refocused on me, still gleaming with manic affection. “Course, Mistah J! With your current progress, you’ll be up and about in five, maybe six days tops!”

Perfect. Now I just need to figure out how to learn bomb defusal.

“Could you bring me some manuals or something on disarming explosives?”

Harley tilted her head in thought. “You never kept written instructions, but I took notes when you were teachin’ me! I think they’re stashed in the hideout under the canned goods factory. I’ll go bring em, real quick!”

“Wait,” I said, grabbing her hand at the last second—a move I instantly regretted as pain shot through my torso. “Are you sure it’s safe? What if Bats is already waiting for you? I don’t want to end up having to pull you out of Arkham...”

She froze, trembling, and then... started sobbing? Full-on, loud, messy sobbing.

What the hell?

“Harley, what’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed, but she just kept crying.

Ignoring the sharp protests from my injured body, I slid to the floor beside her and pulled her into a comforting hug.

“Shh, sweetheart... Can you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“M-Mr. J,” she hiccupped, wiping her tear-streaked face, “you’ve never cared about me before! Sniff You only ever thought about that stupid Bat… Batsy this, Batsy that! But now you want to keep me safe, worried if I get caught...”

And... that’s connected to this breakdown how?

After a while, she calmed down enough to speak coherently. “I’m scared... scared that when you get your memories back, you’ll go back to treating me like… like… like garbage. Like I’m just a thing...”

Oh. Damn. Well, she’s not wrong about how the original Joker treated her...

“Shh, no, no. I swear, I won’t abandon you—even if my memories come back.”

“Really?” she asked, her wide eyes shimmering with hope as she tried to wipe away the remnants of her tears.

“Yes,” I said firmly, meeting her gaze with as much sincerity as I could muster.

Her lips curled into a sly smile. “I think a kiss would prove ya mean it.”

A kiss? Sure, why not?

“Alright,” I agreed, not fully grasping what I was unleashing.

Harley puckered up, her eyes fluttering shut in anticipation.

For someone as chaotic as Harley, her kiss request was surprisingly... tame? I’d expected something more dramatic. Weren’t she and the Joker, uh, intimate? Then again, who knows what goes on in the minds of lunatics.

What am I even thinking? She’s gorgeous, and she’s asking for a kiss!

I leaned in, pressing my lips to hers. Sweet.

For a brief moment, the pain faded, replaced by a rush of heat.

And then, in the next instant, her arms clamped around me like a vice, crushing my already abused ribs.

"Ouch, Harley, you're going to finish me off at this rate!"

"Sorry, Mistah J..." she said sheepishly, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger, her face flushed with excitement. "It’s just so amazing!"

"If you want, we can do it again after the bombs are defused," I offered, dangling the proverbial carrot to keep her motivated.

"Deal!" she chirped before pausing, realizing something. "Oh..." Harley glanced down, noticing we were still sitting on the floor. "Let me help you up!"

With surprising care for someone as chaotic as her, she helped me back onto the bed, checking the IV drip and the monitors like a seasoned nurse.

"Everythin’ looks good here," she said with a satisfied nod. "Alright, I’ll go check the hideout now. Don’t you worry, Mistah J, I’ll be like a sneaky shadow—no one will even know I was there."

And with that, Harley skipped out of the room, humming a cheerful tune that felt wildly inappropriate given the stakes.

Finally, a moment to breathe. The plan was straightforward enough: study Harley’s notes, heal up, defuse the bombs, and avoid getting caught. Simple. Easy. No problem.

...Right?

Then again, what if the whole bomb thing is repeatable. What if I ask Harley to plant some bombs, and I disarmed them after? Would the system reward me for playing hero in that scenario?

[Dangerous events orchestrated by the host align with the Dark Path. No points will be awarded for rescues.]

Damn. It was a decent idea, too. What if I planted a bomb under, say, a bus stop, with a remote detonator? I could reset the timer by a day, every day—

[Dangerous events orchestrated by the host align with the Dark Path. No points will be awarded for rescues.]

Fine. I get it.

Satisfied that I’d explored every loophole, I mentally reviewed the rough plan again. My eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion catching up to me.

Sleep is the best medicine, after all.

I stopped fighting it and let myself drift into the realm of dreams.